How to Have a Really Good Evening

This article was first published on The Bournemouth Echo's website on 19th October 2009 and by The Blog Paper on 20th October 2009.

There are, of course, many and varied ways of having a good evening but I reckon the one that my son and I had yesterday would take some beating.

It’s always a “good thing” to support a worthy cause ... in the current economic climate, it’s not always possible to do as much as one would like to – but if I have the opportunity to do “a little something”, then I do. Leukaemia Research is a charity very close to my heart – not least because my favourite cousin died of leukaemia in her early 30s just a month before my son was born, 12½ years ago.

Last night, the Criterion Theatre in London’s Piccadilly Circus freely opened its doors to be taken over by Leukaemia Research to host “A Special Audience with Stephen Fry” preceded by a champagne reception for a few hundred lucky people. My son and I were amongst those lucky people.

The Reception began at 6.30pm and prior to our National Treasure coming into the Reception, Alastair Campbell mingled and chatted amongst us. Alastair has supported the charity since his best friend, John Merritt, died of leukaemia and then tragically John’s daughter succumbed to the disease too. He’s a friendly man although – as an avid fan of Burnley Football Club – he was clearly distressed that “his” team had lost to Blackburn Rovers the day before. I hope that the Audience with Mr Fry went some way to cheering him up.

Nigella Lawson was also at the Reception and was gracious enough to write a note to my husband who is a great fan of hers and willingly posed for a photograph with me and my son. She asked if my husband was keen on cookery programmes. Naturally my response was “Oh, yes”. It would have been infradig to have been more honest and to tell her that he has more prurient thoughts than cuisine on his mind when he sees her on television. She’s a beautiful, intelligent lady and has at least two more outstanding assets than just her culinary expertise. Mick Hucknall of Simply Red was there and didn’t seem too displeased when I told him that we liked his music. He was also kind enough to have his photograph taken with my son.

Another guest was Ed Victor who is a very well known literary agent. I would very much have liked to have met him to tell him that I am, at least in my own not-so-humble opinion, an undiscovered literary genius but sadly I didn’t get the opportunity to meet him. I was, however, so pleased that he was there as – had it not have been for Leukaemia Research – he wouldn’t have been anywhere. Ten years ago, on the day of his 60th birthday, he was diagnosed with the disease and it was purely through the wonderful research funded by the charity that he survives in good health a decade on. It was Ed Victor’s idea to organise occasional “Special Audiences” with various celebrities in order to raise money for the charity.

One person who I was lucky and privileged enough to meet was the original Calendar Girl. Not Julie Waters – who played her in the 2003 film – but the real life lady, Annie Clarke whose husband had died of leukaemia and who raises money for and, who with her friends, gave a great deal of “exposure” to the charity’s work.

Shortly before 7.00pm, a very tall man appeared in the room. I’m sure that just about everyone in the UK (if not, since the advent of global sale of television programmes, the entire world) is aware that Stephen Fry is a witty, enormously intelligent, erudite speaker, talented actor and brilliant writer. Those attributes would be enough to make most people admire him. I do. I also LIKE him. He is kind, generous of nature, warm, friendly and has the most wonderful way of making everyone he speaks with feel as if they are really the most important person in the world to him. I was especially overwhelmed when my son (who was the very youngest person there), bravely and with great aplomb introduced himself to Mr Fry using his Twitter name – and Stephen, bless him, repeated his Twitter name and then greeted him, without ANY prompting whatsoever, using my son’s real life name. This man must have a memory the size of this planet! My son, who’s a talented young artist, gave a drawing he’d done of Stephen to him – at which point, the splendid Mr Fry knelt down and my son forgot to be grown-up, couldn’t help himself and gave this great, gentle man a hug. I chatted to Stephen for several minutes, easily fell prey to his delightful charms and hugs, kisses and photographs ensued.

The actual show began at 8.00pm. It was an intimate “audience”. The BBC’s Alan Yentob interviewed Stephen about his life, his work, his likes and dislikes, his successes and his self-perceived failures. He was astonishingly open about his bi-polarity. He had the audience laughing and crying. Two hours passed in a flash and members of the audience were given the opportunity of asking questions. Stephen answered each question with characteristic humour, empathy, kindness and honesty.

My son desperately wanted the chance of another chat with our National Treasure so, after the show, we went to the Stage Door. I managed to get my ‘phone’s camera muddled up with its video recorder so we now have a recorded moving memento of the evening.

I’m rarely at a loss for words but I truly can’t find the right ones to impart how wonderful the evening was. Perhaps my son described it in exactly the right way ... “It was the best time I’ve ever, ever, EVER had”. I concur.

If you ever have the chance of seeing Stephen on stage or of meeting him – do it! I can assure you that it really is a very good way of spending an evening.

(If you’re interested in learning more about the wonderful work that Leukaemia Research enables, do – PLEASE – visit their website at http://www.lrf.org.uk/)

2 o'clock in the morning

(This blog was first published on the Bournemouth Echo's website and also by The Blog Paper on 1st October 2009).

The house is mine. It is quiet apart from the low hum of the dishwasher, the beeping of the ‘fridge freezer which my husband, for the third time in six weeks, has tried to fix by defrosting the already pristine and frost-free freezer. He is slowly coming around to the idea that we do actually need a new one ... and it hurts him so!

I can hear the sounds of a sleeping house – at least one with two sleepy dogs in it. I have a small West Highland White Terrier sprawled, tummy upwards, at my side and an enthusiastically idiotic German Shepherd also lying on her back at my feet. Occasionally one of them snuffles or groans slightly and it is a very good feeling to be alone but in such congenially uncommunicative company.

I moan a great deal of the time about suffering from insomnia but at this hour, my gripes are very few as I question who exactly I would be if I didn’t suffer from it. I am a creature of the night. If I need to think about something carefully and logically I do so far better after midnight than I ever manage to during the daytime.

If there is ONE element of creativity in me, it never rears its “innovative” head during daylight hours. I just never feel quite confident enough during the daytime to write about how I’m feeling or anything about which I feel strongly; under cover of darkness, however, my fingers struggle to keep pace with the rapid release of some often very mundane thoughts – perhaps mistakenly assuming that what I have to impart is somehow important.

Sometimes I take a look at the time and think, “Heck, my son has to be at school in less than six hours” but such thoughts are fleeting and I don’t take much notice of them. This is my time.

Oh, Baby, Baby - It's a Wild World

This blog was first published on The Bournemouth Echo's website and by The Blog Paper on 24th September 2009.

About 5 minutes ago, I had a baby – hang on ... it was over 12 years ago – but my instinct to protect my son hasn’t decreased with the years and is probably more highly developed now, than it ever was when he was a babe-in-arms.

It’s been a roller-coaster of a week ... starting off with my son, once again, having been most dreadfully upset at being given “a hard time” at school and being distressed at being disrupted in his lessons by classmates whose only ambitions in life appear to become shelf-stackers at supermarkets.

Once again, on collecting from school, a very sullen and disgruntled little boy got into my car. And a very vociferous little boy started the familiar routine of pleading with me to be home-educated. I have to say, that home-education is a thought that crosses my mind with great frequency but I’ve always discounted it as I know my son and I also know myself pretty well. I quite simply would not have the patience to educate my son, myself, at home.

I am an impatient person and have a tendency to metaphorically tap my fingers in a most irritating fashion when people don’t “catch on” quickly enough for my liking – not an ideal trait for imparting anything to my son who, if he doesn’t want to know what one is talking about, is a manipulative little “wotsit” and will quite deftly bring the conversation around to what HE wants to discuss. We would not be a good teacher/pupil combo!

I wrote a polite but firmly worded letter to my son’s class teacher and also the headteacher querying why there appeared to be so much disruption in his school and why was he not getting what either he, or I, considered to be a fair crack at the whip at a decent education. Yesterday I received a call from the headteacher assuring me that my queries would be looked into and meanwhile, he’d spoken to my son who had voiced his grievances most eloquently and was now considered by the headteacher to be a child with whom it would be most useful to “have regular meetings”. I asked why. Apparently, as a “mature child”, he can impart very articulately what’s “going on” in his class. I wondered for a nano-second if I was going quite mad and then couldn’t help myself but say: “That’s NOT HIS JOB; that’s YOUR job. My son’s responsibility at school is to be a decent kid, commit to learning things and to try his very hardest to do that. And YOUR responsibility is to teach him stuff – not ask him to be your undercover man to find out “what’s going down in his year”.

Of course, son is now back to “running on calm” at school – helped, not least, by having been elected to be Form President ... although there didn’t appear to be much competition to gain this role. (I think I refuse to believe that any vote-rigging occurred). Nevertheless, son feels somewhat vindicated and seems to want to give his classmates a forum to express how they’re feeling and a forum for HIM to ask them why they feel the need to disrupt classes.

And I am confused. And the thought of home-education crossed my mind to such an extent in the last week that I’ve actually made enquiries about it and asked for some advice. Some advice was for and some against. I’ve decided that I come down more on the side of the “against” camp than on the side of the “fors”. Someone said to me that school isn’t JUST about education – there are other, equally important factors – such as social interaction with people who one may like or one may whole-heartedly dislike but it’s necessary to learn the skills needed to cope with both. And, so, my son who, of course, is still my baby IS going to have to learn that it’s a wild world.

But no-one can stop me from worrying!

VERY STUPID INDEED

This blog first appeared on The Bournemouth Echo website on 17th September 2009 and in The Blog Paper on the same date.

Oh, what a miserable day I’ve had. I sometimes suffer with conjunctivitis and every now and then it flares up – which it did last night. I wear “day and night” contact lenses which I can sleep in. I’m meant to remove them and give my eyes “a day off” once a week. I rarely do.

So, I removed my contact lenses, peered into my 3 x magnifying mirror to see the blurred reflection of a rabbit with myxomatosis staring back. That would have been me, then. I fumbled around in the bathroom cabinet and eventually found some eye drops and gel and squirted and applied both liberally. And then I went to bed.

When I woke up, I found my glasses, and stupidly decided to look in the mirror. Where was the rabbit? It had been replaced with a boxer on the losing end of a bout with Prince Naseem. I couldn’t actually see my eyes at all, inspite of squinting out of them – they appeared to have been replaced by two small aubergines.

I couldn’t get on with any office work as staring at the screen was hurting me and words just looked a blurred, indecipherable mass. Heavens, I must have been feeling pretty grim ... I haven’t even been on Twitter much today!

I could see that the carpet was in dire need of a vacuum (I may be using “see” in a metaphorical sense, having a priori knowledge that owning a full-coated German Shepherd who moults continually in combination with a brown carpet - after 2 days, I KNOW it needs vacuuming whether I can see it or not). So, I vacuumed and figured I couldn’t cause too much harm by giving the kitchen floor a good mopping.

I’d very much hoped that my husband would be home in time to collect our son from school, but he wasn’t. I left in plenty of time to collect said son - as I was not going to risk driving at any speed whatsoever. And son, on getting into the car, took one look at me and said, “Are you okay? You’re crying” – which, of course, I wasn’t but the idea of a good sob at that time didn’t seem to be a totally off-the-wall prospect at all. I restrained myself and, very carefully, drove home.

I asked son what sort of a day he’d had at school and, very stoically, he said “Good, thanks”. Except from what I could see of the expression on his face and hear from the tone in his voice, this wasn’t really the case at all.

Year 8 seems to be proving to be a repetition of last year ... son is unhappy at being disrupted by noisy and unruly classmates and saying that he can’t concentrate on his lessons because of this. I am a vile mother. For once, I didn’t pursue his response to get to the bottom of what had actually happened at school today. And, indeed, this is a story for another blog, on another day.

I sat down and realised that my husband would be expecting a home-cooked meal when he arrived home and then remembered that I hadn’t been shopping because I’d been feeling so rough. It’s a good job that my husband is set on a course of trying to regain a youthful physique. (Please excuse me while I snort with laughter for a second or two).

He’s all but stopped eating lunch and now goes from breakfast to dinner without a morsel of food passing his lips. He’s also keen on reducing his carbohydrate intake – so I thought I could make a very sparsely topped Shepherd’s Pie – not least because I only had 4 VERY small potatoes in stock.

Chopping onions and conjunctivitis is not a good combination. By the time I’d finished that particular task, I could barely see anything at all. I managed to pour some oil into the pan, fry the onions, add the minced meat, chopped mushrooms, and tomatoes and then, as I usually do, I reached for the Worcestershire Sauce – and proceeded to pour several generous splashes of balsamic vinegar into the browning mince. I added about double the amount of Worcestershire Sauce to cover up my mistake and hoped for the best.

The result was a slightly more piquant-than-usual Shepherd’s Pie and no-one complained ... or died.

And now, having administered my fourth squirts of eye drops and fourth splodge of gel to my sore eyes, they’re still sore but not AS sore and still swollen but not AS swollen and I am resolving – as I always do – to remember the importance of sticking to the regime of giving my eyes a “day off” from contact lenses, once a week. I expect that resolution will fly out of the window like all previous ones have done and once again, I will kick myself for sometimes being VERY STUPID INDEED.

9/11

This blog first appeared on The Bournemouth Echo website and was also published by The Blog Paper on the same date.

My son was nearly 4½ years old on 11th September 2001. He was taking part in his first school Sports Day. The weather had decreed that the Sports Day planned for the previous term had been delayed until the start of the new school year.

Parents had gathered to watch 28 young children go through their paces. My son and his best friend hadn’t quite got the hang of what they should be doing. One of the “obstacles” on the circuit was a small tent. They abandoned running around the rest of the course and took up residence in it. And they laughed and they giggled. And despite the encouragement they were hearing from their teachers, they stayed in that tent and continued to laugh and giggle.

I couldn’t help myself ... my son and his friend looked so cute, I had no option but to stop joining in with the encouraging noises that their teachers were making and to laugh and giggle along with them. My husband was steadfastly continuing the encouragement whilst I could barely contain my mirth at these two happy kids having a thoroughly wonderful time in a tent whilst the rest of Sports Day continued around them.

Husband received a telephone call and had to go to work. Sports Day was nearing its end & we sought permission from the head teacher to take our son home a little early. On arrival at home, I switched on the radio to catch the news. And that was when I heard about what was happening in New York.

My towers were under threat. I ensured that my son was happy and occupied and switched the television on. And for the next 18 hours I didn’t move. “My towers”. I had lived in America, in Philadelphia. My ex was a pilot. We visited New York frequently and the last time I’d seen my towers had been 10 years previously when we’d flown in a Cessna by them en route from Connecticut back to Philadelphia. And I had fainted. I suffer from vertigo and whilst flying doesn’t usually affect me, I knew the height of the towers and had a “reference point” so I simply passed out. And now I would never be able to fly past them again.

I know I’d taken care of my son – tell-tale signs of having made something to eat for him, and having bathed him and put him to bed were evidential – but I couldn’t remember doing any of those things. I seemed to be welded to a seat in front of the TV.

The world had changed and it would never be the same again. A “war on terror” had begun and, however hard I tried, I couldn’t see that there would ever be an end to it. I still can’t. And I still can’t close my eyes at night without seeing images of the ‘planes flying into those towers or of the towers collapsing. The world order changed that day and it is never going to change back.

In 2006 on 11th September, I felt compelled to do “something” ... anything ... to release the emotion that I felt about that day. I’m no artist but with paper and charcoal I drew my interpretation of Ground Zero. And, in some way, found some sort of comfort for having got onto paper that which I couldn’t put into words. That picture hangs in our hall – barely on show, mostly hidden by a tall cupboard ... but I know it’s there.

Eight years on, I don’t need to watch the many programmes about 9/11. I live with that day in my head. I hope the images of it remain in other people’s heads forever too. If we refuse to forget, then maybe we can remember to not let it happen again. I don’t know. I only hope.

From Cool to School in 48 hours

This blog first appeared on The Bournemouth Echo website on 9th September 2009 and was also published by The Blog Paper on the same date.

I’ve just spent six weeks with one of the coolest kids in Bournemouth. I am not just talking “cool”; I’m talking UBER-COOL. My son has been on school holidays for a month and a half – routine was abandoned to the four winds and, for the main part, inspite of an odd day here and there when the uneasiness of slight boredom crept in – he has occupied himself very happily by posting his artwork to an arts website and writing reviews of comic books for his blog. The weather – as we know – wasn’t up to much but we managed to have a really enjoyable time together.

We didn’t have a “summer holiday” this year as finances wouldn’t allow – although, the end of the school holiday culminated in a weekend in London. It would probably have been less expensive for us fly from Hurn to “somewhere” abroad for a week than the exorbitant amount of money we managed to get through in the capital. Never mind – it’s “only” money, isn’t it?

My son, at the tender age of 12, found his spiritual home at Camden Market. He’s a tad young to actually “be” a Goth or an Emo but his taste in clothing very definitely veers towards “Emo” and Camden is, indeed, Emo heaven. He’s been after a long leather trench coat for a very long time. He hasn’t actually nagged about getting one as he’s far too subtle for that – he just bookmarked so many webpages showing the sort of coat he wanted that my PC very nearly ground to a complete halt. I’ve now been able to delete all the bookmarks because, at Camden, he found one. Kerching. He also found some absolutely inappropriate tee-shirts (the kind that make grandparents spin in their graves prior to their actual demise). Kerching. We drew the line at some truly vile black boots which appeared to have coiled springs located in their soles.

From Camden, where 1½ hours’ parking cost us nearly £7.00, we headed towards Shaftesbury Avenue where the iconic Forbidden Planet shop is situated. Another paradise for artistic kids and adults who like comic books, models of comic book heroes and posters. I didn’t grumble (and what’s more I didn’t allow my husband to grumble either) when son chose a couple of books he wanted to buy. I’m just very happy that I have a child who enjoys reading. I realised we’d actually managed to find bargain parking in Camden when I was charged £11.00 for 2 hours in an NCP in Gerard Place in Chinatown. Kerching. My only solace was that public transport for three of us would have equalled the amount we spent and at least we had the convenience of having the car with us. But, by the time evening came and we were due to see Omid Djalili as Fagin in “Oliver” at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, I’d decided that I’d actually had enough driving in London for one day and we actually took cabs to and from the theatre. Kerching.

The show was marvellous – it far surpassed my expectations (because, having been a very regular theatre-goer when I lived in London, I’ve sadly now become accustomed to being rather disappointed by touring theatre companies’ visits to Bournemouth which, try as they might, simply DO NOT match up to West End theatre productions). Three seats in the stalls, however (well ... if I’m going to see a good show, I want to sit in good seats – very good seats) cost us more than two nights in our hotel. Kerching. Never mind. This was our summer holiday!

We headed back to Bournemouth on Sunday – early in the day – in order (a) that we wouldn’t be tempted to spend any more money and (b) that the uber-cool kid in the long leather coat could get an early night or two before re-starting school today. And yesterday son’s face showed the benefit of the first early night – the mandatory Goth dark circled eyes had disappeared and a 12 year old boy was bright-eyed and bushy tailed. But as the day wore on the bright-eyed kid transformed into a very, very subdued little boy.

He’d had a hard, hard year in Year 7 last year. He’d been looking forward to attending a school with fantastic facilities and specialising in his favourite subject – art – but the reality of actually being there had hit him with a huge shock. He’d been the victim of several very nasty bouts of bullying (actually resulting in the suspension of several older boys); his lessons had been continually disrupted by constant changes in staff and really he was NOT looking forward to his first day back in Year 8. When I took him to school this morning, he looked very young and very forlorn (his appearance not actually being helped by the fact that age 11 jackets and trousers were miles too short for him and age 12 apparel is miles too long). He didn’t glance back at me when he got out of the car but it pained me to leave him there and I have been worried all day long.

When I collected him this afternoon, a Year 8 kid got into the car. Not uber-cool, not forlorn, just a Year 8 schoolboy. Apparently the day hadn’t gone as badly as he’d been expecting it to and the Year 7 boys were now the objects of the derision of the Year 10 and 11 boys. Year 8 and Year 9 boys seem to escape the worst of the bad treatment. The Year 8 schoolboy I bought home with me was hopeful that the rest of this year will go well and that he’ll be able to settle in and get some work done. He was wondering whether there was anything that he could do to help the Year 7 boys settle in quickly and not have such a rough ride in their first year at “big school” as he did.

Good to know, as a parent, that despite his uber-cool holiday demeanour and his quite strange taste in attire, my Year 8 schoolboy seems to have his heart very much in the right place.

about living by & breaking the rules

There are a few rules in life that really should be adhered to. As far as I can tell, (in no particular order of priority and probably more observational than autobiographical) these are:

• If you have big ears, save up to have them pinned back and whilst you are so doing, cover them up with your hair.

• If you have a fat bottom, a bulging tummy and “generous” hips think very carefully before purchasing, let alone wearing, leggings. If you have a cleavage, you don’t necessarily always have to show it.

• If you switch on the TV for background noise, without paying attention to what is actually being transmitted and you happen to hear a phrase such as “basically, there’s a large bag, filled with hot air and attached to a basket” – do not automatically assume that someone has been watching you do your shopping and is talking about you when, in fact, you may have heard an item about hot air balloons on The Weather Programme.

• If you have something that you want to do, then do it because nobody else is going to do it for you.

• If you have something that you don’t want to do, then try really hard not to do it because it will probably make you unhappy.

• If you have something that you SHOULD do, then just get on with it. If you let someone else do it for you, chances are you won’t be happy with the way they’ve done it and you will have relinquished the right to say a single word about it.

• If you have something that you want to say, think very carefully before you say it because someone might actually remember what you’ve said and hold it against you.

• If you like someone, tell them that you like them. If you don’t like someone, don’t bother talking to them because you’ll probably continue to dislike them and then hurt their feelings, which is something that could be avoided by not talking to them in the first place.

• Try really hard not to frighten people and try really hard not to let anyone frighten you. If you are frightened, hide behind the sofa until someone who doesn’t frighten you assures you that it’s safe to emerge from your hiding place.

• If you hear the name Arsene Wenger, do not think “what a coincidence it is that he manages Arsenal” as you will waste 5 minutes of your life that you will not be able to retrieve in wondering whether the football club chose him to be its manager because of his name.

• Do not live in the past because it has a habit of being a happier place than the present and will make you feel very worried and fearful about the future which could well get better but all your doubts might just make it feel worse.

• If you feel like singing, sing - and ignore people who don’t like the way you sing or ask them to join in with you because having a good sing-song will make everyone feel better (except people who don’t like singing).

• If you don’t know how to spell something look the word up in a dictionary before committing it to paper because someone WILL notice and come after you with a pointy, pointy finger and a naggy voice. If you haven’t got a dictionary to hand – use a different word.

• If you haven’t had any sleep, don’t write a blog post because it will come out all wrong. If you do write a blog post when you haven’t had any sleep and it does come out all wrong, don’t hit the publish key. If you do hit the publish key, be brave and brace yourself for the very worst thing that could happen ... someone might not like what you’ve written.

If you have your own set of rules, break them sometimes – just for the sheer heck of it.