Long London Twaddle

I have not done much posting about my holiday. There is not any particular reason I suppose. But tonight I thought I may write something about part of our stay in London.

London is a great place to visit. I would love to live there if I had big bucks and a gorgeous place to stay, but that is not an option so a visit is good enough. It is actually the fourth time I have stayed in this big city and every time I love it more and more.

We had a lovely place to stay called The Grovesnor Hotel which backed on to Victoria Station. When we booked the room the hotel was in the process of changing owners and by the time we arrived it had appeared to have had a significant makeover and we certainly benefited from it. The decor was just the most lovely Victorian English style. Very sumptuous. The doorman and the concierge were extremely charming. The breakfast room was beautiful and our actual hotel room was just perfect. One thing though, we would not be able to afford it next time as the price from when we had booked it had increased hugely for any new bookings.

Everything and everyone in London is on the move. Action stations all round. When we left the hotel each morning, we had to do a lot of ducking and weaving to catch the tube. There was one place where people would come up the stairs from the underground like lemmings and move on in a fashion that suggested they were oblivious to anyone else around them. Somehow this moving mass of people coming out from underground would avoid crowds of people on their left and right. There was an interesting weaving motion that one had to have to avoid a collision. There is a way of looking ahead to ensure you do not miss the turn off to the correct platform. You also have to be rather quick as the crowd kind of determines the speed of the human traffic.

So there you are, getting out the ticket, looking ahead, weaving, walking and watching. Reading signs to point you to the right direction. Turning around to make sure you have not lost anyone you were with. All in a matter of seconds before you are down the escalators, keeping to the right.

I am sure a lot of people who use the Tube everyday have a lot of negative things to say about it. To a tourist it is the most fascinating mode of transport one could travel on. The history of the Tube is fantastic and if you go to London you would have to include a visit to the London Transport Museum to get the overall picture of the complex system of the Tube network. Considering that it has been an ongoing process for over one hundred years, it is fairly impressive. What I find interesting is that there are many disused Tube stations that have been just shut down for a number of reasons. Yet they still exist in this no man's land.

I like the combination of old and new that you see when going on the London Underground. People have been coming and going for decades and it all happens without us really thinking how, just being grateful that it generally works.

The down side of the Tube is the serious lack of space in the train itself. The photo I took below was on a Sunday. Any other day was packed with people. When those train doors opened people would stand back and let passengers disembark before they themselves alighted. It was almost bedlam. Then to stand there like sardines in that warm and smelly place was quite unpleasant. I cannot imagine how awful it would be in Summer with bare armpits being on show one inch from your face.

S found the whole process of getting on the train quite stressful. The crowds annoyed him and it was a constant peeve that he kept missing out on getting a seat on the train itself. On the last day, however, he took matters into his own hands. As the train stopped at the station, he pushed past everyone (including the people exiting) and got himself a seat. He then stretched his legs over two extra seats for K and myself. When I sat down I asked him what brought that on. He just said he had to get a seat and no one was going to stop him. Well done dude!

On one day in London we went and visited the HMS Belfast. This is definitely a visit for the boys - and me of course. But I think boys just love ships and love exploring all the ins and outs of any vessel. I like the mock set ups they have on the ship. This was enhanced by great sound effects. I think it just adds to the authenticity of the display.

The dentist one is my favorite as it had the background noise of drills and a screaming patient.

Both K and I had been on the Belfast on previous trips but it was quite different this time around as we were part of a child's perspective on it.

We spent some time in Trafalgar Square where there was some pigeon interaction. The one on my son's head had been on my arm only seconds beforehand. I do like birds but all I could think of was "prospective bird poo" might happen.

One time when I went to Trafalgar Square it was sunny and people were everywhere, their brightly coloured summer clothes were a beautiful foil against the grey of the stone. In the cold weather I felt as grey as the buildings all around me. I know I wore a lot of darker colours and wondered why people tend to do that. Seriously joyless colours that absorb any light around you. It would make sense to wear lovely oranges and reds in cold weather. In fact, I shall go out of my way this Winter (tomorrow) to find a nice orange or bright green wintry article of clothing just to brighten it up a bit.

One of the places that we could not wait to show S was the Tower of London. I thought he would love the armoury, the chopping block, the military museums and the gloomy rooms that told even more gloomy stories. Unfortunately S did not feel quite the same way. Or more honestly, he had a shorter attention span than we had when we first saw it. And fair enough.

After about 1.5 hours he said he was bored. We managed to get a bit more time out of him before finally leaving the stony walls.

On the way into the Tower I took a very quick photo of S and K. I like this one. Not that it is particularly good or anything, but it just has a movement about it that appeals to me.

So, that is a little bit about London.

A very good place to visit.

And the shops were great.

Ciao

LC

Poo Twaddle

This post is a poo post.

I know I am a grown up for a number of reasons. My age, my behaviour, my acceptance of responsibilities and other similar things that go hand in hand with being a grown up.

However, if you scratch the surface just a little bit, there is one area that remains very, very childlike and that is my reaction to anything poo related.

I find poo talk funny. I find vomit stories extremely funny. If you want to tell me, in great detail, any food poisoning or gastric problems you may have encountered over time I can assure you that I will be a completely captive audience.

That expression "shit through the eye of a needle" amuses me greatly. The two words "projectile vomit" conjure up a most entertaining visual thought. My brother had a terrible episode with food poisoning once and when he told in in graphic detail how the entire 48 hour ordeal progressed, I laughed so hard that I had aching stomach muscles for the next few days. I then could not relate that story to anyone else without bursting into fits of laughter.

Oh, and any fart stories just really make me laugh. Whilst I don't want you to actually fart in front of me, please feel free to regale any fart stories or jokes you wish. I have been known to slip a whoopee cushion in with a wedding present as I believe that a marriage is doomed if you cannot fart in front of your partner. I have actually fallen out of bed laughing at my own farts. My husband does not find my farting amusing at all, especially since I became a vegan, however he is mildly amused by my own childish reaction to them. I know I should be disgusted when someone else inadvertently farts in a public place, but really, I am incapable of maintaining any level of disapproval if someone blows their own trumpet, so to speak.

Sometimes I would like not to be so easily brought undone by such basic bodily functions, but what can I say, I am the owner of a small juvenile that lives within me.

Well, the other day I was once again reminded of just how puerile my reaction can be to poo talk.

For the past few years my son has had some really terrible stomach aches. The pain has, at times, been so severe that he has had to take a day off school. It has escalated to the point where he might have these stomach cramps twice a week.

Finally I decided to take him to the doctors. So, yesterday we went to one of our rare visits to the doctor.

We get into the doctor's office and she sits down at her desk and starts asking what the problem is. I explain about his stomach aches. She asks me a lot of questions that are mainly to determine as to whether or not the problem could be emotional. Perhaps he is being bullied at school or he is struggling with school work. I manage to reassure her that I am confident that he is a happy and easy going boy with no upsets in his life. After about ten minutes of this talk she is satisfied that his problem may well be only physical.

She then directs her questions to S. She asks him about his bowel habits.

Now, generally my son is a very open and chatty boy. Not this time. He answered her questions in monosyllabic form. The more detail she required from him, the less forthcoming he seemed to be. I did my best to say nothing as I don't believe she wants to hear my slant on what he had to say, she needed his thoughts to get to some point where things would give a bigger picture of what was going on internally.

So the conversation goes along these lines:

Doc: "So, tell me how often you go to the toilet and open your bowels."

Son: "Open my what?"

Mother: "Have a poo is what she means."

Son: "Dunno, every three or four days."

Mother: "Are you serious?"

Doc: "And what is the consistency of your motions?"

Son: "My what?"

Doc: "Your poo. Is it soft and sloppy? Or hard like sheep's pebbles? Or is it firm?"

Son: "Dunno. In between."

Doc: "How long are your poos?"

Son: "'bout that long I 'spose." (He indicates a vague length with his opposing fingers)

Doc: "How long does it take to empty your bowels?"

Son: "Dunno. Fifteen minutes I think."

Mother: "He reads on the toilet." I say this because I hope it will somehow explain why it takes so long for him to go.

My son looks about as uncomfortable as a child can look. I am then silent at this point.

Conversation continues.

Doc: "So, you do know what the ideal poo should look like don't you?"

Son: "What?" (I think he really wanted to say WTF?)

Doc:"Ideally, a poo should be long and tapered at the end. It should take only two wipes to clean your bottom. If you were to do the ideal poo on a piece of blotting paper it should look nice and long and plump and then, by the end of the day, the moisture would be absorbed out of it and it would reduce in size."

It was at this point my composure was put seriously to the test. When she mentioned the taper factor of the poo I was reminded of a joke my stepfather told me. Why does your poo have points? To stop your bum banging shut when you have a shit. I know it is a bad, bad joke but it still makes me laugh. I felt the urge to laugh building up with great pressure in my chest. I am concerned at my lack of control.

She then draws a diagram of the colon.

Doc: "You see, over the years, if you do not listen to the message that your bowel is telling you to go and evacuate your bowels, it will become lazy and stop telling you. Children especially are inclined to hang on when they feel the urge to go. They may be on the computer, or watching television or reading a book. Also, it feels quite nice to have to urge to go and a child may like to prolong that feeling. If you ignore the tweak muscle, it will eventually stop tweaking and you will only go to the toilet because you think you have to or the pressure is so great that the body has to expel some waste. You need to get up in the morning, have a glass of water, go the the toilet and be out of it within two minutes. No reading on the toilet at all."

Okay, it was during that monologue that I really wanted to laugh and had to press my face in my hands to keep the shout of laughter in my mouth. My body was shaking. I could hear my keys rattling in my handbag in response to my almost violent body shaking. I gave a side long glance at S to see how he was coping. His face was frozen in a polite smile. I stared at the skirting board on the opposite wall. In my head I just kept saying "don't laugh, don't laugh". I actually snorted once. She must think I am an idiot. A 44 year old women almost wetting herself laughing at a clinical explanation of what happens when you have a crap. Even my own son is maintaining a level of dignity. I bite my hand thinking it may help. But my internal giggling continues.

Doc: "Now, if you, over the years, have developed the habit of reading on the toilet or going when you want to go, then you can get a build up of poo in your colon. Whereas the normal person with a healthy bowel will only have a small build up on a daily basis, someone with chronic constipation may have it all banked up for anything up to two metres. So, we need to take an x-ray of your stomach, determine just how far it has banked up and then give you some laxatives to help with the emptying of your bowels. I then want your mother to inspect your bowel motions for the next few weeks and make a note of the consistency. You need to be dedicated towards retraining your bowel or it will become saggy and baggy."

She then gave me the relevant paperwork to take to get the stomach x-ray. Somehow I managed to regain some composure and I thanked her for her informative talk and let her know that I would apply myself to ensure that my son's future bowel motions would be monitored accordingly.

I swear that she did not crack a smile once through the entire consultation.

We made it out of the clinic and my son turned to me and asked me if I had to laugh so much. He said he was okay until I started laughing. I apologised for behaving like a six year old and asked how he could tell I was laughing. I was so sure I was silent. He said that I was shaking so much that I bumped him. And he said that the next time I laugh like that I am not to look at him because it made him want to laugh.

Then we both had a really good giggle going over the whole episode in detail.

Saggy and baggy bowel? Two metres of banked up poo? Inspect my son's turds?

I realise that his stomach problem is all my fault.

I let him read books when he sat on the potty.

Let that be a warning.

Ciao
LC

More Train Twaddle

The other day I mentioned being on the train from Tewksbury to London and seeing lots of teenage girls. They were only on the train for a short part of the journey and jumped off at Salisbury. Their exodus made me think of birds flying from a cage. Suddenly there was silence.

K and S were still sitting in the carriage whilst I was standing and watching our luggage. A couple of fold down seats became free and I grabbed one. Not long after a man sat next to me on the other one.

When the food trolley came rattling up the aisle the man sitting next to me bought a can of beer. He sat for a while reading the Daily Mail and drinking his beer. The seats we were sitting on were opposite a toilet. Each time anyone used the toilet they seemed to be unable to shut the door properly and it would drift open and either the man or myself would stand up and shut it.

After a while I could not help but comment on our new found job status as toilet door closers. He laughed and folded up the newspaper and placed it on his lap.

He was about mid fifties, casually dressed in jeans and a blue windcheater. He did not look very relaxed, he looked unsettled and had a frown on his face that would appear now and then as thoughts crossed his mind.

Now, although I am not a particularly social person I cannot sit next to someone for any length of time without striking up a conversation. To share a relatively confined space with another person and then ignore them would be impossible for me. I started chatting to him about the scenery out of the window, which at this stage was your typically gorgeous English country side with lovely houses.

Initially he was surprised at my talking to him but was happy to answer back to my prattle. We introduced ourselves to each other. I told him how we were travelling through the UK for three weeks and how lovely I found everything. After ascertaining where I was from he told me how he would love to travel to Australia and asked me what it was like. I spent some time going telling him about some of the beautiful scenery that was on offer in Australia. Quite different to the UK which would be part of the appeal from those who come from the other side of the world to visit.

We talked about how interesting it was that we always want to go places that are so different to where we actually live. He confessed that he took for granted the traditional English country side and architecture. I reassured him that I felt exactly the same about Australia. You never do appreciate what is on your doorstep until you are much older and that is when you jump in a motor home and spend a year discovering what it is that everyone crows about.

He told me he had retired last year from his job as a headmaster at a school. He now worked part time doing research and loved it. He had two daughters. His wife, who was a teacher, was due to retire in July of this year. I said to him that it may take a while to get used to each other again. All of a sudden he would find that they would have to take time to get to know each other without the buffer of children, work and other obligations to absorb some of the drifting that happens in a long marriage. He looked at me as though I had unearthed some sort of guilty secret.

"I have been worried about that. Really worried. I mean we hardly talk really compared to how we did many years ago. I don't know, time just passes and you wonder if you are married to a stranger," he admitted.

"Well, it will take a while. Tell your wife how you feel. You may well find she feels exactly the same way. Go out for coffee or lunch or to the pictures now and then. Don't give in to the urge to spend time apart, you have obviously worked hard and come this far. Time for a new phase. It may take a few months. You know, she will be the same person she was when you met her but sometimes a busy life covers all that up," I said. Which was a bit presumptuous of me when I think about it. Like some sort of Agony Aunt or something.

I changed the subject and asked where he was off to.

"Well, it is a bit of a long story. But, you know, I feel like talking anyway. We bought a house years ago in the south of France. Sort of as a retirement thing. We planned on spending six months here and then six months there. So I am off to there now. My wife will be joining me once the school holidays start which is next week," he told me.

But the story actually was quite sad. His mother was very, very ill and she was flying out to France to holiday with them, along with his father. British Airways had upgraded her to first class in consideration of her poor health, which he hoped would make the trip less stressful for her.

"My wife rang my mother last night to see how she was. She seemed okay but I am so worried that she will not be well enough to get out of the door and into the taxi and get to the airport. She is so frail and poorly. If I could just know that she would get to France, I could pick her up, get her into our house and take care of her. I think that once she is her room and I open the windows and she sees the blue sky and beautiful scenery she will feel so much better. It has been so grey here, she gets easily depressed," he looked so worried that I had to reach over and pat his arm. Then he added that she could not eat much food and had problems with maintaining her weight. He voiced his concern as to how much longer she would live.

"It must be hard for you. It is hard when someone you love so much is not well. And that she is elderly adds to the worry of it. The best thing is to get her there, take the best care of her that you know how. Tell her that you love her. She is very lucky to have a son that cares for her so deeply and is not afraid to show it. If she is so ill, then let her time be as free from worry as possible," I said.

He talked a bit more about his concerns. Then he said to me that things had not been easy for years. He had problems with his daughters, work had been stressful and sometimes he wondered about the point of it all. I said that if he was wondering about things it meant that he would be able to make small changes to make his life have more meaning. Especially now he was retired. He could spend more time getting to know himself again.

"Sometimes we spend so much time doing things for others we forget about who we are," I told him, thinking about myself I suppose.

He noticed that his station was coming up, so he stood up and organised his luggage. I wished him all the best and hoped that his mother would enjoy her time with him. Then I made a joke reminding him to take his wife out for coffee when she came over to France the following week.

"You know something?" he said to me, "when I got on the train today I was so depressed, so down in the dumps. That you took the time to talk to me, a complete stranger, and a man at that, was so kind of you. You have really, really cheered me up and I want to say thank you very, very much.

We shook hands and I waved goodbye to him from the window as the train made it's way out of the station. I had tears in my eyes from both his predicament and his kind words to me as he was leaving.

I wonder how it all went for him. I have thought of him often and how his mother coped with the journey. Or if he had coffee with his wife.

People you meet on trains, or in shops or anywhere for that matter, are always worth the time and effort.

They always have something to tell you if you really want to listen.

Ciao
LC

Mining Museum

The Lake District has the most amazing mining history that dates back centuries. It is easy to forget the industrial history of a some places when what is around for us to see is more tourist driven.

Everything was mined in the Cumbria area, which the Lake District is part of. Copper, lead, slate zinc and many other minerals were mined and quarried for hundreds of years. You name it, it was taken out from the bowels of the earth and used. Mining is both a beautiful and dangerous activity. The beauty is in the ability to carve out what seems like inert material from the earth and make it into something that helps human beings live their lives. Something so organic as slate becomes the smooth grey roof on a stone house for the next one hundred or more years. The danger in mining is well known. A subject of suffering and deaths in newspapers for years and years.

The problem with the world we live in is that it can only give up so much and then no more. So mining is now minimal in the Lakes but there are some interesting places you can visit to give you an insight into the hard life that went with the mining industry.

One place we went to was Threlkeld Quarry and Mining Museum situated not far from Keswick. We saw a little sign indicating it's presence as we were driving along the windy roads in the drizzling rain.

When we got there it was not far off closing time, but we were warmly welcomed by the two men volunteering. After donning our hard hats we made our way into a small tea room not far from the museum and sat down to listen about the history of some mining that went on in the area.


The museum is run by volunteers. Generally, when people hear the word "volunteer" they think of tea and scone making activities or door knocking appeals. Volunteers give their time in more ways than we could possibly imagine. So much good that happens in society could not run without these people who selflessly donate their knowledge and time to all sorts of interesting causes.

Two years was spent building a replica lead/copper mine tunnel for visitors to see. Below is a picture of us making our way into it. The man who took us on the tour was from a mining background himself. He was so interesting and managed to take a subject, which could be a bit boring for some, and turn it into a most interesting journey of the mind.

The museum was in a lonely place. Or at least that was how I felt it. Perhaps the rain, the grey sky and silent hills were giving a false impression. It was cold and my camera was not happy about being of the confines of my bag. A number of the photos I took with icy cold hands and a chilly camera came out disappointing. But now when I look at them it reminds me of standing on the muddy path looking out at the stone engine shed and hills in the background. I wanted to touch everything. The tools in the shed, the stone wall of the building, the smooth surface of the restored locomotive engine and the rough wet sides of the mine were inviting to my cold hands.

The area was littered with mining equipment. Big quarry machines sat silent in the rain, paintwork rusting, their shovel heads resting on the wet ground. Remnants of steam powered machinery waiting for someone to apply their vast knowledge to complete the restoration. It seemed to be a constant work in progress.

The whole time I was listening to the guide. He had a northern accent and the words that came out of his mouth were interesting in both content and sound.

When we got back to main building, we then walked through the Quarry Room which went through the more complicated process of explaining about geology and various mining practices of the surrounding area. Samples of rocks were available to touch and study. When was the last time you had a good look at a rock? Picked it up and really looked at it? Maybe wet it and studied the grain of the surface. I know that some people love flowers, and I certainly do, but there is something silently appealing about a pile of unassuming grey rocks.

But not all of the rocks that are mined are grey of course. Some of the colours are astonishing. Bright blues and greens, gold, milky white, browns and inky black. Hard to believe such colours are produced from far beneath the surface of the earth.

Later on we stood by a wood stove and chatted about other things. The environment, global warming, over zealous environmentalists and the greedy consumerism that is destined to be our undoing. It was a nice place to stand and talk, in this small building that offered so much information to the outsider. I was so thankful and appreciative to those men and women who dedicated their time so freely, who were so willing to impart their knowledge for the sole purpose of keeping an important part of history alive.

When I left there I kept thinking of the volunteers. Some giving their all five days a week. So many people have long and interesting working lives that have crossed over significant changes in society and industrial activities. They have knowledge and skills that will be eventually lost. It is easy to just write it off as one of the downsides of the modern world.

But it is not as though these people are that old. Maybe a bit more than 60. So there is a very good chance that what is a much needed skill for a 40 year old now, will be useless in twenty years. I find that a bit strange. When my son asks me what job he should do when he gets older, I say I don't even know what jobs there will be in ten years.

I feel a sense of panic that people are going to leave without having told their story, leave without realising they had something small but important to give to the world.

Perhaps if we all write a little letter about what we do, what we know and who we are. Put the letter somewhere where it can be found later, after you have gone. Maybe someone will read it and realise that an ordinary person has something interesting to say.

We don't all need 15 minutes of fame to be important.

But it would be nice to hear what each person has to say now and then.

Ciao

LC

May Friday At Work

Today is Friday and I am at work.

I normally do not work Friday's but sometimes there is just that little bit more paperwork that needs attending to and I feel the need to get it done before the next working week.

However, my mindset is not of the working kind today and I have to confess that I have done nothing work worthy since I got to work two hours ago.

I did answer the phone a few times and send of a couple of respective work related emails.

Then our plumber came in just as I was making myself a cup of coffee and he had one as well and chatted for fifteen minutes or so.

In the back of my mind is an acute awareness of a large amount of information I have to get together for the tax office. It seems as though I am unable to get myself going until I absolutely have to. I recall a similar attitude towards school projects twenty six years ago.

I need someone to ring me and tell me to work.

Or ring for a chat.

Preferably the latter.

Ciao
LC

The Comb

Over a number of postings I know I have alluded to the fact that my father was the owner of a bad temper.

We used to always be mindful of trying to avoid providing any triggers that would invoke one of his rages. But really, it was nigh impossible because, to tell you the truth, something as simple as a grubby t-towel hanging in the kitchen could set him of his tree.

I am sure as a result of this constant, fearful atmosphere that I lived in, combined with being of an oversensitive nature, I have developed an over the top awareness of other people's moods.

Each morning my father, after he had a shower, would stand in front of a mirror in the bedroom and comb his hair with some sort of hair oil. He would then place the comb in the drawer that was situated in a small, half round table under the mirror and make his way out to the kitchen where he would have a cup of coffee and a cigarette before heading off to work.

If, at any stage, his morning routine were upset, the entire house would erupt into a state of chaos. He would hound all of us, sometimes one child would be the subject of the verbal and physical tirade, sometimes it was all and sundry. It was natural, therefore, to work hard to ensure that nothing would be the trigger. There was nothing worse than having to make my way to school after getting a belting because I left toast crumbs on the kitchen bench, or he tripped over my sister's school bag.

Anyway, it seemed as though every second morning his comb disappeared from the drawer and he could not find it. He would go off his tree, screaming through the house about the missing comb. Mum always had a couple of spare combs on hand and would give him one as a peace offering of sorts. Then suddenly, the old comb would miraculously reappear in the drawer. He had a particular liking for this little, ugly brown comb.

Now, I know I never used that fucking comb. Nor did my younger brother or sister, from what I can recall. My older sister lived out of home so we could rule her out. My mum never used it either. Why on earth my father imagined that any of us would use that greasy, oily, broken toothed old comb always astounded me. I was the owner of the most gorgeous, long brown hair and there is no way that I would have run that comb through it.

This comb saga became a long term issue in the house. Years it went on. We just assumed that my dad was a grumpy shit who kept misplacing his comb.

When we all left home and made new lives, every now and then we would bring up the comb story and have a good laugh about it. That is the good thing about time, it can turn ugly events into rather amusing ones.

Well, recently, I was chatting to my younger sister about the comb episode. As I laughed about it, there was this strange silence on the other end of the phone. I asked her what was wrong.

"It was me. I took the comb," she said.

"What the fuck! Are you serious?. You took it for all those years. Why?" I asked her.

"I needed to comb my hair and I always knew where it was, so I used it. I just forgot to put it back. Then I just did not care," she was rather apologetic.

"That is funny. Really funny. But we better not tell the other two. They will pay out on you for being the cause of the "comb house of horrors," I said to her.

I really could not believe that for all those years it had been my darling little sister being the comb culprit. No wonder she held back telling anyone. To own up to it would have not been the best thing.

Poor dad, he must have thought we had it in for him.

But, as a direct result of the whole reaction to the missing comb, I hate combs and we do not have a comb in the house.

For me, a comb is a trigger for a completely different emotion that my father's.

Ciao
LC

Ungrateful Child

Yesterday I gave my son dinner.

 

Nothing particularly confronting.  Just fish and a potato.  Green just is not his scene.

 

He then said to me:

 

"I don't know what is wrong with my tastebuds this weekend, but everything you have made for me tastes disgusting!"

 

Hard not to laugh at that one.

 

Ciao

LC

Train To London

At one point of our recent time overseas, we caught a train from Tewkesbury to London. I think it took almost two hours or so. When we got on board there were not enough seats for the three of us and so K and S went and sat in the carriage with available seats whilst I made myself comfortable near the doorway. We had all our luggage there and I had to keep an eye on it.

At the same time a group of teenage girls tumbled in the doorway and provided me with some entertainment for a while.

You know, although countries offer different sights and sounds there is one thing that seems the same where ever you go. And that is the giggly gaggle of teenagers. In particular, teenage girls. These girls on the train could have been from any country. All had a universal spirit and appearance about them.

Despite the fact that all of the girls had the translucent bloom of peach youth on their skin, they all covered it up with far too much make up. Inky black mascara and eye liner, pale foundation and pink blusher gave them a look that suggested they had been rattling around in their mother's make up case. Make up can do wonders. But it can make a young girl look like jail bait and an older woman look like the crypt keeper. A light hand is needed at any age, and these girls had not yet come to that awareness.

Their voices were shrill and their conversations were there to be heard by anyone nearby. I was reminded of the bird chatter I hear on summer evenings when walking near the palm trees that are planted along the railway line near my house. Mindless twittering amongst the leaves. But it was nice to listen to. I felt happy for them.

I was reminded of a day out I spent with a friend when I was still at high school. Her name was Trudy and I know I did mention her in a previous post.

We were both only about 16 years old. One very hot Saturday in summer we decided to take a train into the city. I had nothing much to wear and Trudy came around to my house to pick something out for me.

Trudy was very, very attractive. She had olive skin, dark brown long and wild hair and the most beautiful figure you could imagine. She had a confidence with herself that I never had. Always her clothes seemed so interesting. I always felt a bit pale and insignificant next to her almost exotic prettiness.

So she comes around to my house and looks through my pile of limited clothing and pulls out this white shirt. It was the era of ruffles. The shirt had no sleeves and was decorated with an abundance ruffles at the front. It was made of a soft rayon and you pulled it over your head as it had no buttons. It was quite long, for a shirt, and reached just above my mid thigh, perhaps by about two inches.

"Here, wear this," she said handing it to me.

"What with," I asked.

"Just your undies, like a dress," she replied.

It took all of her persuasion to get me to wear it as a dress, but I caved in. I was thankful that my parents were not home to see me with it on. By the time we walked to the train station I was seriously aware of just how short it was on me. I could not risk bending down otherwise a flash of sensible white and flowered, cotton knickers would be on show.

As I was, and still am, a person who is very conscious of just how much flesh I have on show, I can recall so clearly how aware I was that my legs and arms were so exposed to the public. By today's standards it really was nothing, but then, at the time it was pretty revealing in my eyes.

On the way into the city on the train, I eventually forgot about what I was wearing as I was just so caught up in the pleasure of being out, the two of us, giggly girls having a good time. Looking back now, I can imagine that we would have had the same happy chatter of the girls I saw on the train heading to London so recently.

Once in the city we went to visit the art gallery. Outside the front of the gallery they have a fairly large water feature which is almost like a large, shallow pool. People use it as a wishing well and throw coins in it. Trudy and I dangled our legs over the side, feet in the cool water, before making our way across the road to the gardens.

In these particular gardens is a large fountain. Fountains have a particular fascination for me. The mechanics of it combined with the outcome is a source of beauty. From the most ornate statues that spout water from orifices to the contemporary sort that shoot water from obscure openings on flat pieces of stone. I love them dearly. One day I shall have one in my back yard, regardless of water restrictions.

This fountain was one of those traditional ones where the water shoots up high and sprays a glorious shower in a beautiful arc. It was such a hot day and the shimmering heat that rose from the pavement created a halo around the fountain. I could feel my face was hot from the sun and my shoulders were starting to look pink from impending sunburn. Neither Trudy nor I could resist the lure of the cool water that was on offer in the fountain. We both stepped over the edge and stood under the fountain.

We were not the only ones doing it. Lots of little children were running about and splashing happily, enjoying the fun of it all. In no time at all Trudy and I were soaked to the skin and laughing at each other.

When we finally got out and put on our sandals, Trudy looked at me as I stood up. She was kind of laughing, but it was a nervous laugh.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Your dress is so see through, I can see your undies and you are not wearing a bra," She started really laughing, mainly because I looked down in awful horror. The soft white rayon material the dress was made of had become almost as see through as if it had been tissue paper. It clung like a second skin to me and you could see everything through it, including my belly button. I was mortified.

The walk back to the train station was not an easy one. I was hideously aware of my state and kept my arms folded in front of me to hide what I could. Thankfully by the time we boarded the train the shirt had dried enough to hang away from my body and was no longer translucent. But it seemed to have shrunk. I could not sit down because it rose too high and instead stood at the open train doors. With the heat of the sun shining down on my legs, and talking to Trudy about things, I forgot all about the short shirt dilemma.

When I close my eyes now, I can remember the rhythmic rattle of the train, the happy smile on Trudy's lovely face and the feel of the hot sun on my bare legs. I recall leaning against the open door and watching the scenery pass by in between stations. I noticed a couple of boys about my age looking at me and felt the sweet surprise of being admired. It was deliciously innocent and I have to confess that I did adjust my pose slightly so that the shirt rose just that little bit higher up my thigh. But I did that with the safety of knowing that we would be jumping off the train at the next station.

Oh, the power of a short, shirt dress on a hot summer's day.

Ciao
LC

Twaddle About Books

Books are and always have been a constant pleasure in my life.

I don't seem to get the time to read as much as I would like to these days. Having numerous obligations along with quite a few different interests does make it hard for me to sit down and spend four or five hours consuming a novel.

At the moment I am finishing off a book called Affluenza by an author called Oliver James. I bought it in Edinburgh and have finally gotten around to closing the last page. Books I read now are quite different to the books I was into years ago.

I tend to go back to books that have really made an impact on me. Ones that stirred me or made me really address how I approached life, or ones that were just a good read. It is pretty normal for me to read a book over and over, anything up to ten times or more for a classic novel.

But there is one book that left an indelible mark in my mind for ever and a day.

I started reading before I went to school. Enid Blyton books. Pippi Longstocking. Comics galore and even the newspaper was something I would read. The standard issue school books were always dreary as I recall. The more I read, the more I wanted to read.

My parents had some books around the house, but not so many that you would think they were avid readers. However, one time I was looking for something to read and came across a very well read book. It was Never Love A Stranger by Harold Robbins.

I took it down to read it. Obviously the title was the trigger for my interest and I seem to remember the front cover having a slatternly looking woman on view. I was very young. In fact, when I thought about where I was when I found the book, it occurred to me that I must have been only about nine or ten when I read it.

Anyway, I took the book down from the shelf and scuttled off to read it in private. Whilst I cannot remember the storyline in particular there was one page I read which I have never forgotten.

In this little part of the book is a description of how this man held a woman's breast in his hand and he goes into detail of how her nipple feels pressing against his palm.

Now, you would not think that such a small paddle of writing would stay in someones head for so many years, but it has. Not in a bad way. Just a small deposit into the memory bank for future recall.

I have to confess that the whole book was a bit thrilling, if inappropriate, to read.

Many years later I came across the book in a second hand stall and flicked through the pages for a while searching for the aforementioned section, but to no avail. Had I had more time to stand and peruse the book I would have found it.

Recently I thought of buying it just for the read. Maybe some sort of trip down memory lane perhaps. Find that page again. But the thought of reading a trashy paperback in my precious spare time just does not appeal to me.

I have a few books on my bookshelf that may well be not suitable for children. The odd sex scene appearing in some of them. I even have a couple of Anais Nin books on hand, well read and with dog eared corners.

I am not overly fussed if my son were to read one or two of them. Better to read a bit of erotica via a well written novel than be exposed to porn via the internet.

So many good books have crossed my path, yet it is funny how the trashy one left a little footprint behind in my mind.

Ciao
LC

Motherly Advice

My son has been having a bit of a hard time with a girl in his class.

Initially when he started this year he liked this particular girl. Later on he said he did not like her because even though she was very pretty, she was a bitch.

Recently she has been quite mean to him. More than the usual mean behaviour. He has tried to ignore her, joke with her and, as a last resort he told her to "f--- off" all to no avail. It was making him not want to go to school.

Now, it is hard to be mother to a son and somehow prepare him for the very strong possibility that he is going to be confronted with the worst type of female behaviour now and then. At first I tried to tell him that sometimes girls are mean to boys because they like them and just want some interaction.

Then I said to him that in life, some girls are nice and some are not just as some boys are nice and some are not.

But I have to say that there are just some first class bitches residing in the female population.

Because I am not a bitch that does not mean to say I do not have "bitch" knowledge. It does not mean that I do not know what answer to come up with to knock a bitch off her feet.

So, after a number of weeks of my son trying a few tactics in stopping this girl from being nasty I decided to hand him one of my cards to deliver to her.

"Listen to me. Take this advice. If you keep reacting to this girl by swearing all you are doing is feeding her thrill at getting under your skin. You need to say something that cuts to the core of being a female. I am not saying it is right to say what I am going to suggest, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do," I said to him.

"Okay, tell me what it is," he answered.

"Next time she starts being nasty, you just say to her that she is not pretty enough to get away with being a bitch," I told him. Someone once said something like that to me.

"What, just that?" he thought that it was a bit lame. I told him that was it and he had to remember to say it in a nice voice.

Anyway, the following day he said exactly that to her and she went "oh" and has left him alone since.

Can't say if I think it was the right thing.

But it worked.

Ciao
LC

The Lake District

One of my favorite places in England is the beautiful Lake District. I have been there in warm and cold weather and it is always a most inviting place. In fact, I would think a trip to the UK just to stay there would make me happy.

We were only there for two nights. But it was still enough time to enjoy the beauty of the fells that rise from the earth.


One place we stayed at was a town called Grasmere. It was the home of Wordsworth and is now a place of homage I suppose for those who wish to gaze upon his gravestone in the pretty little church yard.

The building below was of extreme interest to me. In the morning we went for a walk around the small town doing our best to avoid the ever building crowds. I was drawn to this small building by the most divine smell that drifted out from the small open windows and doors and into the still, cool air. The smell was so unbelievable enticing that I ran from the adjoining church yard and into the small shop to see the source of the "Siren's Smell".

It was gingerbread. Not just any old gingerbread. It was Grasmere Gingerbread which is apparently very famous. I bought a packet of it, wandered outside and we sat on a nearby fence and proceeded to eat the treat. I really cannot describe to you how delicious it was. Spicy, chewy, sweet and had I had a hot cup of tea with me, I do believe it would have rated highly in the "last meal before I die" category.

Then next day I bought some more, but as with anything the second time around, it did not have quite the same punch as the day before - but pretty close. When I got home from my holidays I looked up the recipe to see if I could somehow emulate that lovely flavour. I managed to find a version of it done by Jamie Oliver and made it. Pretty close to the real thing I tell you, but if I ever eat another mouthful of it I may vomit. It is not low fat or vegan and played havoc with my stomach.

Still, definitely worth the effort to make.

The buildings in the Lake District are quite unique. As though they somehow assembled themselves in some sort of order from the very ground they stand on. The greyness of the stone facade and the slate roof blends in with the greens and greys of the natural surroundings.

The building code is very strict which is a good thing as it keeps the integrity of the environment intact. Even new buildings have to be made of stone and have a slate roof. These days most of the stone and slate is imported from China rather than using local stone (which is in limited supply).

There is a great deal of hiking that goes on in the Lake District. Or rambling. Not sure what term they use. But loads of people of all ages were walking around with backpacks, walking stick things, complicated looking hiking shoes, beanies and maps in hand. I felt a bit envious. Wanted to join them.

Bushwalking in Australia is quite a different experience. I could sound like a bit of a sad sack here, but the bush in Australia has a bite look about it. You can bet that if you have to have a pee you may also get bitten by a bull ant or spider right on your bum. Whilst our gum trees have their own special lofty beauty with their long white limbs and sage green leaves, there is, in my eyes, a certain unfriendliness about the Australian bush.

When I look at the English forest I feel as though it is inviting. Cold perhaps, but inviting nonetheless. Whilst looking up at the hills and taking in their grey, heaving appearance the urge to walk towards them was so strong.

They reminded me of sleeping dogs with a blanket draped over their bodies. So slumberous and alive.

The way the houses nestle amongst it all just never failed to interest me.

Lovely places.

Even in the rain I was still taken aback at how the environment took on another appearance.

I understand why so many artists have come to the Lake District to record this constantly changing landscape. What I wouldn't do to come and live there.

Whilst we were in Grasmere, I wandered into a lovely art studio call Heaton Cooper Studio. Whilst it was full of a lovely array of very fine paintings of the area, the thing that I found stopped me in my tracks was the actual store that sold a most amazing range of artists supplies. All arranged and presented in a most enticing manner. Were I a person who could paint and draw well enough I would have purchased some of the products. But seriously, I do feel you have to earn the right to use a pastel that cost a small fortune.

There is a lot more to say about the Lake District. The other day K asked me if I thought it would be good to buy a place there and then have it as a holiday house.

I asked him we had perhaps won the lottery and he forgot to tell me about it since he was entertaining such fanciful thoughts.

Overseas holiday house indeed.

I wish.

Ciao

LC

Tangle

I have been pottering around in my studio more now that I am settled. I actually finished another project and feel happy about it. Happy enough to hang it on a wall.

Right now I am very much into doing collage type of pictures and use wire, waxed cord, paint and clay. Bits and pieces of photos and interesting paper. All quite small and contained. I spend ages with the wire in particular making very fiddly shapes. Sometimes it works, other times it does not. Then I may modify my idea to fit the shapes I have worked on.

At the moment I am working on creating an almost 3d effect on the finished work. There is actually an emotional meaning behind it all which I generally choose not to explain because once the words came out of my mouth they would sound too self conscious for me to feel comfortable with. Or, worse still, I may sound like a tosser. So, better to let other people make up their own mind.

The more knotted and busy the wire is, the more at peace I feel when I look at it.

These are some tiny photos I found of when we went on holiday (hideous cruise) when S was only six years old.

When I was looking at some photos that I took overseas I noticed that I took quite a few pictures of the branches of trees. The more tangled they were, the more beautiful I found them. Not to say that a loan branch against the sky is not a thing of beauty, but the fierce intertwining of naked winter branches reflects great struggle. And yet in that struggle is silent beauty.

These little pictures are of my son's fifth birthday. The theme was Harry Potter. Whilst it seems like yesterday in a way, I look at them and think how long ago it really is.

Other things I love the look of are piles of tangled ropes. Or knotted chains. I have great patience when it comes to untangling things, which in itself is odd considering I have very little patience in more important day to day activities.

The appearance of tangled cotton and wool offers it's own little nest of creativity. And since I mention the word "nest", I have to confess that I love the creative and natural structure of a bird nest. I have been trying to make a small one out of wire and waxed cord and wonder at the ability of a bird making a nest without the use of hands. There is such beauty in the chaos of it all.

Knots, tangles, twisted twines, rolls of barbed wire and intertwined branches all have an fascination for me. They all seem confusing when first you look at them but when you step back and look into them their disorder seems so natural.

Oh what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practice to deceive!

Thank you Walter Scott for those interesting two lines.

When I read them I think of all the knots and tangles of life and how we spend an awful lot of time trying to make them right, to make them conform only to find out that had we just left things in their natural form, just accepted things at their own face value we would have felt a little more at peace.

Sometimes chaos can offer peace.

Ciao

LC

Nice Place To Stay

I have not written that much about our trip. I am unsure as to why. Perhaps it is because I have taken a while to settle and had a couple of blah weeks. Initially I was going to talk about my holiday in some sort of order. You know, first we went here and then there and so on. But I have decided to write about it as the mood takes me. So much easier to go with what I feel as opposed to what is the usual order of things.

After we left London, we headed up to the area around Oxford. One place we were heading for was Newark. And the reason we headed that way was not just for the scenery, it was for the giant antique fairs that are held in the area a few times each year. We happened to find out that two of the fairs were being held at the same time we would be passing through.

We drove up out of Woodstock where we had stayed the night and stopped here and there to look at the lovely houses and the odd museum. As the afternoon moved toward the early evening I started to get anxious about where we were going to stay.

K kept saying that it would not be a problem as there were bed and breakfast's everywhere in the UK and we would find one easily. Now, I know that the antique fairs attract a lot of people. Thousands. There are three thousand stall holders alone and whilst many have their own van to sleep in, just as many do not. I knew that the local places would be booked out.

It started to get dark and at around 7.00 pm I kept saying things like "when was the last time you slept the night in a car" and "I am starting to feel a bit concerned about WHERE WE ARE GOING TO SLEEP". And other related comments. Plus I was really, really hungry as was S who by this stage was making noises from the back seat of the car.

We decided that food was a number one priority and made a sudden turn off to a little village the eat at a place called The Boot and Shoe Inn. When we got there we asked if they had any accommodation as well. They were completely booked out. But they did have the name and phone number of a lady who had just started a bed and breakfast and may have a spare room.

Thankfully she did. We headed out in the pitch black with instructions to find her place written on a little scrap of paper. I was expecting to sleep in someones adhoc spare room, but was not fussed about it.

We finally arrived in a tiny town called Sibthorpe and found ourselves at the most gorgeous place to stay.

It was a house that had been built in about the 1600's or so. Owned by a family for many years, the main part of the house had been refurbished to become a bed and breakfast. The daughter of the family had returned home after many years living in Italy and surrounding countries and set everything up as a new business. Whilst she lived in a separate granny flat, her parents lived in an adjoining part of the house, her brother lived in the converted stables.

Mandy was a most engaging woman of about my age. We had the same thoughts about food, art, houses and all sorts of other things and chatted quite a lot.

The room that we slept had been decorated in the most inviting colours. The bed linen was crisp, pillows plump and the doona was fat and feathery. The en suite bathroom was tiled in gorgeous colours of blue and purple and it was so visually pleasing to stand and have a shower in the next morning.

Downstairs we had breakfast in a conservatory which looked out on fields and loads of green grass and a number of beautiful trees. I had to take some photos of the trees in her front yard as there is something so nice about their silent greeting to the world each day, branches outstretched and offering themselves up to the birds.

Just around the corner from her house was a dovecote which had been built around 1340 give or take a decade either side. It was built to house pigeons and the eggs they laid were used for food. In front of the dovecote there had once been a large area of water which held fish. You could still see the depression in the ground where the water had once been. It was part of how the monks lived a self sustaining life. We went for a walk up to it. It was enormous and you could go inside and see the hundreds of shelves or pockets where the birds would nest. The top is partially opened to allow the birds to come and go as they please.

The floor of the dovecote is just covered in feathers, bird poo, dried up old plant grunge and goodness knows what other organic matter. I had to make an exit as I have this thing about germs and birdy poo dust.

What impressed me was that after 700 or so years, that building is still standing. Not so sure that buildings of today will be around in 200 years, let alone 700 years.

Next day we left the lovely bed and breakfast and headed towards the antique fair.

It was just fantastic.

There were many tents and stalls all selling "stuff". Other people's once loved items out on offer for me to rummage around in.

Unfortunately I was seriously mindful of the size of my suitcase and purchased very little. My prize purchase was a stack of french linen t-towels from the 1930's that had never been used. They were cream with a few red stripes at one end. I just love looking at them and am slightly loathe to actually use them now that they are washed and pressed.

The main aim of the visit for S was to find himself a pocket knife. Must be a boy thing.

In the end we purchased a second hand Swiss Army knife with 23 "things" that magically appear from it's interior. One of the things includes a toothpick - had to keep silent as S tried it out.

I could have stayed there for hours on end just looking through everything on offer. I could have bought lots of little things to add to my other little things I have at home. But in the end I had to make the decision to only look. Besides, all the things I really wanted were too big to carry home.

What was nice about the whole two days was that we found a lovely place to stay quite unexpectedly. It just shows you that funny little things happen when you least expect it. You find a place to stay and meet a nice person who stays in your mind long after the holiday.

I mean, that is what life should be about anyway. Finding new places and meeting nice people.

Sounds so easy really doesn't it.

Ciao

LC

Comfort Food

Today my son came home from his five day trek up to Canberra.

When we went to pick him up in the afternoon I started to cry as I left the house. My husband patted me on the back as I choked back tears and also the huge mouthful of half eaten apple. (Keep that in mind if you are eating an apple and watching a sad movie - it is not a good combination)

Anyway, he thought it was odd that I would be crying when S was going to come home in the next 15 minutes. But all week I had kept myself busy with work and exercise and stuff like that to keep from missing him too much. Every now and then I went into his bedroom and lay on his bed for a few minutes and thought about what he may be doing. The fact that he was coming home soon was a bit overwhelming.

Since S has been at school he has had a banana included in the contents of his lunch box. I could confidently say that for 97% of his school days either myself or my husband has packed a little yellow banana inside the lunchbox. Six years so far - including prep year. That is a lot of bananas.

Even when the price of bananas was so high, due to a cyclone destroying an entire season of the bendy fruit up north, I still bought them for his lunch. At one point the cost was $2.75 per banana - normally they are that price per kg.

It has become a bit of a joke around the house. S told me that everyday he opens the lunchbox and there is a bloody banana. But it is the only fruit he will eat without any issues. He told me he does not like round fruit as it is takes too long to eat. Or grapes because you cannot run with them in your hand. Or squishy fruit. Or sticky fruit. Or things he has to peel. Or stuff that squirts when you bite it. Or things with seedy things in them. Or hairy fruit. Or fruit that leaves stringy things in your teeth. They are okay at home, but not at school.

So, that narrows it all down to one fruit really doesn't it? The banana.

He hates them too big. Or too green. Or too brown. Or too smelly. I generally buy the "eco frog friendly" red tipped bananas which have had their ends dipped in red wax to show why they are more expensive than the "eco unfriendly sprayed with chemical" ones. Although, sometimes the red tipped ones are way too expensive and I just get whatever.

Sometimes here the bananas are so huge I think they are meant for two people to eat. They will not fit in the lunchbox and that is when I have to buy the lady finger bananas which are overpriced little ones - perfect for a child to eat.

If you come to my house you can bet your bottom dollar that there is a bunch of banana's for you to eat. Not that I eat them as I actually do not like them. I do not like the smell or the texture. The only time I eat them is if I have restless legs. Then I eat one each day for two weeks and have to have them covered in honey and cinnamon to stomach the taste. I promise you that the potassium in the banana helps my restless legs.

So, back to the return of the son from camp.

He gets off the bus and we start walking to the car and chat about his trip. I asked him what he wanted for dinner. He was allowed to have take away as a treat.

"Oh, all I want right now is a banana," he said.

"Are you serious," I asked.

"Yes, I missed having my banana every day. And my glass of milk in the morning. That is what I want before anything. A banana and a glass of milk," he said.

And that is what he did. Went home and had banana (a slightly brown one at that) and a glass of milk.

Comfort food for my little monkey.

Nice to have him home.

Ciao
LC

Stomping Ground

The other day S and I went up the street and had breakfast together. This is a regular thing we do now and sometimes we may walk up and then, after breakfast or lunch, we extend the walk to a local park or something like that. Or we drift off into the bookshop. Just kind of hang around before heading home. I like it because often S will chat to me about stuff. His teenage years are not far off and I am well aware that there is a strong chance that he may be less likely to want to be with me as much as he does now.

The main drag near us is along a road called Centre Road. It is very busy these days but still manages to retain some sense of village atmosphere. When I first moved to the area it was quiet and peaceful on the weekend. Not so much now. This is mostly because the area has become more dense with the increase in units and town houses being built and that in turn allows for more people to live in the surrounding streets. Also, the suburb has become a bit more affluent (was not that when I first arrived) and this puts a new type of pressure on the need to build new homes to let in people eager to move in.

The change has been gradual. A bit like putting on weight I guess. All of sudden you are two stone heavier than you were twenty years ago. You just did not notice the changes as they happened. Unlike putting on weight, you cannot bring back the quietness of a suburb once it becomes popular.

On Saturday as we were crossing the road S said to me that he loved Centre Road. He liked being down there and checking out the shops, walking up the street, trying the different cafes and dropping into the book shop.

It is his stomping ground. It will one day be a big part of his personal history.

When I was a young adult I used to envy people who talked about their regular haunts. As I went to a number of different primary schools and moved to numerous houses in different areas, I always felt very disconnected. There was no place that I hung out with friends with in my formative years. Perhaps that feeling was exacerbated by my home environment which was fairly restricted (thanks to my sister getting up the duff at 15) and I was often just not allowed out.

Then there were people who went down to the same camping ground or caravan park each summer for years and years. Often their parents did the same so there is this long history attached to the place. I imagine it would be very comforting to go back there and have that sense of belonging around you.

I always knew that if I ever married there was no way I would move around from house to house, suburb to suburb and sometimes even move out of the state. And I was certain that if I ever had a child, that child would stay in the same primary school and then high school if I had anything to do about it. Some may argue that moving around is character building, and that may well be, but I know that I hated being uprooted from school after I had made a friend. Sounds pretty boring I am sure, but there are often things that happen in ones childhood that have a profound impact on how you might apply parenting techniques or just live your life.

These days Centre road is my stomping ground, albeit for my adult memories as opposed my childhood ones. I have been here for almost 17 years and that is long enough to feel part of the community, even though I am not involved in it in any big way. I am unsure when it shifted from being just the local shops to something I feel emotionally connected to. Probably when I had a child. Maybe when I just became aware of my sense of place in the world. I am well and truly part of it.

So when my son says to me that he loves the local shops I think that no matter where he travels or lives as an adult he will always be able to come back here and feel that familiar and safe sense of belonging.

Nice thing when you lay down roots and they run deep.

Ciao
LC

Fear Factor 2

This morning I stood on the scales and I was 2 kg's heavier than usual.

I started to cry.

Then said the word FAT over and over again.

Husband tries to comfort me with the following words:

"It is all your exercise, muscle. In fact, I noticed that you feel more solid......"

I looked at him.

"Solid?" I repeat the word slowly.

A look of fear crosses his face.

"No, not solid, I meant thicker," he starts to back track.

"Thicker? Solid and thicker" I ask him.

"No, no. Not that. I meant, you know, you are firmer, fitter," a look of hope comes with these words.

"Okay. That sounds better than solid and thick," I feel a bit better.

Relief crosses face of husband.

PMT afflicted wife heads off to work.

Feeling firm and fit.

As opposed to solid and thick.

Ciao
LC

Fear Factor 1

Fat, grumpy, fatter, grumpier, fattest, grumpiest.

Big, fat, grumpy PMT.

Whiney, whinge.

Everyone near me can fuck off.

Even my boss is scared of me.

He made me a coffee.

Asked me if I wanted some chocolate.

I felt some sort of empowerment at his fear.

Want to go home.

Ciao
LC

Early Morning Farewell

It is hard being a parent sometimes. Especially when you have to wave your child off to school camp.

S has gone up to Canberra for a five day school trip. Seven hours by bus. So we were up very early to be at school by 7.00 am.

Last night I spent time packing his suitcase, labelling all of his clothes and then sorting them into daily wear. I would get a pair of jeans, t-shirt, top, underwear and socks in a neat pile and tie it with a string so that he could just grab it and put it on. I know that is a bit doting but he likes it and so do I.

When I went on any school camp no one packed my suitcase or waved me goodbye. In fact, more than once, as a punishment I was often not allowed to go on a school excursion or camp - all part of teaching me a lesson. Lesson's which have been long forgotten. I am sure that most people would think I may be a soft touch when it comes to mothering my son, as though boys should be tougher than girls or are somehow less worthy of lots of attention and affection. But nothing feels nicer than being cared for and, as most parents would agree, there is something lovely about doing things for your children.

Late last night, just as I was getting ready for be I was called in to speak to S as he was really upset about going on camp. He asked K to get me so he could speak to me about how he was feeling.

I lay next to him as he cried and told me that the camp was too long, he did not want to be away from us and that he would miss us. I told him that it was okay to miss us and it was best to just acknowledge the feeling without letting it get too big. Then I said that if he looked at the fun things he was going to do and to remember that he would be with lots of his school friends seeing new things it would make it easier for him.

"I hate the feeling of missing you. It makes me sad," he said and started to cry again.

"Well, when you love and care for someone it is natural to miss them when they are not around. But it is important to not keep thinking of it all the time or it just gets worse. You can easily get yourself more upset than you need to be. Before long, you will be back on the bus and heading home. Make the most of the trip and don't worry if you have a few moments of feeling sad. That is natural," I replied.

He lay quietly for a while before he finally stopped crying.

"I'll just focus on the good things about the trip. It will be fun. We are going to the War Museum and a science place. I can spend some of my money there and buy some stuff to bring home. I wonder what to food will be like," he mused.

I reassured him that the food would be child friendly with the odd vegetable thrown in and that he was not to let me down and eat it. He started laughing.

I said to him that we would miss him but that as we knew he would be having a good time and was in safe hands it made it easier for us. He then said to me that he probably would not think too much about us when he was away as it would make him sad.

"Do you know why I don't think of you when I am at school? Because when I do it makes me sad and I miss you and want to be with you," he said.

"Yeah, I know that feeling. You just have to learn to live with those sorts of emotions and don't be scared of them. Just feel it and then get on with things. It just is how it is when you love people. Takes ages to get it worked out really," I was recalling what it was like when I was little. Did I think like that? Probably. All the growing up that has to be done.

He chatted a bit more about different things and then asked me if I had been out to the studio today. I replied that I had not.

"I went out there and did a drawing. Well, actually a tracing. It is not that good, but I enjoyed doing it," he told me.

"Do you like going out to the studio?" I asked. He often sits out there on his own for half and hour or so at a time and does a few drawings.

"I love it. It is my happy place. Do you know what a happy place is?" he asks.

"Well I guess that is where you go to just be with yourself'"

"It is where you go and nothing else matters. Where stuff from outside cannot get in and bother you. You can just be happy," he tells me. It is something they talk about at school. The importance of being able to find a place where you can relax and filter out the rubbish going on. I don't recall that sort of stuff being taught when I was at school!

The conversation ended with him telling me that he was fine and was ready to go to sleep. I kissed his soft, freckly cheeks and gave him a hug. He said he loved me, his little voice warm in my ear.

After I went to bed, it took me ages to get to sleep. It seemed that I was having trouble taking my own advice and lay awake thinking how much I would miss him.

This morning we dropped him off and said goodbye. The other few times we have dropped him off I have been happy to just leave him and not wave goodbye to the bus. This time K and I got into the car and started to drive home. I said I needed to wave him off and K turned the car around and we went back to the crowd of students.

"I needed to wave goodbye to you as you went off. It is a mum thing," I told S when he queried me as to why we came back. He was okay with that and went back to talking with his friends.

As they got on the bus, we crossed over the other side of the road so we could see him and wave goodbye. It took a few minutes to get the children settled and then the idling engine of the bus changed as the driver engaged the gears. S looked over at us and waved happily goodbye until we could not see his face anymore.

On the way back to the car I started to cry and then talked about something else to distract me.

I wonder where the bus is now?

Ciao
LC

Om

I went to my first yoga class this morning.

Having decided to no longer run due to the fact it hurts too much, I am heading towards the physical exercise of yoga.

It was a tough ninety minutes and I have to say that I would not like to have done it without being as fit as I am now. I was working hard the whole time with sweat dripping of my radish red face as I held each pose with knees trembling.

The room was small, the only sounds one could hear was the soft voice of the instructor, the odd creak of a bone and the heavy breathing. It was warm, dimly lit and the smell of feet and body odour was all around me.

Some of the people there were incredibly flexible. Even those who were in their 50's so I felt greatly inspired that one day I may be able to sit cross legged and put my forehead on the floor in front.

At the centre they also have Bikram yoga which is held in a hot room. I intend to do this class later this week.

As a result of my ninety minute bout of spiritual enlightenment today I did not feel like doing anything. In fact, I just hung around the house having cups of tea and reading.

I think a good night's sleep is well on the way.

Om.
LC

The War Museum

It has been a busy couple of weeks and I have not had the time, nor the urge to write anything. Or to do anything much actually. But today I woke up and felt normal again. Sometimes when you get a bit down, well, it can feel like a long time.

Whilst we were in London we went to the Imperial War Museum. I have always had an interest in the history of war. Not so much the political aspects of it (too depressing) but the personal side of war. When there is a war going on people still have to try to live normal lives and get on with things. People always seem to make the best of a most difficult situation - or they did appear to during WW1 and WW2. I may well be deluded by the stories that abound in history books and perhaps the old saying "never let the truth get in the way of a good story" is true, but the anecdotes that abound about the determination of people during the London Blitz always manage to fill me with wonder.

The museum has an impressive range of artillery in the form of suspended aeroplanes, a variety of tanks, mock submarine, jeeps and loads of military paraphernalia.

Although I am not a person who actually would ever own a gun (don't think anyone should really), I have always liked the look of them. Whether it be the smallest hand gun or some big thing like the one below, I just like the mechanical structure of them. It is a pity they do not do something else like make chocolate.

My dream car. A jeep. The word "useful" comes to mind when I look at this one.

One thing that S loved was the mock set up of what it would be like to fight in the trenches. Naturally you could never, ever convey the fear, the stink, the noise and the sensation of being surrounded by death. But the display that was done certainly gave an exciting visual idea of what it may be like. S went through the display a few times, once with the video camera to record his journey.

We spent hours at the museum. One of my favorite parts was the 1940's house that has been set up to show how the average home was during the war time. It met all my expectations of what a house should look like inside. In fact, I sometimes have an idle dream about buying a house that has not changed since that period and then continue to keep it looking that way.

I like the way that the practical needs of life are maintained whilst not compromising the need for a level of visual beauty. The style of the chairs, the exposed timber fittings, the smooth exterior of the radio all have a useful attractiveness about them.

I live in a 1920's house which we have kept fairly original. Most of the furniture is old, the interior has been painted green and the chances of a modern piece of furniture making it's way in is pretty slim. Not that I mind modern but I prefer the old style of old furniture that suits the age of my home.

This photo below is my dream kitchen. It is so personal. It implies that whoever is in here working would be a practical person. At work, we install kitchens in peoples houses that are so unbelievably overloaded with every gadget you can imagine that you wonder if they ever actually are able to get out of the kitchen to enjoy life. People will spend thousands of dollars on having the look. Never have we put a kitchen in a house that made me want to sit down and have a cup of tea in it. No warmth. All the kitchens we do have to be kept tidy to maintain that almost "office" type appearance.

This kitchen below looks inviting. I almost want to go and paint my kitchen cupboards cream - if I were not so lazy. I wonder if I could talk K into doing it for me......

People today always want changes. They cannot work with what they have and add to it or enhance it. In fact, about two years ago we put in a new kitchen at a client's home as part of a huge million dollar renovation we did for her. Six months later she sold the house and moved out. The new owners then pulled down everything we had done (I kid you not), including tossing the new kitchen down the tip (appliances and all). When a neighbour asked why they were doing that they told here they wanted their own style. The ironic thing is, it was not really their own style as the entire new design was done by an architect. Design, colour, furniture, lighting - all picked out by the architect whose work always looks the same.

I love, love, love the bedspreads on these two beds. If I could find one for a double bed I would buy it. Doesn't it make you want to lie on it and feel the smoothness of it. This bedroom is so cosy. It just oozes comfort despite being furnished with fairly cheap furniture.

Love the bathroom. In fact, our main bathroom which we renovated three years ago is very similar to this one. When we finished doing the renovation people kept asking us if the bathroom was original.

I only like pedestal basins. I hate vanity units for a very good reason. Years ago I had a part time job which involved packing people's belongings when they were moving house. People have loads of shit in their homes and it always comes to life when they move. I am not talking interesting stuff either. I am talking crap. Too many clothes, too many shoes, magazines, multiple dinner sets, enough glassware to run a wine bar and enough bedroom linen to run a hotel. But the place where the most rubbish was seemed to be in the bathroom. Whenever I opened the vast doors of some vanity cupboards I was always confronted with so much unnecessary stuff it shocked me.

Make up galore. Loads of used and unused make up, foundations, eye shadows, mascaras and lipsticks would be everywhere. Bottles of old perfume, sometimes twenty or more. Jars and jars of half used face cream that obviously had not delivered what was promised. Every conceivable hair shampoo, conditioner and hair product known that would have dwarfed my collection. Packets of half used leg wax, the sticky concoction on the sides and adhering itself to the shelf of the cupboard. It was gross and it was very, very smelly. It put me off for ever the idea of having a cupboard in a bathroom.

As a result, all I have is one cupboard that is behind the mirror. If what I own cannot fit in that cupboard I figure I don't need it.

We spent quite a few hours walking around and reading the information on hand. I was reminded how war continues and appears to be a constant in the history of the world.

People live and die within the structure of war and still do their best to maintain some sort of normality.

I guess we all need to make the best of things regardless of what chaos is going on around us.

Ciao

LC