Doom

I can't escape it any longer, I have to bite the bullet, brace myself, gird my loins and just......give in. TANA are meeting tonight and, having avoided the last.....oooooh, nine meetings I've run out of excuses. So, at 7pm I shall be sitting in Frank and Marjorie's overstuffed, overly stuffy living room, surrounded by chintz and knick-knacks and bewildered neighbours. I've ensured that Jack Next Door, Ruby Over The Road and Jane Opposite will be suffering with me. Agenda items include summer outing, littering, parking issues and newsletter. If I stay awake long enough, I'll report back!

Big school

We’re going to have a walk round of Mac’s primary school on Friday 4 July. Mac is very excited and can’t wait for September to become a “big boy”. I’m wavering between elation that a) he got a place in the school we wanted and b) he’s finally able to leave the nursery that announces, a la PlaySchool, “ooh, children, look, this crayon is YE-LL-OWWW” and despair because my baby is growing up and he won’t need me soon. I’m sure every mother goes through this but I’m finding it particularly hard because I can remember my nursery and reception class days and my mum isn’t here to wallow with me.

On my first day at Consort Road Nursery (it’s now a clinic) I spent the first ten minutes hiding behind my mum, ignoring her suggestions that I go and “play with that little girl over there”. I was distraught when she left and, unbeknown to me at the time, she spent the entire morning sitting on the wall opposite the nursery. Crying. When she picked me up I said something along the lines of “I’m not going again mummy” and cried a fresh round of tears when she told me that I was. Obviously I grew to love it in time: overly diluted orange squash and a rich tea biscuit for break time, those little chairs that seemed so heavy and cumbersome to a four year old and that strange odour that can’t be explained but is mimicked in every teaching establishment in the country.

My primary school is now a housing development and they’ve attached a hideous yellow and steel thing next to it as a replacement. It’s not the same. I remember coveting and cherishing my own coat peg, casually announcing to family members that I’d had Numbers today in a weary voice (in pretty much the same way that I used to announce I had double maths followed by double history ten years later), moaning when the milk was warm instead of icy cold, colouring inside the lines of a picture and being given a gold star - girly swot that I was. 1977 was Jubilee Year and the school threw a party. I was dressed in a very flash (now classed as hideous) red, white and blue dress and, with the rest of my classmates, learned the words to God Save The Queen. Quite hard when you’re struggling with the three times table and “i before e, except after c”. We had a very enthusiastic band of Class Helpers: Mrs Norman, Mrs Coleman and Mrs Spencer. These angels kept the Reception class ticking over, wiped up tears, dabbed at cut knees and launched a full scale panic in the playground if it started raining. Watch this from Peter Kay (ignoring the obviously non-school setting) to explain why!

David has declared this a “rite of passage” and has booked the day off to come with us. This has rendered me tearful because he has acknowledged this monumental event in the life of our pride and joy. Although, as I heard him telling Auntie Ivy last night, “I’m not going so much for Mac but for Joanna – if only to carry the tissues”. He knows me so well!

What's in a name?

Lydia has copy of The Best Comprehensive Baby Name Book in the World (or whatever its called) and it's already well thumbed. "It gives me something to read during my lying down time" she said as she called me yesterday. From her supine position on her bed. "How many names have you got?" she asked me as I heard her flipping through pages and muttering something. I am a Joanna Constance Wealthy - first second name from my mum and my second second name from her mother. David has four - David James William Stanley. Mac is a Mackenzie James while Matt is Matthew James William. Lydia (Lydia Elizabeth Jayne to give her her full title) is in a quandry over names for The Bump. "It's going to have a double barrelled surname - Mitchell-Johnson - so I'm not sure whether to go long or short or one or two or more" she mused. She reverted to her maiden name during her first visit to her solicitor to discuss the divorce.

Some people think that it's pretentious to give their children more than one name. Some people think that to give them a name that can be shortened is "common". One of Mac's friends is called Joe and, when I asked his mother if he was really a Joseph, she gave me A Look. "His name is Joe, just Joe" she said, giving me the impression that I'd committed a cardinal sin.

Scarlett James Cassia Grace was born to Jane Elizabeth Mary Katherine Anne (Janey) and Darren. Just Darren. Auntie Ivy (Ivy Wealthy) believes that just having one name shows a lack of imagination. Uncle Jim, if Janey were a boy, wanted to name his child after the England football team. For the record, Jim is James Richard Albert Ian.

My sister Beatrice Matilda is married to Stephen Phillip Arthur Michael and are parents to Caitlin Matilda Regina and Ian Phillip Arthur. As their surname is St-John Sykes it's perhaps understandable that they spent ages in the vestry signing the register at their wedding. Bea almost divorced him immediately when she realised that his initials spelt "spam".

Lydia has a short list: Emma, Romy, Jessica, Fleur, Rebecca or Catriona for a girl and Jack, Daniel, Roman, Harvey or Andrew for a boy. "Or a mix of all of them" she adds, telling me that she wants a "strong" name. When I was telling David this morning, little ears were listening. Mac demanded that I ring Lyds (as he calls her) and suggest Hulk.

I think it has a ring to it, don't you?

Sell-by dates

I'm currently watching this on ITV1. When I say "watching" I'm using the term extremely loosely - when the presenter (the slightly scary Jonathan Maitland) unwrapped some chicken fillets that were six days past their sell by date and announced his intention to cook and eat them, his wife did what any sensible person would do and squealed loudly and refused him access to any of her saucepans.

I'm not saying that I throw food out the minute it's hit the sell by date because I don't. I've toasted bread that's days old, I've gingerly eaten a yoghurt that was a week past its date and my muffin and custard bake puts in an appearance if the out of date muffins and the mood to comfort eat synchronise effortlessly. I've eaten black bananas, nectarines and strawberries that have fizzed on my tongue, I've livened up limp celery and soft tomatoes by frightening them stiff and firm respectively with a bowl of iced water and I've cut the mouldy bits off a slice of bread and eaten the remains slathered in butter. Brought up in a house where the phrase "don't waste it!" was repeated on a daily basis, I don't.

The only thing I'm wary about is meat that tastes "cheesy". That is immediately binned amid much face pulling. This is down to the story that my mum used to tell about some mince that my Gran had cooked for the family on a Wednesday, reheated on the Thursday, put in the fridge only to be reheated and eaten on the Friday night. My gran brought up three children on little money and nothing was wasted. My mum used to recall (in graphic detail) the way her stomach churned as she, Ivy and Daisy forced down this mince because to refuse it was to incur their mothers wrath. An hour later Daisy was lying in a pool of sweat and mum and Ivy fighting over who was going to stick their head down the toilet first.

What makes this whole thing worse was the following week mum refused point blank to eat some pork sausages because they tasted "funny". Gran, Grandad, Ivy and Daisy found nothing wrong with them and told her to eat them. They weren't "right" and made mum so ill that she couldn't eat any form of pork for ten years. She used to tell me that one whiff of a pork sausage roll at a party used to send her screaming from the room - her teenage years were full of angst! And parties with pork sausage rolls.

Actually, I think I've got some muffins and a tin of custard in the cupboard ........

Birds, bees and birthdays

Mac arrived home from nursery on Tuesday with the dreaded bright yellow envelope. This is Nursery Communication with Parents at its very best – these special envelopes convey all kinds of messages, some good (your son has been selected as water monitor), some bad (your son has nits). Mostly they’re used to torture parents. The last bright yellow envelope I received informed me that, not only was I expected to attend the forthcoming Parents Day, I was to be given the responsibility of supplying all the mummies/daddies/guardians with the usual nursery fayre at times like this: polystyrene cups of warmish tea and stale biscuits.

This latest message was to advise all parents/guardians that Mac’s class would be participating in a “special” talk entitled “Where did I come from?” on Friday afternoon. Of course they’ve arranged this for a Friday afternoon – that way they don’t get all the questions and worried looks that follow things like this. It would be “tastefully done” and all worries and concerns would be addressed in “an open and adult way”. The children are just four. I was nine before I learnt that I didn’t just appear in a babygro in my mum’s arms and eleven before I found out the gruesome details. When Bea told me after her first biology lesson at secondary school I didn’t believe her and ran away yelling “eurgh, that’s horrible”. The letter went on to advise me that “all those unanswered questions about where babies come from will be dealt with”. Great. I really don’t fancy Mac sidling up to Lydia and saying “I know what you’ve been doing”.

Sex. It seems everyone’s at it. Or at least talking about it. I had the extreme misfortune of spending yesterday morning with Marjorie Stewart because she caught me as I was leaving for Bromley. “Where are you going?” she trilled, dressed from head to toe in cerise. “Shopping” I mumbled and put on my “boring old Sainsbury’s, nothing exciting” expression. She saw straight through me, I can’t lie. “Oh yes? Where?” “Bromley” I muttered, already opening up the passenger door for her.

I was determined to start my “Card and Present Box” buying in a good mood and tuned out her chatter about how Frank and his Viagra are doing well and that he’s packed enough for the weekend and how she’s packed all of her sexy underwear – “We don’t plan on seeing anything of the Isle of Wight at all!” – she giggled. While I was having a sneaky peek in Marks and Spencers Food Court and wondering if I could get away with just bulk buying their heavenly sandwiches and having a picnic tea Charlie rang to tell me that James the Gorgeous Cardiothoracic Surgeon With Audi and No Wedding Ring has invited her away to his “weekend place in the country” this very weekend and what did I think was a priority: seduce him into bed or seduce him into wanting to spend the rest of his life with her. I told her to play the long game and that leaping into bed with someone on what will be only their third date is a little promiscuous. She thought about it for a nano-second and said “Ah yes, but one romp with me and he’ll want to spend the rest of his life with me”. Sometimes I think my friends only ask me for my opinion so that they can convince themselves that they’re right.

I got home to find Lydia on the doorstep in a state of disarray. She fell into the house and headed straight for the biscuit tin. “I’ve just seen Mike” she mumbled through a chocolate hob nob. Lydia’s Nearly Ex Husband took it upon himself to congratulate her on her pregnancy by expressing amazement that she “could actually get up the duff at her age”. Lydia hit back with an ill-judged “well, it was obviously you that was faulty wasn’t it?” just as Susan came out of the house carrying Mike’s son. She shoved another hob nob into her mouth miserably. Although she’s not really showing that much (at the moment it looks like she’s just eaten a lot) but she’s taken to waddling like a duck and clutching her back. And refusing to lift anything heavier than a tea cup. After I’d lugged everything in from the car she helped me put everything neatly in the large wicker box I’d bought, going all gooey over the stuffed bears.

Feeling everso slightly smug I picked up the invitations that Mac has received. Nothing suitable for the birthday boys and girl in my brand spanking new Birthday Card and Present Box. Nothing, nada.

Best Friend Ben, who celebrates his birthday on Sunday with a barbecue in his spacious and newly landscaped garden, deserves more than what I’ve bought for the generic-just-stick-a-hand-in-and-grab-a-present Box. Miriam from Nursery is an organic, vegan, tie dyed little girl whose mummy doesn’t believe in “non educational toys”. I have nothing educational in this Box. Similarly for Jack, whose birthday is on the third of July but who is having his party on the last Saturday in June (which makes me shudder, I am extremely superstitious about celebrating birthdays before the actual day), is a real Boys Boy in that if he’s not dissecting a frog with his scientist father, he’s learning how rain is made or how electricity works or Higher Maths or Latin with his former University Professor Mother.

I don’t think he’s going to be happy with a Monster Trucks Top Trumps set do you?

Grumpy ol' me....

Well. The house wasn’t what I imagined. From the photos that David showed me on Friday night the place looked huge and airy with a daisy-strewn paddock and a hot tub. In reality it was poky and angular, the paddock about 20 foot by 20 foot and the attic bedroom would struggle to accommodate Junior Dog, let alone anyone else. “It’s certainly…..compact” David muttered as he nearly knocked himself out on a low beam as he came down the stairs. He was looking so despondent that I started to wax lyrical about the view. It was lovely – rolling fields, horses dotted picturesquely around….but it didn’t feel right. After another half an hour trying to convince ourselves that it really didn’t matter (it did) that we were closer to Chichester than Hastings we said farewell to the pretty little village and headed home in a rather dejected mood. We cheered up though after we’d had a paddle on Brighton beach.

And now I’m lethargic, in a grumpy mood and can’t be ars*d to do anything. Is this normal? I hear from Amelia that she is spending the weekend walking somewhere with her friend (I forget who and where, I was so happy to hear that she wouldn’t be descending Chez Moi that I didn’t register the rest of the call). The woman is in her late seventies and thinks nothing of donning sensible sturdy shoes and trudging round England’s green and pleasant land. Lydia, who is very much pregnant, is spending the weekend “doing the garden”. Janey is engaging in lengthy and plentiful bedroom raunch sessions in an attempt to remind Darren why he married her. Their wedding anniversary party is being planned meticulously as I type. And no, I’m not lifting a finger to help. Not more proof of my general “can’t be bothered” mood but borne out of the fact that I would just like to turn up at just one family event without having to organise the bloody thing.

Marjorie reported joyfully that she and Frank, influenced by my recent weekend away, are off to the Isle of Wight this weekend and plan to see “a lot of ceiling”. Saskia has lost a stone in weight since she started her new job – “It’s all that running around after stupid passengers” – and has hooked herself a pilot called Jeremy. “Only a budget airline pilot though” Bea said when she called by lunchtime to tell me that, should I need her on Saturday, she’ll be at Champneys. So not to bother her until Sunday. Even, she said darkly, in the event of an emergency.

The rest of my week is looking a little something like this: today an unprecedented midweek shop - Matt has eaten me out of house and home. Tomorrow I’m going to attempt to start a “Birthday Card and Present” box for Mac’s friends by going shopping for….things. Is it me or are there a lot more kids parties (all more extravagant than the last) knocking around just lately? Mac has invitations to three this month and I plan to start (!) being An Organised Mummy. On Thursday I am planning a Cooking Day and Friday will be spent cleaning the house from top to bottom.

I’m off to see Colin Fry at Catford Broadway on Saturday with Auntie Ivy, nothing strenuous there. Sunday will be spent having some “me” time as David and Matt are taking Mac to a cricket match and you know how they go on. Mac is suddenly “into” cricket having spent last Saturday with his cousin at Dulwich College in the slips. Or something like that anyway.

So, I am trying to be productive……it’s just that I’m not getting anywhere!

All shook up

"Now, don't get too excited, it might not amount to much. And don't say no right away, I know it's not exactly what you wanted but I'm sure you'll love it really. And there's no pressure....just.....well, just see how it goes"

There are worse things to hear when you're lying on and under pure Irish linen next to your beloved husband on a kingsize bed in the room that the Mandarin Oriental (and several Sheiks I am led to believe) know as the Courtyard Queen on a Friday night after a lovely afternoon being pummelled and brushed and steamed and then a lovely meal where each course was better than the last. But, as I struggled to take in what David was saying, I was at a loss to know what in fact could be worse.

I turned to face him, his face hopeful and at the same time filled with trepidation. I had the fleeting thought that he'd been talking at length to Frank and Marjorie and pulled the sheet up to my chin. "What do you mean?" I said, shimmying further across the bed. Away from him. Such a shame really - he was so excited by the size of the plasma television in the room and kept booming "the people are almost life size!" as he channel hopped whilst I lay flat out in a steaming hot, Molton Brown scented bath that I was really quite hopeful of, y'know, a good night.

"Well, I've been umming and aahing about actually telling you because I know that it's quite possibly not what you want but then I thought that, once you saw it, you'd want it." he smiled at me winningly. My fleeting thoughts were now distinctly on the dark side, especially as he was wriggling around in the bed and a little down to his left as if.....reaching for something.

I can't tell you my relief when he came up with a sheaf of papers and not the whip/handcuffs/PVC tape/battery powered item/blindfold that I had imagined. After several large lungfuls of air I felt quite dizzy but relaxed enough to release my vice-like grip on the Irish linen (really, it was so lovely). It turns out that he's found a house in a village in East Sussex and is worried that because it's more rural than seaside I wouldn't be interested. "It's affordable even though it needs some work on it - I've taken the day off on Monday and thought we'd go down to view it?" It looks gorgeous, amazing even, and I'm sure that anyone passing our room might have mistaken my squeals of joy because the house has got a paddock and an attic room for Mac for something far raunchier.

Bea was right: I packed for glamour and got it - one slightly famous actor who was checking out as we were checking in and chilled champagne whilst perusing a menu that made me drool.

Janey was right: my inner sex kitten turned up on Saturday evening and successfully kept the football at bay too.

Marjorie was right, after a fashion: I got so intoxicated on the champagne (and lightheaded thanks to Marlia and her magic massage skills) that I fell A over T as I stepped regally out into the spa reception. David picked me up and practically carried me back to the room. Laughing.

Lydia was right: we just WERE, the two of us, despite frequent calls home to check on Mac and the dogs. Bea informed me that Mac was in danger of forgetting us altogether, he was having such a good time with his cousins and Matt assured us that all three dogs had nearly eaten the jumbo sized bag of Bakers that I'd only bought the day before.

Oh, and the room service was excellent!