Things you shouldn't say out loud.

You need to be careful about the things you say out loud. I'll give you two examples.

One: 

On Saturday night Husband and I went out. I know! Very unusual. I think he doesn't dare object when I suggest something now and some talented musician friends of ours were playing at Kings Place, near Kings Cross, so we got tickets and went.  We had to meet up with our French friends first, who were visiting London for the weekend, and ended up having a very speedy drink with them in the cafe upstairs at The London Transport Museum but, as the Americans say, God bless 'em, that is a whole other story.

We arrived at Kings Place in the nick of time to see the 'band' who were playing before our friends. I say band but that's possibly giving you the wrong impression. They were the New Radiophonic Workshop and they were playing (and again that's possibly giving the wrong impression) in the dark. 

Their set consisted of a series of random sounds accompanied by a group of lightbulbs, suspended on strings on stage, which came on and off to the 'music'. To say it was challenging is an understatement. I was worried Husband would be cross with me for dragging him all the way across London to listen to a series of random noises with accompanying lightbulbs and that he would want to get up and leave but luckily he was fine about it, but only because he was asleep.

At the end of this performance, before our friends came on, a woman behind us said very loudly what those of us remaining in the audience were merely thinking: "I just can't believe how bad that was!" And then she said it again for good measure. 

Two: 

Afterwards we met up with our friends in the bar. I was introduced to someone I had been told a story about that has stuck in my mind like glue ever since, probably because it's about sex. This is the story -

Heartbroken woman is being pursued by male friend - the male friend in question being the man I was introduced to - but the girl is in pieces over a love affair that has just ended and can't contemplate starting another relationship and doesn't fancy this male friend anyway. Not one bit. But somehow he persuades her to go camping with him and while camping they somehow have the most amazing sex in a tent. It is so amazing that she immediately and completely falls in love with him - the man I am currently being introduced to - and they have been together ever since, in fact they are married, and she was there with him, smiling, a lot.

Good story eh? Actually it reminds me of another good getting-it-together story that involves a friend of mine who was also recently heartbroken (what is it with people who are recently heartbroken?) who went to a play and saw a handsome young actor up on stage and thought, 'oh my God, that is the man I must be with' and so wrote him a letter to say so, and then they went for a coffee and now they have four children. I love that story, both because it's improbable and romantic. The best sort.

Anyway, I digress, back to the couple in the tent. So, on Saturday night, after the challenging random noises and the lightbulbs in the dark and listening to our friends play (they were SO good, which was a blessed relief), I was introduced to aforementioned man and suddenly it all clicked and I remembered the story...

"Oh yes! I've heard all about you!" I say, and I am about to add, "You're the guy who gave that girl the amazing orgasm in the tent!" because I have just had two beers and a large glass of red wine in quick succession in a desperate attempt to forget all about the New Radiophonic Workshop. But, thank God, the edit fairy was actually on duty for a change and I didn't say that. I thought it, oh yes I thought it, but I merely said, "Yes! I remember all about you!" 

And so Orgasm Guy looks me straight in the eyes, holding my gaze with his piercing blue peepers for slightly longer than is strictly necessary and there is definitely, most definitely, a little twinkle in them. 

Well, there would be wouldn't there.

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Kitchen news: fallen in love with Fired Earth kitchen. Probably can't afford it.

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Neighbours from hell.

"You won't get anywhere shouting your head off," I say to Eldest, "that would make us as bad as they are and will only antagonise them." He wants to scream at the people in the garden backing onto ours, the people who have kindly wedged their stereo speaker into their window in order to blast House FM straight at us. 

At least it feels as if it's straight at us because we are directly behind them but it's nothing personal, they are also kindly blasting House FM into ALL the gardens in the vicinity, spoiling the day for loads of other families as well. 

These wonderful and considerate people (I'm using my sarcastic voice here) live in the middle flat of the large house behind us. They have a piece of garden to which they don't have direct access because it's beyond the garden belonging to the ground floor flat. 

The volume is unbelievable and it's not the first time they've done this, they did it last Sunday as well. It was so bad that Youngest ended up in tears and we all came in from the garden, shut the doors, and Husband and I took a trip to the Council dump via a beer joint on the way back to drown our sorrows. Now it's bank holiday Monday, a lovely day, and we are out on the decking contemplating having a barbecue later on. 

Right, I think, time to nip this in the bud. I pop my head over the fence and smile. Eye contact, eye contact! And be nice!

"Hi!" I say. They look up at me. He has a pinched little weather-worn face, shaved head, no shirt, tattoos. She is wearing a strapless boob tube dress straining across her lumpen form. And if that sounds snooty I don't care, it's true.

"Any chance you could turn that down a bit?" I chirp, when really I want to say, "Any chance you could turn that off and we could all sit in peace in our pretty gardens in this beautiful sunshine and listen to the birds?" But I don't dare do this.

"Oh!" Exclaims Boobtube Woman, "Is it too loud? We weren't sure." And they look at each other. 

Was that a smirk? Are they taking the piss? They turn the volume down. But not much. We can still hear every beat and, worse, every single word the DJ says (he's hot, he might have to pour a whole bottle of water over his head in a minute, he's got a great line up of House music for us for the whole afternoon! Radio 4 this is not). We all go in the house.

Husband and I have row. I think he should say or do something. He thinks I'm over-reacting but really he just doesn't want the hassle. 

Youngest says he can't go on the trampoline because their music is too loud (Middle Class problem!) and goes off crying. 

Eldest goes to play his guitar in his bedroom at the front of the house where he can't hear the racket.

Middle One goes out, to Herne Hill, to play his guitar with his band, thank God, because he is the one who gets the most incensed by it all. 

I contact the council.

To my amazement someone at the noise abatement department actually answers the phone. He rings me back within the hour and then he sends two very nice people round to the house. These two very nice people quickly agree that the noise nuisance is out of order and say they will send a letter. Result!

Unfortunately two teenage boys do not agree that this is a result. They do not think letters are the answer to very much at all and by the time we all go back outside again in the late afternoon to start the barbecue, and the music is still blasting far and wide across the gardens for miles around, they are beside themselves. 

Middle One wants to set up his amp on the decking and play Jimi Hendrix "turned up to 11". He is as enraged by their choice of music as he is by how inconsiderate it is. I try to persuade him that if he does this we will be as bad as they are, but teenagers don't appreciate this kind of logic. 

Eldest is just as bad. He wants to shout/kick the fence/throw a rock/swear at them/blast music back at high volume. Again, I tell him this is NOT the answer.

We all end up bickering about what we should do, then we stand on the bench at the back fence and look over. There's nobody there. They have gone back in their flat leaving the music blaring out of the window. We feel like Gromit in The Wrong Trousers when he finds the evil Penguin wasn't in the house playing terrible lift music all evening after all.

All of a sudden someone shouts: "SHUT THE F*** UP!" at the top of his voice. It's Eldest. The music very briefly gets louder and then is switched off. Completely. For good.

"You see!" says Eldest triumphantly, "why didn't you just let me do that in the first place?" And I have to concede that he has a point. Trouble is now Boobtube Woman and Tattoo Man will be getting that arsey letter from the Council as well. 

Think we might have to lie low for a while...

View of our garden from office window with the offending house behind to the right.

Kitchen news: Two appointments with kitchen designers this week so far, two more organised for next week. Went to Grand Designs Live! by myself last weekend, which was two parts hell to one part useful and have started a Pinterest board! 

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If I were a man, I would get so much sex.

If I were a man, I would get so much sex. That's what I pitched to a newspaper this week. I'm not going to say which one but perhaps you can work it out for yourself: tabloid, right leaning, has popular women's section. 

Surprise, surprise they went for it. Funny that. If you want to work as a freelance feature writer for the national press, I'll give you a top tip: put the word sex in the subject bar. Works every time. Problem is, of course, that you then have to WRITE about sex. Ah! So, how much do you want to give away? There's the rub.

So, the crux of my feature was a survey out last week that said 10.30 pm on a Saturday night is the time most couples say "I love you" to each other. 

Again, funny that. I wonder why that could be? Precursor to something perhaps? Which reminds me, I once read in some other unreliable newspaper survey that the most common time for couples to have sex is a Saturday night after Match of the Day, in bed, with the lights out. But I am going back a few years here.

Anyway, this same survey, the one just out, revealed that many men NEVER tell their wives or partners that they love them, either because they think they should know already or because they do stuff around the house to help out and think that should suffice. 

This got me thinking. And by the way that's my second top tip for if you want to work as a feature writer for the national press: read the national press, a lot, and then sit down and do some thinking. It's harder than it sounds.

So I pitched an idea. It's easy, I wrote, if I were a man I would be able to get as much sex as I wanted because all you have to do is follow ten simple tips and Hey Presto! Bob's your live-in lover, or rather, your lover is your live-in lover. 

1, Look her in the eye, A LOT, but particularly when she is talking to you about her day and how that woman in Sainsbury's (or Waitrose, depending on your demographic) pissed her off. 

2, Make remarks to indicate that you are listening. A simple 'Uhu' now and then will suffice. 

3, Always notice what she is wearing, especially if it is new, and always say it looks great. ALWAYS. 

4, Ditto hair. Notice that is has been coloured/cut/blow dried/shaved off. 

5. Talk to her about her feelings. And your own feelings. And everybody's feelings. A LOT.

6, Combine this with trying and stay awake on a Saturday night long enough to say the regulation, "I love you" at 10.30 pm before... Well, you know what before.

7, This bit is crucial, you MUST actually stay awake on a Saturday night long enough to actually have sex.

8, Say, "I love you", be romantic, do big gestures, book tables for dinner and weekends away. Notes on the pillow telling her you think she's beautiful would be good. That's a free special tip from me that will GUARANTEE sex, I promise. I know it sounds cheesy, but really, we are THAT easy.

9, Buy exciting and personal presents (nothing for the house and certainly NOT for the kitchen, unless it's a Kitchen Aid) for every single birthday/anniversary/Valentine or, best of all, for no reason at all. 

10, Do not think that unloading the dishwasher or hanging up a bit of washing is a substitute for any of the above because although very nice and much appreciated YOU SHOULD BE DOING THIS ANYWAY. 

A bit of all of the above - as listed - combined with trying not to fart in her presence ALL THE BLOODY TIME and picking up your dirty pants will work an absolute treat. Really, it's not Rocket Science.

And don't come telling me I'm being sexist and why shouldn't men get any of the same treatment because men don't need any of the same treatment, they just want IT. Full stop. They are almost always in a state of high alert looking for a bit of action. Unless they are ill. They don't even mind farting. Honest. Well, not in my experience anyway.

That was my pitch. An absolute gem. How many other women might relate to this and give me some juicy/funny anecdotes to go in the piece? (anonymously of course). Loads! 

For example, I remember a girlfriend (not that sort) telling me that the way into a woman's knickers is through her head. Sounds nasty, but I knew exactly what she meant, and she wasn't being anatomical. (Just to clarify, she meant that women like to be wooed into bed.) 

Another friend told me that she always knows when her husband is after a bit because he suddenly and uncharacteristically asks, "So, how was your day?" before bedtime.

Conversely all men need is; "So how about it big boy?" and then they're off. Actually, who am I kidding? They don't even need that.

Sadly, after a discussion with a lovely editor at this national tabloid newspaper with a right leaning and popular woman's section, that shall remain nameless, I had to turn the work away because she (or rather 'him', upstairs, the overall dreaded EDITOR) wanted it to be about my own experience ONLY. In other words, he wanted it to be a piece in which I slagged off my husband.

No, I said. This is a piece about EVERYWOMAN. I want to write GENERALISATIONS about how most women feel about sex and love and relationships: that for women - most women - sex is part of a package involving intimacy, a feeling of connection, appreciation and being told they are loved once in a while, hence the survey. That was my angle. 

I was happy to write about myself a bit, to kick off, and then include lots of lovely funny anecdotes from other women - and maybe some men too, and top tips.

But no, they wanted it to be entirely personal, so I turned it down. I had to, didn't I? Bye bye work. Bye bye money. Not a good feeling. But I did the right thing. And not for the first time, damn it.

I did do the right thing, yes? I mean, I love my husband and he's a good man and I know it sounds like I'm saying that HE doesn't do these any of these things, as above, the romancing and the complimenting etc, but he tries his best, as I guess do most men, so I'm not going to write something that sounds like a massive whinge about him. I'm just not.

So, here is my third and final top tip about being a freelance feature writer for the national press: DON'T DO IT. 

Just put it all in your blog instead.

Comments please! On the blog. On twitter. On the Facebook page.

P.S. And for those of you on tenterhooks for news of the kitchen, I think I just may have found the builder - hooray!

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Happiness.

"What makes you happy?" I asked a good friend of mine recently, "You know, really happy?" and without missing a beat she said, "I think you can't beat a nice cup of tea." That made me laugh, but she has a point. 

What are we constantly striving for when you can achieve unalloyed pleasure just by sitting down (and the sitting down bit is crucial) and having a nice cup of tea? I think Victoria Wood said a similar thing on the telly last week and it was in the papers only the other day that it's still the nation's favourite drink. 

It got me thinking about other simple pleasures because it's not just having a cup of tea but lots of little things that begin to take on new meaning as you get older. At least, I think it's because of getting older. Take spring, for example. 

I know the winter we have just struggled though has been unprecedentedly long, but still, I don't remember leaf bud and blossom ever causing me quite this level of heart-swelling rapture before. Maybe it always has and I just don't remember but I think there might be something particularly springy about this particular spring. 

It's so beautiful at the moment (I wrote this bit on Thursday evening by the way) that I'm even willing to forgive it the attendant hay fever it has so kindly brought along to the party (and can I just add that acute hay fever does not sit well with a middle-aged mother of three who has a weakened pelvic floor, that's all I'm saying, work it out for yourself).

I recall that famous interview with Dennis Potter just before he died, as he alternately sipped morphine and dragged on his I-have-nothing-to-lose-now-cigarette, in which he said that the blossom outside his office window that year was the blossomiest blossom he had ever seen; the point being that he knew he was never going to see any again. 

I think some of us feel a teeny tiny bit like that this year: we really were worried for a moment there that it might never come back. 

And then I thought of something else that makes me happy, apart from blossom, a nice cup of tea and family and friends, of course, and that's work. Bit of a shock that. 

Unfortunately the Nazis rudely stole the dictum 'work sets you free' to use in lieu of a welcome mat above the entrance to concentration camps so its original meaning is entirely disfigured by their extraordinary evil and I will have to apologise for using it, but the whole time I had my nose to the grindstone, working on a little film project over the last few weeks, it kept coming to mind. Maybe a better line is: 'happiness is the completion of achievable tasks'? (I've definitely read that somewhere) but it's much less snappy.

Work per se obviously won't set you free if it's back-breaking grind for little or no pay but work that is meaningful, creative, well-paid, that you can see through to completion and has a sense of satisfaction and achievement attached, not to say decent money, this is a wonderful thing. Another reason why it's just so damn criminal to have more than a million unemployed 16 to 25 year olds in Britain at the moment. 

Maybe you knew all about the joys of work already, I guess I did too up to a point, certainly writing has always made me happy or I wouldn't do so much of it for nothing (like blogging) and I'm always happy writing articles for newspapers, despite the fact that it pays so badly, and I was never happier than when I was writing a novel last year...

Ah yes! When writing the novel whole mornings, afternoons, evening slipped away unnoticed beneath my tapping finger tips and that's it, isn't it? Finding that time has passed without realising it, whole chunks of time, that's the hallmark of satisfying work. It means you're so absorbed, you are completely 'taken out of yourself'. No bad thing in my book.

Anyway, being asked to make a short three-minute film by a friend who runs a small production company recently, that was a whole different animal. Here was a task requiring a range of skills from coming up with a concept, researching and writing and interviewing, choosing music and over-seeing the edit and design and execution, most of it from home and all of it for money. Why, forget writing for newspapers! I thought, this is the Holy Grail! Needless to say, I loved every minute of that work, even if it was about a rather unglamorous subject.

Now that it's finished I fear there won't be any more like it for some time, or even ever. Was that my last blossom, I'm wondering? I hope not, but just in case it was I have attached a Vimeo link to the film at the top of the blog on the right, so you can watch it if you want...
  
                                 

P.S. And with regard to the kitchen, I saw a guy last week who did a lovely design and the structural surveyor came round on Saturday to go through ALL the (yawn) details about load bearing, steels and bricks (when all I could think about was wallpaper) and we have asked three builders to provide a detailed breakdown of costs.  So, it's onwards and upwards, dear reader.

See you next week...

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A wet sock.

So, I'm sorting through my huge brown handbag in the kitchen when we get back from the Isle of Wight, as you do, (Orla Kiely handbag by the way, bought it when I got some filming work last year, excuse was: need a bag big enough for a clipboard)...

And I have my arm knee-deep in Cafe Nero napkins (napkins or serviettes? which one is naff? I think it's serviettes) from when I took a massive handful of them at the ferry port because we all had hot chocolates in the car while we were waiting (and you know what happens with boys and hot chocolates in the car, don't you?)...

And all the pens and anti-bacterial gel in there (never can be too careful) and loose change and an old lip stick and 'feminine requisites' (okay, well, I'm just telling it like it really is) and I find this nasty blue plastic bag down at the bottom... 

What the hell is this nasty blue plastic bag doing down here at the bottom of my lovely big Orla Kiely bag? I think, (because I really can't remember anything nowadays)...

And so I open the nasty blue plastic bag and there inside it is a soaking wet sock. A small one. 

Ah yes!

All of a sudden I am transported, like Joanna Lumley in that old Nescafe ad when she takes that piece of straw from her jumper and remembers how it got there (roll in hay with sexy man), remember? Or was it Mellow Birds? Anyway, finding nasty wet sock in the bottom of my handbag has exactly the same effect on me: it makes me remember. Not a roll in the hay though, sadly, more a child in a puddle...

We were having a lovely walk, from the Botanical Gardens in Ventnor along the coastal path to the town, lots of up and then down, which I like to do all in one go without stopping - up, up, up the slope or the steps or whatever until you feel the burn in your bum and your chest starts to constrict and it hurts so much and you're in pain but yes! yes! yes! it's doing you good, you know it is, and you must be burning fat and you think you're going to die and then... oh thank God for that you've made it all the way to the top! Where there's another massive set of steps...

And the boys were running ahead, well, two of them were because Eldest had stayed behind that time, back at the cool pad we had rented, the one with the WiFi and the Sky Box and the table football and his laptop, in order to 'revise'...

And we had to keep stopping and waiting for the boys as they took detours up a slope or to roll down a grassy knoll, or, at this particular point for a dainty navigation across some stepping stones on a pond that ran into a stream that ran into the sea...

And it was all so pretty and fresh and sea-sidey-get-away-from-it-all-idyllic really and then Middle One put his massive size 10 wellies, which go very high up his leg, into the pond and Youngest started to copy, to do the same as his brother, except his wellies are not high at all because they are tiny size 1's and so Husband and I both shouted in unison: "No!" but it was too late and we watched, helpless, as the welly momentarily disappeared and lots and lots and lots of freezing cold water gushed in all over the top...

So, I pulled sloshing welly off the boy, tipped out the bath full of water in there, took the spare socks out of rucksack (oh yes! I am THAT sort of mother), used a plastic bag we happened to have with us as a sort of long sock up his leg to keep the sodden trousers away from his skin, put the fresh socks on his feet, used another nasty blue plastic bag I found in the rucksack to put the wet sock in and then, later, put the nasty blue plastic bag with the wet sock in my Orla Kiely handbag when I got back to the car. And then forgot all about it for three days... 

Voila! Blue plastic bag with wet sock explained.

Apart from that it was a really wonderful little family break. We went back to a very special place we used to stay when the boys were little: a nature reserve. They ran ahead down the path just like they used to when they were small...

Later, I lay in bed that night and just before dropping off to sleep, going over the day's events in my head, as you do, I remembered exactly what they had looked like when they ran down that very same path all those years ago... Remembered it perfectly... In every detail... Until it hurt...

So, that memory of the boys on the path, that memory of the walk to Ventnor jogged by the sock, even those Cafe Nero napkins, they are all things we collect along the way, aren't they? Some we manage to hold on to forever, like my little boys running ahead on that path, which I will always have, and some we lose, like those napkins and that sock, which I just threw away.

The boys on the Isle of Wight - quite  a few years ago.

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A brief interlude.

There will now be a brief interlude while we go away on holiday to the sunny Isle of Wight (ha!) for four nights. 

It's our first family hols since Crete in August last year. Looking forward to walking on the beach, reading my book, playing board games in front of a roaring log fire and nodding off after drinking lots of prosecco.

Keep watching coz if I get the energy I might blog from there - if not see you next week.

Bye!

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The back bedroom.

I've been kicked out of my office by my children. I've set up camp in the back bedroom with my new glorious 27 inch iMac, bought expressly for the work I'm doing at the moment (an animation, about bedsores, and if you don't know what I'm on about please get with the programme). I've also bought a pretty little Edwardian desk, from local arty furniture shop called Quirky Dovetail, and a cute cream retro lamp from John Lewis and so it's really quite cosy back here.

Okay, so I would prefer to still be in my office where it's warmer and where I have all my files and the phone and a comfy chair and a nicer view out of the window but really, who am I kidding? I'm only being paid to do this work, whereas the children have important things to do when they get home from school. Like play Eric Johnson really loudly while strumming along on electric guitar, or filming themselves dancing Gangnam style dressed as a penguin and then posting it on YouTube.

To be honest I've made my new little corner of the guest room so pleasing that I almost don't mind. The only problem is that I don't have an office chair yet. I've ordered one, in hot pink, and in the meantime I've had to pile a load of towels on top of one another on a low wicker chair and it's not at all comfortable.

Look -

Why have I allowed this to happen? Well, it's either because ...

a.) I am soft.

b.) I am stupid.

c.) I am following the path of least resistance as usual.

d.) I am highly pragmatic and sensible.

Or possibly a combination of all of the above.

The thing is that the younger two boys go straight into the office when they get home from school and commandeer both desks and both computers. I shouldn't let them, I know. I do know. It's all wrong. But it's anything for a quiet life.

Youngest sits at my desk - MY DESK - getting his sticky paws all over my papers, knocking my things onto the floor, spilling chocolate Nesquik everywhere and basically I let it happen.

Middle One says: so don't let him sit there at your desk if you don't like it! 

But he can talk because he's over on the other desk, notionally Husband's desk, with his feet up and his guitar on his lap, playing along to Stevie Ray Vaughan, or some such, at top volume so that even if I did get Youngest out of there, there would still be his racket to contend with.

What's the answer? I don't know. We can't be the only ones with this problem: children hogging all the technology and the best spots in the house. Suggestions on a postcard please...

Shouldn't allow it, I suppose. They shouldn't be on the computers so much. But really, it doesn't seem ALL THAT terrible that Middle One wants to play music, while idly chatting to his friends on Facebook when he gets home. Where's the harm? 

I don't want to come over all Luddite about it. I mean, how different is that from the Good Old Days when I came home from school and slumped in front of Blue Peter and then rang up my mates to gossip about the day's events?

I could put a computer in his room, I suppose, so he could do the same up there instead of in my office. But his room is on the top floor, another floor up from the office and two floors up from the kitchen and living room, and I don't really want him all alone up there where I can't keep an eye on what he's up to. So I put up with it. 

Mostly I can work with the music on. When I'm writing I just blank it out, but I can't listen to audio files and work on an animation or take phone calls with blaring electric guitar in the background. And believe me, I've tried. So I've moved out.


I'm sure a child psychologist would have a field day about the dynamic in our household. The balance of power is all wrong, she would say. I've interviewed a few in my time, for articles, and they always come up with that sort of thing: children shouldn't rule the roost, blah, blah.

I remember when the health visitor came round shortly after Eldest was born and we weren't getting any sleep because we had him in our bed every night, breast fed on demand of course, and were totally beside ourselves, and she sat on our sofa in the living room and sighed. He's the one in charge here, isn't he? she said. 

OF COURSE HE'S THE ONE IN BLOODY CHARGE! I thought to myself. HE'S THE BLOODY CENTRE OF OUR BLOODY UNIVERSE. YOU TWIT.

And that's it, isn't it. He still is. They all are - all three of them. That's why I'm in the back bedroom and they are in my office.

Excuse me while I just re-arrange these very uncomfortable towels...

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