I really like it when...

I really like it when…

I can actually find the receipt for something and I return it to the shop and get all my money back on my card.

Someone else replaced the toilet roll.

I finally sneeze when I felt it coming for ages and there were loads of false starts.

I take off my bra while watching telly without removing my top.

Someone sent me a text saying let's go for coffee.

It starts to rain and I actually have my umbrella at the bottom of my bag.

I get a seat on the Tube.

I try to book a table and they have one.

I get paid for work I have done.

I've washed up and wiped down and I'm about to sit down.

It's Friday.

I'm reading the paper.

We get the best table in the place.

I hug my children last thing at night.

I've just booked a holiday.

I put the key in my own front door.

A complete stranger smiles at me, but not in a creepy way.

I get into bed and turn out the light.

Someone makes a good joke. Preferably me.

There are only a few pages to go until the end of the book and it's book group tomorrow.

I open my eyes and realise it's Sunday and I don't have to get up.

I'm in the taxi on the way to the airport with all three lovely boys and my lovely husband and we are going on a snowy holiday for a whole week away from all this rain… 

Which is lucky because that is what will be happening tomorrow! 

Hooray!

See you when I get back.

Love E x

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Changes.

I'm hot, my bag is digging into my shoulder, and I have an arm laden down with clothes, but now I'm on the home straight purposefully striding for the sign marked 'fitting room' so it should all be over soon. 

Hopefully I'll be able to quickly find a pair of jeans like the ones I have already from this shop, ones that I love and that fit brilliantly.

There's a girl at the fitting room entrance. She eyes me suspiciously. "Only six garments allowed in the changing room", she says, by way of hello. 

I give her a significant look, a look which I hope conveys what I am thinking, which is: bloody rude girl. 

"How many items do you have?"

"I have no idea," I say, because I don't. I know I have lots of jeans and a couple of jumpers and a dress a grabbed at the last minute.

She leans toward me, pulling at the items slung over my heavy bag arm in order to count them. 

"There are six pairs of jeans," she says, "That's all you can take."

"Okay," I say, "Where can I leave these other things?"

"You can't leave them here. It's company policy, only six items."

"Yes," I say, "I understand it's only six items in the changing room but where can I leave these other things to try on in a minute?"

"This is what I am telling you!" says the girl, raising her voice so that her foreign accent is even more pronounced. 

She might be French, I think, she's certainly rude enough to be French, although this chain of shops is Spanish so I suppose she could be Spanish. She's dark haired anyway, and very pretty, which somehow makes her behaviour even more annoying.

"I can't leave the other things out here to try on in a minute?" I ask, incredulous. 

"No," says the girl, "Company Policy." 

I am about to complain at the sheer stupid bloody-mindedness of this crazy company policy when she suddenly and unexpectedly softens. "I can keep them for you here just for this one time, because we're not busy."

"Thank you," I say, before finding my own way to an empty changing room and doing battle with six pairs of jeans. I'm quick because I know what I'm looking for. Two pairs fit and four pairs don't. Great. Keeping on one of the pairs, I pop out of the changing room to swap those that don't fit for the other items… And you know what happened, don't you? Gone. Nothing there. Vanished. "Where are the things you were keeping for me?" I ask the rude girl.

"Oh, they must have gone," she shrugs. "Someone must have taken them back to the shop floor, I can't help that, this happens, it's because it's…" 

Yes, yes because it's Company Policy. Bloody stupid company policy.

"Well how can I try those things on now then?"

"You will have to find them again," says the girl.

"You mean I have to go back in there and get dressed and then go out and find where you have put them back in the shop?"

"Yes," says the rude girl.

I snap. "Do you know why I am in this shop?" I ask, without giving her a moment to reply, "I am trying to buy the clothes that you are selling here, and the sale of those clothes pays your wages, so it might be an idea if you help me buy some."

Another customer standing waiting at the fitting room entrance smiles at me by way of encouragement and I flounce off back to the changing room.

I see what I have become, oh yes, don't think I can't. And I know it's not pretty. I am stroppy middle class older woman throwing her weight around and being obnoxious. It's as if a camera on replay is playing the scene back to me right now, as I wrestle these jeans off and pull my dress back on over my head making my bad-hair-day-hair go even more static and uncontrollable than it was already. 

This is not particularly what I want to be but I recognise my destiny. I have morphed from cowering teenager, to semi-confident but at least I have youth on my side woman in her twenties, to happy in her own skin late thirties who still quite likes what she sees in the mirror, to this…  someone who, when she is forced to look at herself in a changing room mirror invariably thinks: gosh, I need a bit more sleep today, or some more make-up, or possibly both, but is gradually realising that neither solution is going to quite cut it from now on and yet nevertheless isn't going to lie down and accept defeat just yet (which is why she is in a shop for teenagers trying to buy jeans), or take no shit from no gorgeous stroppy young French/Spanish girl. Oh no.

And while I am having this revelation, here in this Zara changing room (I knew you knew it was Zara), I become aware that there is someone on the other side of the cubicle door saying 'Madam?' over and over again, and that they mean me.

"Yes?" I reply, trying to appear smiley and reasonable, all rather late in the day.

"I'm sorry, apparently you wanted a dress or something from the shop floor? Blue? With flowers?" 

It's a completely different, but very similar looking, young pretty foreign girl.

"Black and white," I say.

"Well I'm sorry," she says, in a manner that indicates she is not remotely sorry, "But it's gone back on the rails now and we have no idea which dress you mean and it's Company Policy that…"

My smile vanishes. Middle class stroppy woman is back. I interrupt. "What's your name?" I say.

"I'm sorry Madam but we're not allowed to give out our names, I'm just explaining that…"

"Yes," I say, "But I'm here to buy clothes, I'm not trying to be difficult or awkward or rude, I just want to buy some of the clothes that are on sale in this shop. Your policy is ridiculous. I will write to your head office and say so." And then I have an even better idea, "In fact I will tweet about how stupid this is and how rude you are, both you and that other girl, right now."

The second rude girl goes away and returns almost immediately with the black and white dress in question. "Is this it?" she asks, thrusting it at me.

"Yes it is," I say, with the wind well and truly taken out of my sails. So I try it on and it is much too tight.

But that is not the point.

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Dying for an apple.

So I'm sitting in a cafe with a friend chatting and drinking posh healthy fruit juice when suddenly my throat starts to close up and I can't breath. Pretty scary. They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away but not in my case. In fact quite the contrary. I just got back from seeing one as a result of the cafe incident and he's referred me to see even more of them in an allergy clinic, and given me two EpiPens.

It turns out I'm allergic to apples and perhaps pears too and possibly lots of other fruit besides, and it's not strange as you might think. Apparently oral allergy syndrome, or OAS, which is what this allergy is, is surprisingly common. In fact it's the most common food allergy in adults and is not a separate food allergy at all but a "cross-reactivity between distant remnants of tree or weed pollen still found in certain fruits and vegetables" (Wikipedia).

As with most sufferers I've eaten apples all my life without a problem, it's only been the last few years that I've noticed something odd. I would be cutting up the fruit for my boys in the evening as usual (it's the best way to ensure that they eat any, hand it to them on a plate, quite literally, while they are watching telly and they will absent mindedly stuff it all in) and afterwards I'd rub my eye, or touch my face, and one eye would flare up, all red and itchy and weird, usually just the one eye but sometimes both. 

I started washing apples before cutting them, thinking it might be pesticides on them, and became very careful not to touch my eyes or face afterwards, and it stopped happening. I forgot about it. But I didn't eat apples after that, not raw ones anyway. Sixth sense maybe?

Then I noticed that if I drank apple juice, proper posh juice made in a juicer with all the peel and the core and the pips and everything, my lips would blister. Normal apple juice from a carton would be fine, I can still drink that by the gallon without a problem, which just goes to show how processed it is I guess. But after drinking 'real' juice, with all the apple in it my lips became sore and red around the edges, like when you've been out in the cold and the wind too much. Very uncomfortable. So I switched to pear juice if I was out in one of those posh cafes where they offer lots of 'real' juice combos, and that seemed to be fine...

Until a couple of weeks ago when I was in a cafe with a friend and ordered my usual - pear with ginger and cranberry - and oh my word! Something really horrible happened very quickly, which is a characteristic of this allergy (and all allergies), a quick reaction and an escalation.

Immediately my throat started to close up, I was coughing, I was wheezing, I thought my throat might close all together and I wouldn't be able to swallow, which was scary. I went up to the counter to ask for a glass of water to wash the nasty feeling away, and found it hard to speak. I drank and drank and drank and the lovely friend I was with at the time dashed out to the chemist a few doors away to get some antihistamine tables. I took them, and slowly the feeling and the wheezing went away. But my throat carried on hurting after that for 24 hours, which worried me. 

Am I allergic to pear as well now? Could be, apparently the reaction can jump from one fruit to another, or start to embrace more and more. Or it could be that there was some residual apple left in the juicer, the staff at the cafe said it hadn't been rinsed between juices. But if I reacted like that to apple residue in the bottom of a juicer… blimey, that's a hell of a response to not very much apple.

When I got home I looked it up. It's all linked to hay fever apparently, which I also get nowadays, and in particular a reaction to tree pollen, Birch is one culprit. I had already worked out that I'm allergic to Birch pollen, my hay fever comes on in early spring at exactly the time the tree pollen is emerging. Apparently the immune system lumps it all together as one, and the reaction to certain fruits can be much worse when the victim is also suffering from hay fever.

Off I trotted to the doctor, who listened to my tale and told me that was a very serious reaction and could be even worse next time, apparently my throat really could completely close up. He referred me to the allergy clinic at the local hospital, and sent me away with two EpiPens. I'm to keep one with me all the times ready to jab the needle into my own thigh, taking care to administer the drug for a good 10 seconds, at the first sign of any trouble. Cripes!

From perusing my notes there on the screen in front of him the Doctor also reminded me that I'm allergic to latex, (how did I find this out? Suffice to say, pregnancy, internal exam, much discomfort that followed). Latex is, of course, another tree bi-product . So that's the pollen from trees, the fruit of some trees, and the milky glue-like liquid from yet more trees. Bit of a theme here. And the irony is that I love trees. 

Sadly they don't seem to love me.

Love E x 

Here's a thought - have some people always been allergic to apples? Does it go way back in history? What about Sleeping Beauty? She bites an apple, it sticks in her throat, she 'sleeps' for a hundred years. The story has it that the apple was poisoned but maybe she had OAS? Ha.

Guilt.

Mums are great at guilt. In fact women are great at guilt. Here are some things I am currently feel guilty about...

1. When Youngest says, "I know what we can do together this weekend! You can help me make a new stop frame animation and we can make the characters out of plasicine!" And my heart sinks because although I love the adorable little fella to distraction, I don't really want to spend the weekend making plasticine characters. (In the end I gave it a good half hour and then slunk off.)

2. Leaving the children to sit on their computers when they come home from school and not nagging them to get off them because I am having a lovely bit of peace and quiet downstairs in the kitchen reading the paper and drinking a cup of tea. Pretty similar to number 1 actually.

3. Not putting the clean washing away or pairing socks. It all sits in little piles waiting to go to the bedrooms. It's a permanent throbbing pile of guilt. 

4. Having a cleaner. In fact two cleaners. They are a Brazilian couple. This also makes me feel guilty about…

5. Being British and middle class and very fortunate to live in a lovely house and have a lovely family and friends and lovely holidays and all that blah, blah, blah.

6. Not doing maths homework with Youngest and leaving it for Husband to do with him when he gets in after a hard day at the office. Also similar to number 1 and 2.

7. Not opening post and filling in forms. I avoid it like the plague. There are piles of unopened bank statements and energy bills sitting on my desk, and some in the kitchen.

8. Spending money on myself. Especially at the hairdresser.

9. Not getting round to reading my book group book because I'm reading my own book, or the papers, or staring out of the window at birds/squirrels. 

10. Not ringing people or inviting them for dinner when we owe them. Mostly friends I haven't seen for ages and have left to drift away out of apathy, and if you happen to fall into this category and are reading this then I apologise profusely. I love you.

On the plus side I don't feel guilty about going out to work and leaving the children when they were little because I was lucky and didn't have to do that. And I don't feel guilty about food because I pretty much eat what I want (in moderation, obviously) and then try and exercise it off. And I don't feel guilty about my parents because I ring them all the time and know exactly what they are up to. And I do voluntary work in a school and went in twice this week. And I'm doing some paid work at the moment writing and directing some education videos so will be contributing to the family coffers...

Just don't tell husband that I snuck off to the cinema in the daytime yesterday with two mates to see Gravity (what a load of tosh) and that I'm meeting some more for lunch today. Quite soon. That makes me feel really, really guilty… 

So I'm just off to pair some socks.

Love E x

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Musings about age.

I am a week and two days older than I was when I wrote my last blog entry.

When I look in the mirror I simultaneously know that I look older, and know I look as young as I ever will do from now on.

When I bend down to pick things up I often find that there is a low grunting noise. Then I realise that I emitted it.

I forget what I went there for, and I am always putting my phone down somewhere in the house and losing it.

This week I am accompanying my eldest child to his first university interview. Actually I am here right now. This seems incredible.

I’m sure I break wind a great deal more than I used to.

My skin is drier. I’ve always had oily skin. Now I need to use hand cream for the first time.

Lately I have taken to staring out of the window at birds. I even put food out for them now and then shake my fist angrily at the squirrels that try to nick it. This is what my Grandparents used to do.

I think about my Grandparents a lot. Is this something to do with my age? I keep thinking about how I will never see them again and I wistfully remember my grandmother’s ice cream floats, and her watercolour paintings and her love or wearing purple and green. And I think about my Grandfather’s yellow knitted waistcoats and his penchant for bow ties and the way he kept his garden shed so neat and tidy. And I think about my other Grandmother and how she would have loved my new kitchen. I would like to show it to her.

Yesterday I went to the local shops to collect Youngest’s glasses from the optician, to get Eldest his student railcard from the station, and to buy food. I bought the food and got the form for the railcard and stood on the high street for a few minutes thinking, I’m sure there was something else. Nope. It’s gone. That must have been all. Then I came home and Youngest said, “Did you get my glasses, Mummy?”

Also lately I think about my past and my so-far-unmet ambitions and wonder whether any of it really matters anyway because we all end up wearing purple and watching birds and farting a lot.

And I think about Eldest about to go to university and begin his life out there in the big world and I think, time and tide waits for no man, and every single day we get older and so we may as well try and enjoy every single second we have left, Carpe Diem, in other words.

And then I get up from my desk to go downstairs to make a cup of tea and realise that I simultaneously farted and grunted, and when I get to the kitchen I’ve forgotten what I went there for and can’t find my phone.

Love E x

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A new year, a new list.

Do you make lists? I do one every night. I'm obsessed with lists. Lists for little things: 'ring Doctor, put clothes away'. And lists for big things: 'do CV to get more work, finish novel'...

So because it's the beginning of a new year I have a massive mega list at the moment, and the problem with this is that the bigger things tend to get overlooked by the smaller ones, don't you find? 

I have this little adage: 'just as soon as the house is clean and tidy I will sit down and write', and the problem with that is that the house is really only clean and tidy for about one hour a week on a Friday, and then I tend to flop on the sofa with a cup of tea, a huge pile of newspapers, an enormous sigh, and then instantly fall asleep. 

At the moment I have, 'use old toothbrush to clean grout between the floor tiles on bathroom floor' on my list. 

If Shirley Conran thought life was too short to stuff a mushroom then it's sure as hell too short to scrub a floor with a toothbrush, but I can't help myself, I really like a clean house, I would go so far as to say I LOVE a clean house, although I don't love the process of getting there.

I'm certainly not what the charming Godfrey Bloom would call a slut (you know, that UKIP buffoon), and maybe that's my problem, writing wise. Because it's my hunch, based on no evidence or research whatsoever, that Doris Lessing and Iris Murdoch and the like were massive sluts, in the Godfrey Bloom sense. 

So perhaps I should just accept that I'm more of a Margot Leadbetter than a Margaret Drabble and get on with rearranging the cushions, dropping Husband's shirts off at the launderette and bossing the cleaner?

Anyone know if there's a Rotary Club around here?

Love E x

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A Christmas Interlude.

I apologise to anyone who has been kindly clicking on the old blog over the Christmas period only to find it as empty and neglected as Ebenezer Scrooge's Christmas card list. 

I have been taking a small break, not deliberately, but because with Husband and three boys around all the time and all the festive comings and goings, together with the usual unending catering operation, I haven't had a single minute. 

So, normal service will resume on Monday next week and in the meantime I thought I could entertain you with a few more kitchen photos with explanation. Some kind people have been asking where things came from...

The lovely bespoke windows with bi-folding doors came from Express Bi-folding Doors, in Leeds...

The beautiful smoked oak wooden floor came from Waxed Floors in Clapham…

The vintage lights over the island came from Urban Cottage Industries… Urban Cottage Industries 

ditto the three little over-sink lights…

The vintage blue enamel lights over the table are reclaimed ship's lights and I got them from ebay and had them rewired…

The metro tiles are Valencia white from Fired Earth…

The inset wood-burning stove is a Swedish Contura i6 bought from a shop called Kindle in Twickenham...

The oak cabinets are from the freestanding Vermont range from Fired Earth…

I had the carpenter make the floating shelves from cheap 4 by 2 wood which we sanded down and stained to look old…

The island and sink run worktop is metal grey leathered granite, textured, from Marble City in Wandsworth…

The five island stools (new acquisitions!) are reclaimed from a school science lab, sanded and stained and also from ebay…

The table cloth, for until I get that fabulous new table (!), is from good old John Lewis…

Love E x

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