12 Months On

As I set out for an afternoon walk today wearing more layers in the middle of an English summer than I wore during an entire Californian winter, I realised it is nearly a year since we returned to the UK.

Do I feel acclimitized? It took at least two to become acclimated to that alien American culture, but now I find those old US habits die hard.

 An ambulance came blasting down the opposite side of the road earlier this week and what did I do? I pulled in and stopped. The cars behind me all drove on bewildered. In the US, everything stops for a fire engine, police car or ambulance. Quite simply whatever direction you are going in; as soon as you hear that siren you get out of the way, dual carriage way or not.

The teenager is also struggling with UK driving customs – namely the gear stick and those darned roundabouts.  She remains terrified of our tight tiny roads, mastering oncoming traffic around parked cars, and the wonder of a three, five or seven point turn. In our part of LA even the most suburban of roads were wide enough for an uninterrupted U turn.

I am finally learning to respond with a simple I’m fine or I’m well, rather than an enthusiastic ‘good’ when asked how I am, but I wouldn’t dream of making a salad without fruit. 

I admit, uncovering a grapefruit segment under the lettuce leaves did take a bit of getting used to when we arrived in the US but now any salad I make will always include at least an avocado, an apple, and dried fruit, and well as liberal dashings of raspberry vinaigrette, which I was so hopeful of finding here, but alas, has to be imported via the other half’s business trips to the US.

Whenever he got the chance to travel back to the UK from Pasadena I used to think, lucky him. Now he’s visiting Pasadena and I’m stuck here in June with a jacket and my socks on, and I think, once again, oh lucky him.

Still, it’s not all bad, UK TV beats US TV hands down. We arrived home last year in the middle of the Great British Bake-off and it was the highlight of our return. We’d missed the previous two series, I had no idea who Paul Hollywood was and as far as I was concerned Mary Berry was someone who wrote history books about making cakes. I had no idea she was still alive.

It’s interesting to see that now Mr Hollywood has been seduced by that Californian sunshine himself and has been lured across the Atlantic to make a US version of the show. That’ll never work. I’ve seen those cut-throat culinary contests over there and trust me, US contestants won’t be stopping to console each other as a baking tray of biscuits slides to the floor. 

And as for the scandal that surrounds the lovely Paul himself, he’ll have found it very hard to resist the gushing flattery from those US TV executives. He’ll have had his ego boosted no end because Americans are very good at telling you exactly what they think you want to hear, and he’ll have been told over and over again that he is quite literally the best thing since sliced bread. They’ll love his accent, he’ll constantly be told he’s cute, and totally awesome, and of course, he’ll be a novelty act. A middle aged man on US TV who doesn’t dye his hair. 

It will be interesting to see when the new series of GBBO starts over here in a few weeks’ time whether he has succumbed to LA vanity and his hair is actually now a slightly darker shade of a grey.....

Chelsea

One of our grand plans when we returned to the UK was to get out more.  This idea has been somewhat thwarted by the other half’s job re-location to Saudi, and while as an independent modern woman I am more than happy to do a lot of things on my own, sometimes it’s nice to have a bit of company.

Last year for my birthday daughter no 1 promised me tickets to this year’s Chelsea Flower Show.  The dates for Chelsea coincided with her graduation show so every effort was made to ensure the husband was home – and after an extended eight week stay in Saudi, he was.

We set off in great excitement.  The worse thing about living abroad for a few years is you forget just how bad a British summer can be.  You look back through rose tinted spectacles to barbeques that never really happened and days sat in deck chairs that in reality were nothing more than a five minute break with the cardigan off

I don’t think we could have picked a worse day to go to Chelsea. Friday afternoon, 9 degrees. I didn’t just need boots and a coat, I needed a hat, gloves and a scarf.

As we walked towards the Royal Hospital grounds we passed a wasteland of abandoned umbrellas. The show itself was awash with plastic ponchos, the grand pavilion full of bedraggled gardening enthusiasts, by nature a hardy lot, desperately trying to get out of the rain.

We saw all the show gardens – our tickets were for evening entry after the coach and day trippers had left for home and the crowd had thinned out.  We also saw Alan Titchmarsh – several times, in fact I think he was probably stalking us.  At least I now know where my licence fee goes – exactly how many lighting/camera/sound technicians does it take to make a TV programme? Far too many!

The carefully crafted and created displays were stunning and highly inventive.  I was pleased to see many of the gardens carried a cottage garden theme, in the planting if not in the rather structured design.  I felt rather chuffed that I too had planted aquilegia’s (columbines) in my own garden, as these really did seem to the flower of the show.

Stands and stalls were full of arty ideas for your garden, sculptures, ornaments, wonderful wicker furniture that to be honest, in this climate, no one is ever going to sit on unless it is permanently placed in doors.

After the show we decided not to head back to our B&B (or as we later discovered B & make your own B) to get changed, but headed straight for Sloane Square and the first restaurant we saw that looked like it had tables free.  Half an hour wait? Didn’t mind at all, as long as we could wait in the dry and in warm.

Bonding

The reason I haven’t written any new posts for a few weeks is not because I haven’t done anything to write about, but because of the gym thing –  something had to give. I was hoping it was going to be the housework but alas it appears to have been my creativity.

I've been busy, I've done loads I could have written about but no witty words have sprung to mind. I have swam lengths hoping for inspiration, I have pounded the treadmill and even my usual strolls along the river have failed to produce any literary greats. So I gave it a break.

Time is moving on and it is nearly a whole year since our return from the US. Do I miss that Californian sun?Just a tad.

The teenager has commenced her study leave for AS levels and I realise she is coming to the end of her first year of UK education.   She is learning to drive – yet again – and apparently managing well with the complications of a clutch and a stick shift, and tiny, winding narrow roads.  Teaching the teenager to drive in the US was a great mother and daughter bonding moment - but I'm not sure it would work that well over here. I've decided to let a professional driving instructor have that pleasure instead. 

Taking the teenager to the stage show of the Full Monty was a fun evening out and also good for bonding.  The bar tills malfunctioned in the interval and we had to gulp our glasses of wine down very quickly before returning to our seats but I think that only added to the overall experience. We also went shopping and to my great delight, now that the teenager is a working girl with money of her own, she actually  turned her back on the Jack Wills sweatpants with a comment of ‘I can buy those for half the price in H&M’. Exactly what I had been telling her for years.

We've decided we could also bond over the new Great Gatsby movie - it is one of my all time favourite books along with Tender is the Night. The teenager loves them both too, but will we be disappointed? Robert Redford will always be my Gatsby and I'm not so sure about Leonardo Dicaprico (who incidentally comes ahead of Leonardo di Vinci when I googled his name to correct the spelling - a sad sign of these shallow Hollywood times we live in.)

The arrival of the university prospectuses has also provided more bonding.  I hadn't realised that booking appointments for Open Days was such a competitive process - we have apparently left it 'quite late' and lots of  advertised talks and tours are already full. How can people be so organised?  I am starting to feel like an inadequate parent and need to get my super-school-mom uniform back on.  I need to FOCUS.  At the end of June we now have two early morning 6.00 am car journey starts to be on schedule for the only available slots  at 9.00 am.  Not something to look forward to. Perhaps I do need to fast track her driving lessons in the hope that if she passes her test before then she could always just go by herself......

Gym Phobic

I’ve always resisted the urge to join a gym.  When we were in the US I got in the habit of going a couple of times a week simply because it was there in the apartment building. I’ve never  felt the need to go out of my way to drive to a gym. Why not just go for a walk?

Anyway, the weather had been bad, my power walks along the river bank had been curtailed due to rising tides and copious amounts of mud, I hadn’t been working out in the garden because of rain, and someone mentioned a special offer.  Before I knew it I’d gone for an inquisitive nose around a local leisure club and the next minute I’d signed on the dotted line.

I have tried to be good. I set myself a realistic target – twice a week.  Mark it on your calendar, the gym assistant said.

Quite naturally the weather has now improved. It’s positively balmy.  I’ve been to the garden centre. I’ve lugged bags of compost from the car to the house; I’ve spent whole afternoons out of doors filling pots and digging holes. I've cut the grass. Yesterday a friend suggested we go for a four mile hike – I even got sunburnt.

This morning there it was on the calendar. Gym.  Every muscle in my body ached. The last thing I wanted to do was go to the gym.

I noticed as I sat having my breakfast that the cat had left paw marks on the living room window.  I cleaned the window. Then I realised all the other windows in the house needed cleaning too. I ran upstairs to collect the dirty laundry to put in the washing machine. Then I ran back up two flights of stairs  to the teenager’s room to collect her dirty laundry, and empty her bins. Then I swept the kitchen floor.  

By eight thirty in the morning I felt like I’d already had a pretty good work out and the grocery shopping was still on my list of things to do. 

So what's the answer? I've paid for the gym so I'm going to have to use it. I'll just have to quit doing the chores.

A Weekend in Bath

I’ve just spend a great weekend catching up with some old friends and enjoying an afternoon at the thermae spa in Bath.

Bath is a great city to visit with or without the relatively new addition of the modern Thermae Spa,  and of course people have been coming to Bath to ‘take the waters’ since Roman times.

It’s a relatively compact, slightly hilly city, easy to walk round, and of course a complete tourist trap.  Even my friends in the US had heard of Bath. The city centre is full of  bustling speciality shops and boutiques as well as the usual high street department stores, a multitude of cafes, tea rooms, bars and restaurants.  It is one of those quintessentially British places, eclectic, bohemian and rather posh.  

I was meeting up with old friends from the Tech college I had attended over 30 years ago, two of whom I hadn’t seen for 20 odd years. We had a lot of catching up to do.

The Thermae Spa was a real treat.  Two hours sat in bubbling hot water in a roof top pool overlooking Bath’s glorious Georgian  rooftops and the surrounding countryside. So what if it was raining, we were wet anyway.

There are two large spa pools and four differently aromatic steam rooms available on a two hour ‘open’ ticket at the  Spa.  As all we wanted to do was sit and talk, it was great.  It was only the fact that we were turning (more) wrinkly that made us want to get out.

When I first met these friends, I was a teenager, just like the one I have at home now. Partying, drinking, and desperately trying to squeeze college work into a busy social life.  We all got married within a few years of each other and all have children approximately the same age. Obviously there have been some major life changes and everyone has had their ups and downs, but it was a great reunion, reminiscing about college days and discovering what we’d all been up to in the last thirty  years.  

In my head I’m nowhere near as old as my birth certificate insists, and by the end of the weekend  it really did feel like we had only walked out of that college refectory twenty minutes or so ago.  The wonders of modern technology make it so much easier to keep in touch - the odd like or comment on facebook really does a go a long way to preserve or re-new a friendship.

Naturally after a night of heavy drinking, and a weekend climbing up and down three flights of stairs to our attic room in a B&B, the soothing effects of the Thermae Spa had totally worn off. My body was definitely telling me I was nearer that birth certificate age than I would ever care to admit, but if I have to grow old, at least I'm going to do it disgracefully in a very posh place.

.  

Week What-ever

It’s all back to normal here after the excitement of Saudi. The calendar is looking pretty blank and to be honest I’ve no idea whether this is week, 14 15 or 27.  I need to get out more.

My one night a week at the local pub quiz has now been curtailed due to the teenager’s new job. Her evening shift finishes during the second round.  As I elected to become a full-time housewife, or “stay at home mom” as it is referred to in the US, I can hardly reneged on my motherly duties.  I chose to be a stay at home mom so now I have to stay at home so I can pick her up. I have no-one but myself to blame.

Perhaps the time has finally come to return to work myself - meet some new people and spice up my social life. I didn't want to look for work when we first returned to the UK  because (a)  I wanted to have time to dedicate myself to writing a book, and (b) I wanted to be at home when my husband was - darling if I was at work all day you'd never see me on your two weeks leave.

As for my book,  that potential bestseller chronicalling amusing anecdotes from our time in America – progress is slow. Part of the preparation for this book involved enrolling on my creative writing course –  from which I have subsequently learned that writing something creative, amusing and marketable is not such an easy combination as it sounds. I am now having serious doubts about my ability to write anything, let alone the lightweight chick-lit I have fantasies about or the standard formula short story my creative writing teacher insists is the easiest way to commercial success. 

It's a crisis of self-doubt and now I'm  older and a lot wiser about all things literary I realise I should have made the most of my LA Bubble blog when I had the chance – promoted it simultaneously on several websites instead of just the one, sold advertising space, commented on other people’s blogs simply to get my own noticed and snapped up by some major publishing house with the minimum effort. I’ve missed the boat. Writing 500 words at a time on the idiosyncracies of American life came easy – a saleable book I’m told has to have 80,000 words. There’s a huge difference.

However, I owe it to myself to fulfil my potential  and write that bloody book even if it kills me, because if I don’t do it now, I never will.  I do have lots of time – when the teenager cries out ‘don’t you dare tidy my room!’ I should see it not as a hindrance to, but as a reprieve from, my housewifely duties. Back to the study and soldier on!

The Saudi Experience Part 2

So what exactly does an ex-pat wife get up to in Saudi? The bus goes daily to the nearest supermarket and Mall, and if venturing anywhere else, a car and a driver are supplied.  An abaya – any shade of black will do – has to be worn outside the compound at all times, although western women can get away without covering their heads.

Saudi Arabia has little or no agriculture of its own and most food supplies are imported.  The quality of fruit and veg available in the supermarket was poor, but I’d been shopping in Ralphs in California for the last three years, I was used to a cucumber well past its best. 

My ex-pat friends explained the continuity of food supplies was erratic, hence the need to grab several packets of Maltesers  in one go. It also explained why I’d found several the boxes of Rice Krispies stashed in the kitchen cupboard. Buy it whilst you can, appears to be the western shopper’s motto, when it’s gone it’s well and truly gone and you have no idea when, if ever, it will be back.

After we had stocked up on food, we headed for the Mall, where I was surprised to discover a New Look – staffed entirely, of course, by men. A lingerie shop  clearly signed ‘Families Only’ had its wares on public display, and was one of the very few places with female staff (the Body Shop was another) yet images of scantily clad women on the packaging for pop-up swimming pools had been blacked out in another store (although in many cases the stickers had been subsequently scratched off ).

There were designated places in the Mall where women could sit and take a coffee, but I was told dining out was fraught with difficulty.  Not only did you have to time your arrival not to coincide with prayer time – if it did you simply wouldn’t get served – but women were confined to ‘family areas’, separate booths behind curtains. That’s really not my idea of a fun night out.

So despite the presence of MacDonalds, Pizza Hut and the American ice cream chain Baskin’ Robbins, I decided I would prefer to dine in.

I was told I had chosen the busiest week of the year to visit the compound; social life was rife.  There was the project team dinner, a birthday BBQ and the annual ‘fun run’ – as many times around the perimeter fence as you can in 45 minutes  (the winner managed 7, I managed 3).  

I did catch sight of the souks and markets, but forget those colourful holiday images of bustling spice stalls in  Morroco or Tunisia, Yanbu market was a shabby selection of vans and tents, elderly Arabs sheltering from the heat selling goods from the backs of their cars.  Down town Yanbu is grubby, dusty and dirty. Men gather on  corners, the buildings  are old, uncared for and decrepit.  Apart from in the Mall, Saudi women were noticeably absent on the street. Did I feel safe? No. Did I want to get out of the car? Only to  scurry into one shop and then back into the Range Rover to be driven to another.

It was great catching up with my old friends from California and I have every admiration for those wives who had committed to accompanying their husband to Saudi, but I knew it wasn't the lifestyle for me.  Days filled with gym sessions, coffee mornings, lunches, lengthy games of cards and presumably extreme jigsaw puzzling do not appeal.  I like my freedom. A nursery is provided on the compound, but children of school age have to be bussed to the International School half an hour away in town. The constant sunshine sounds idyllic, but even in March, an hour in the intense heat was about the most I could take.  In high summer the water in the pools is apparently as hot as a bath.

Although I was sad to say goodbye at the end of the week, I wasn’t sad to be leaving Yanbu.

On the long drive back to Jeddah we passed hundreds of camels, Bedouins herding goats and families sat by the side of the road, stopping for what at first I thought was a rather inappropriate picnic, until I realised it was prayer time.

We westerners believe Saudi women must be totally repressed, desperate to escape the strict  regime, yet at the airport, sitting in my abaya with my head uncovered, a heavily veiled  young Saudi girl gave me a look of pure venom. I had feared the hostility of the native men, I had been prepared for the disapproval of the the mutawa, the religious police, but I had never expected to receive a look like that from the sisterhood!  So sad that we have so little understanding of each other’s culture, and no opportunity to integrate. As long as she hides behind her veil and we are confined to our compound, never the twain shall meet.

The Saudi Experience Part I

 A dose of winter sunshine is good for the soul, although I have to admit Saudi Arabia wouldn’t have been my first choice for a holiday.  300 km north of Jeddah, the town of Yanbu sits on the  Red Sea, and is temporary home to a vast number of western oil and construction workers, including my other half.

The abaya had been purchased; the teenager’s ready meals  placed in the fridge, and her instructions for the week pinned to the door (NO PARTYING was top of the list). After a three month wait for a visa, I was finally off on a trip to the Middle East.

It would have been nice to have sprinkled this post with exotic holiday snaps  but alas, photography is not encouraged in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, and within minutes of leaving the airport, I could see why. Quite frankly the place was a mess. If this was my kingdom, I certainly wouldn’t want anyone hanging around taking pictures of it.

I had been warned. Yes, he assured me, I would see camels, but I would also see lots of litter – the plastic bag is commonly known as the Saudi desert flower, I would seen the abandoned wrecks of car crashes on the road side, and empty buildings left to crumble into ruin and decay. The standard of driving, he told me, was worse than LA. No! How could it be?!!

Well it was. Two armed Check Point Charlies and three hours later, I was relieved to see the desert skyline becoming dominated by a succession of oils refineries, chemical plants and power stations. We had reached my holiday destination – the industrial oasis of Yanbu.

A massive modern construction programme has resulted in an influx of foreign workers into Saudi. Fortunately for me, I would be accommodated in a secure, luxurious western style compound. If my husband was one of the many Indian, Pakistani or Filipino workers, he’d have been confined to barracks, with his passport confiscated and a trip home planned once every two years.

Another Check Point Charlie and we faced the 10 ft high perimeter concrete wall topped with barbed wire. Sliding  gates drew back to reveal a holiday style village; attractive villa’s and apartments set around courtyards with pools, amongst neatly tendered gardens bursting with exotic bougainvillea and tidy lawns of well watered green grass.

Wow, I thought, slipping out of my abaya and into my bikini, this isn’t so bad. I took a welcome dip in the pool and reclined on a sunlounger whilst my poor hubby hurried off back to work.  I flicked through a couple of pages of a magazine. If I ignored the barbed wire, and the fact that I couldn’t leave the compound under my own steam or without being garbed from head to foot in black, perhaps I could get used to this.

A friend from California arrived to take me on a quick tour. Ten minutes later I had seen the gym, the library, the shop, the restaurant. I passed the nursery, the play areas, the football pitch and tennis court.  What next? We called on another friend for a cup of tea.

Tomorrow,  they promised, we could book a driver and go on a trip. Perhaps, I hoped, I would get to see some of the real Saudi, those colourful market places and exotic souks.  Welcome to ex-pat life, Yanbu style. 'We'll do the Mall and the supermarket,' they told me. Even that, I assured them gratefully, would be a treat.  

Week 10

With the hubby home for a couple of weeks we headed off for a night out in Brighton.

The main purpose of the visit was to meet up with some of his former UK work colleagues to celebrate an endurance award (sorry long service award), but it was also a good opportunity for a night away in a seaside hotel, a chance to explore the antique shops in Brighton’s tiny Lanes and a bit of a blustery stroll along the sea front.

I like Brighton, it’s a slightly faded,  shabby chic sort of place. It’s not quite Santa Monica although there are certain resemblances – a vast of expanse of beach, an old wooden pier with a fairground and amusements and  several down and outs. Of course pebbles in Brighton replace that soft Santa Monica sand and the homeless huddle in sleeping bags in doorways as opposed to lying flat out on the grass, but I could definitely see the similarity between the two places – I even spotted one brave surfer in the water.

Brighton does have great architecture although most of it needs a bit of sprucing up.  The jewel in its Regency crown is  the Royal Pavilion.  Back in 1787, the Prince Regent -  later George IV -  liked his seaside holidays just as much as the rest of us, and positively embraced the idea of escaping  for a weekend away with his mistress. Unlike the rest of us, he decided to build himself a palace in the centre of town.

Designed on the outside to look like a home fit for an Indian Maharaja, inside the Pavilion is a shrine to all things Chinese – in terms of decor at least. Even the metal stair bannisters are painted to look like bamboo. When Queen Victoria inherited the Pavilion from her deceased uncle she declared it too tiny and impractical for her growing brood, and sold it off to Brighton town council who have been paying for its upkeep and restoration ever since.

Ornate is too small a word to describe the interior of the Pavilion; it is ostentatious in the extreme. I’ve never seen a dining room like it – full size palm trees, fresco’s on the ceilings, ornamental silver dragons and an absolutely massive, as big as a hot air balloon,  chandelier.  The Prince even installed a ‘show’ kitchen, complete with yet more plaster palm trees, adjacent to the dining room and was known to entertain at the kitchen table, although he insisted a red carpet be laid over the flag stoned floor.  

There is nothing like a good old piece of extravagant opulence to remind me how lucky I am to live in a country that has preserved so much of its history. A great weekend, and a lot of hangovers, were had by all. George IV certainly wasn't the only one who over-indulged.

Week 9

This week’s good news is that the teenager has finally been offered a part time job. She has been applying for jobs for ever since we got back from the US.  No longer mixing with the rich and spoilt of Beverly Hills, I felt the amount of pocket money handed over every month could now be decreased. What better incentive could she have?

To give credit where it’s due she has been an avid  job hunter – but the frustration of on-line applications, and a standard procedure designed to cover everything from prospective store managers to a Saturday girl - has had her thwart. My teenager does not fit the norm; she hasn’t had a standard UK education, nor has she any work experience.

Apart from the major stumbling block of no GCSE’s and very often no room on an on-line form to explain their absence – ie three years in the US education system – I imagine most of these applications are assessed  by a rigid tick-box short-list criteria at company headquarters, and quite naturally on paper she doesn’t look like the ideal candidate.

Back in the old days when I was a girl Saturday jobs could normally be procured simply by going into a shop and asking, or at the very most handing in a CV.  Today’s job market is very different.

She has no work experience – she is a student.  One on-line application absolutely refused to let her move onto the next page without putting in a date she left her ‘previous employment’.

My teenager is intelligent and articulate – I knew if she could just secure an interview she could probably secure a job, and thankfully, eventually it has happened. It’s only temporary but it’s a start, and at least it will be something to put on the next application form even if this one doesn’t work out.

 I recently met up  with an old college friend also the mum of two daughters, for a chick flick and a long walk in the countryside.  We reminisced about the good old days - how different our teenage years were. Life really was so much simpler then.  I'm pretty sure it was also a lot quieter. 

I want my teenager to bring her friends home  – I’d much they were where I could see them than wandering around the streets at night. What I don’t want to do, however, is hear them.  The teenager is pretty good at turning up with waifs and strays, and to be honest, I don't mind. We've a big house - we need to fill it. However, last weekend I was sorely tempted to send a text upstairs at 2.00 am in the morning asking when chatty man was finally going to quieten down.

‘You should be glad we were only talking,’ was the teenager’s cheeky retort when I complained about the noise the following morning.

Yes I know I should be thankful for small mercies –  as my health visitor once told me when I complained a certain baby only slept for twenty minutes at a time.  Be grateful for those twenty minutes she said.  However I never  anticipated that seventeen years later I'd still be struggling to get a  decent night’s sleep.....

Week 8

Last week it was a war on storage. This week a war on paperwork and the amount of it that is currently coming through my letterbox regarding the Eastleigh by-election.  I think the Conservative Party have felled an entire forest in order to produce a daily bulletin extolling the virtues of their candidate.  I know she is local, and I know she is a ‘working’ mum with 4 children – this point is stressed in every pamphlet as if it should be main reason she deserves my vote. What  is it exactly that she works at? The omission of any specific job title makes me suspect she is a business woman earning mega-bucks. She’s obviously not a teacher, a doctor or a nurse, if that was the case her publicity machine would be crying it out from the rooftops. I suppose if I was that interested I would Google her to find out but to be honest, I’ve got better things to do. Several trips a day to the recycling bin are currently taking up my time.

Of the other dozen or so candidates all I know from the mountains of literature accumulating on the doormat is that they are all very good at slagging each other off. There are faults with all of them and it is becoming quite a dilemma. Who do I vote for?

The fact that I am even thinking about or debating this matter makes me realise I have too much time on my hands and I need to get busy. Having the teenager at home for half term has helped. I have to take her shopping for new shoes - always fun. I need to remember she has requested my presence on the shopping trip solely for my financial support - not my fashion advice. I must learn to keep quiet.

The sunshine has also fuelled my enthusiasm to get outdoors – the garden has been dug over, and is readily prepared awaiting the arrival of the landscaper who is going to aid my creative vision of horticultural heaven with the installation of a new patio and path. Hard landscaping should always be completed before any planting, according to my hero Alan Titchmarsh. I wish someone had told my sweet peas that. They need to stop growing. Religiously following the guidelines in my Gardener’s World magazine it said now was the time to sow sweet peas. I love sweet peas, they are one of my favourite flowers and I thought I would get ahead, sow the seeds indoors as per instructions, then have them ready to plant out around some fancy French rustic obelisk as soon as the new garden was ready.

However within a matter of 48 hours the seeds had germinated and are now romping way ahead of schedule in scenes reminiscent of Jack & the Beanstalk. These are not sweat peas, these are triffids and they are going to need planting outside long before the garden is ready.  What have I done to them – not enough light, too much light, have I deprived them of water or given them too much?

If one of those by-election candidates could actually do something useful and put some gardening advice into their leaflets, I might well be tempted to get out there and vote.

Week 7

I didn’t think I was a hoarder – I’ve watched those programmes on TV and I’ve seen the state real hoarders live in.  My spare room is nothing like that but it did need sorting.  Plastic crates that were carted from one loft to the next; a large selection of travel brochures and tourist information leaflets transported back from the US. It all takes up a considerable amount of space. This is a new house and a new start and some things are going to have to go.

Such as? I have collected greetings cards.  I have Wedding cards, Congratulation on the Birth cards; Anniversary cards; 18th, 21^st, 30^th and 40^th birthday cards.  Do I really need to keep them all? I have Sorry You are Leaving cards – leaving where? We’re Going To Miss You cards from former work colleagues from over 25 years ago and Welcome to your new house cards. I’ve moved  so many times I can’t even tell which house these relate to.

I have drawings and works of art that were once lovingly pinned to the front of the fridge when the kids started school. Do I really need to keep those? Will they thank me for them? Which way up do they even go? I have their first shoes, and the baby shawl. I have the photos,  I have them – what more do I need?

It’s not as if I have kept every back issue of Jackie or My Guy magazine like some hoarders, but I do have treasured old records.  Why? I have nothing to play them on. It’s all very good keeping an original vinyl of Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret by Soft Cell because of the happy memories but I’m never going to listen to it.

The wedding dress produced shrieks of hysterical laughter from the teenager – but we could both fit into it (not, I hasten to add, at the same time).  What an earth am I really keeping it for? It’s a two piece suit from Debenhams and I’ve donated far more fashionable outfits to charity bags over the years.

Sometimes we have to let go.

The cat had great fun playing with the knitted Clanger my mother made me when I was about five – although that was retrieved and put back in the box, along with nearly all the birthday cards, including  all the home-made ones, every Mothers Day Card, every Valentine’s card....

I still have the same number of plastic crates as when I started my clearing out. I retained the Dressing Up Princess Diana kit in the hope that one day it might be worth a fortune (definitely regret not taking that and putting it on e-bay in the US). I did retain the wedding dress although I’m still not sure why, and the masses of travel leaflets remain just in case, you never know, I might go back there one day.

And I suppose that’s the dilemma that all hoarders face – you never know I might need it. We never think   highly likely that I might not.

Despite a sub-conscious yelling BIN BIN BIN I took most things out of my boxes, wistfully reminisced, and then put them straight back in.

Week 6

I generally try and keep these posts to something that effects me personally and do my best to keep them humourous and light-hearted.  Any comments I make are my own personal opinions.

 I am not a political animal but  I’ve always voted because women died so that I could vote.

When we left the UK in 2009 Gordon Brown was Prime Minister. Things have changed a lot since then. We missed the 2010 general election but I will now have my chance to vote again because I live in the constituency of disgraced Lib Dem MP Chris Huhne. I’ve never met Mr Huhne – what little I know of him is from what I’ve read in recent newspaper reports and what I can remember from some dim and distant electoral bumf his supporters shoved through my doors several years ago.  I do remember him personally phoning us up at home on a previous general election evening to remind us to go and vote, even though we already had,  although not necessarily for him. My former neighbour happily recounts the story of his daughter handing him the phone on the loo when Mr Huhne phoned their household - obviously a man determined to go to great lengths to get himself elected.

Personally I don’t care whether Mr Huhne’s wife took his speeding points willingly or under coercion – we wives do an awful lot of self-sacrifice in order to support our husband’s careers – as I continually point out to my loving partner.  Mr Huhne must have known that as a politician every skeleton would one day come out of his closet. This was a man who could easily afford to take the taxi fares resulting from a speeding ban and while I often tell my husband he has sold his soul to the corporate dollar devil, Mr Huhne definitely sold his to further his own personal political ambition. As always in these cases it is the children who suffer – we are adults and make our own decisions; unfortunately our children have to live the consequences.

As women we learn very early on to make sacrifices – especially when it comes to career v family.  I was once a PA but exchanged that glittering career to become an undervalued underpaid NHS audio typist – because it meant I could take my kids to school at 9 and pick them up at 3. I have every admiration for anyone who wants a high flying career; ambition is not a crime, but deception and dishonesty are.  Mr Huhne was asking an awful lot to expect his wife, and his children, to remain forever silent, sacrificing their own integrity to support him.

Sadly I’m quite sure he is typical of many politicians.  And to think suffragettes died so that we could vote for men like him - that's what really makes my blood boil.

(Next week I promise to get back to something light and fluffy.)

Week 5

February already! January disappeared under a blanket of grey and a foot of snow. The teenager has sat the first part of her AS levels and life has returned to normal.

I have started walking again – not quite those sunny early morning power walks of Southern California but a chilly, brisk, just get on with it hike through slush and mud.   I have exchanged the potential hazards of mountain lions, bears, coyotes and a posse of Mexican gardeners for puddles and potential flooding – my regular route along the river has to be timed to match the tide tables. I’m lucky, we have settled in a rather picturesque village and if it is too wet then I head uphill and inland past chocolate box cottages and homes concealed behind automatic gates and hidden away at the end of very long drives. The most hazardous part of this route is avoiding being run down by a speeding Maserati.

Another high or low of this week’s endeavour to explore was a trip into Southampton and its relatively new Sea City Museum. I’ve always felt that my home town doesn’t really make the most of itself and its sea faring heritage, nor put a great deal of effort into promoting its historic buildings or its waterfront. The Sea City museum is housed in the rather bland Civic Centre – well away from the sea –  and has dedicated a large proportion of its exhibition to the ill-fated journey of the Titanic which set sail from Southampton in April 1912.  The exhibition concentrates on the lives of the Titanic crew (what no Kate and Leo?)  the majority of whom were from Southampton and the majority of whom, quite naturally, didn’t survive.  Whilst it’s an informative and educational experience, with an extensive selection of artefacts and rather (too) realistic sound effects, it’s hardly uplifting.

When we  arrived in California and I told people we came from Southampton I was surprised that very few Americans had ever heard of the place. It’s a major international port.  I mentioned the Titanic and the Mayflower which also set off from Southampton and carried the Pilgrim Fathers off to Massachusetts, I mentioned cruise liners and the Queen Mary, now resting in Long Beach, but it provoked little reaction.  Of course, now I’m older and great deal wiser, this doesn’t surprise me,  Americans do rather struggle with the concept of world geography. Eventually gave up explaining about Southampton and told everyone I came from south (of) London – it seemed to work much better.   (The teenager recently received a message from a former US school friend asking how she was settling in back in London, and when she replied she wasn’t in London, he replied, oh yeh – how close to London is England?)

And talking of the Mayflower and the Queen Mary,  a full size replica of one and the original of the other were both encountered on our travels in America, and  are major tourist attractions. Perhaps Southampton would draw more visitors if a life size model of the Titanic was moored up on its quayside, although perhaps not...

I think I’ve changed my mind about booking that cruise.

Week 4

As the parent of a teenage girl, my life is beset with worries and doubts.  Questions remain unanswered, the daily concerns of who is she with, where is she going, what is she up to, and why wont she wear a coat ?

A friend who has come late into motherhood and is now having to cope with the tantrums of a three year old regularly asks me when does it get better. I tell it doesn’t – enjoy it now, this is the good bit. A three year old  normally wakes in the morning and greets you with a loving smile; she might sulk for five minutes if she doesn’t get her own way, she will stamp and scream, or go rigid when you try and strap her in a car seat, but ultimately you are still in control and she will put on a coat.

Am I the only mother in the land who has seen her teenager heading off outside in recent weeks, with temperatures well below zero degrees, in several inches of snow, minus a coat?

I could dismiss it as being out of practice, after all, three years in California  and we’re not used to wearing coats. Even in the height of winter, a coat was not a necessity. Day time temperatures would regularly reach that of an English summer and the most that was usually required in the early  morning or late evening would be light jacket, or an extra layer. The teenager would trot off to High School proudly attired in her cosy school sweatshirt, which incidentally she was more than happy to wear at home and on days out,  sporting her uniform with as much aplomb as if it were Jack Wills.

Naturally on our return to the UK I deemed a winter coat a necessity, after all although she only has a short walk from home to the station, and a short walk from the station to sixth form, she was going to be out in all elements.  Not expecting a nearly 17 year old to wear the same coat that had remained unworn in the UK since she was 13, cash was generously given at the beginning of autumn with the specific instruction to "choose a coat you will wear."

Has it been worn? No.  As temperatures in the UK plummet the new coat remains in the wardrobe. She layers up in two pairs of tights, several cardigans and an old shirt.  

I, meanwhile, have been wearing a selection of coats indoors reluctant to remove any item of clothing when I return from a rare venture outside.

It must be a generation gap thing.

Week 3

Another surprisingly eventful week!

Our Christmas present from daughter number 1 was a reservation for afternoon tea at the Swan at The Globe in London.

The Globe Theatre sits rather out of sync on the Thames, surrounded by the 1970's architectural concrete ugliness of the South Bank Centre and swamped by its near neighbours,  the Tate Modern and the London Eye. Here in the centre of London is a little piece of olde England, and next to the Globe is the Swan, Will Shakespeare’s favourite watering hole.

The Globe was resurrected by the American actor and director Sam Wannamaker who was determined to recreate Shakespeare’s original theatre in an authentic state and setting.   Constructed of English Oak and with the only permitted thatched roof in London since the Great Fire of 1666, The Globe’s one concession to modern design, apart from a concrete floor, is the inclusion of fire sprinklers!  The stage and the auditorium are exactly as they would have been in Shakespeare’s day.

On the guided tour you find yourself hearing the answers to all those unasked questions; where did the audience go to toilet - they didn’t (a ditch in front of the stage was multi-purpose); what did the place smell like – absolutely awful, and why did most of Shakespeare’s characters repeat their lines three times – once for the plebs at the front, secondly, and more eloquently, for the middle-classes in the seats beyond, and thirdly, highly refined, for the aristocrats sat at the back of the stage heckling the actors.

Next door, in elegant, decidedly un-Elizabethan surroundings of an upstairs dining room at the Swan we were presented with a platter of bite sized cakes and pastries, delicate finger rolls of smoked salmon and cucumber, and for the male of the species, a Gentleman’s Tea complete with English bangers, macaroni cheese and that other great British tradition, a fish finger sandwich.

Now I know where Will got his inspiration from!

Following our tea we met up with daughter no 1 (who conveniently forgot to handover the cash for said Christmas present) before we headed back to our hotel for the night. In our continued efforts to see as much of the UK as we can, we’d decided to stay out of London  on Richmond Hill, where on a winter-wonderland special offer we had been upgraded to a superior room  and a loo with a view! 

The Thames as seen from bathroom window

Then it was back home to the trauma of AS level exams, snow and travel chaos.

Week 2

A totally manic week filled with a positive frenzy of activity. Buying; selling; designing; negotiating. After weeks of lethargy in the Bubble household we have been spurred into action.

The cooker that has been dysfunctional since a major over-heating issue back in October, has finally been replaced.

The table and chairs which fitted snugly into our former flat but was overwhelmed by the size of our new kitchen has been sold to a young Polish couple and it’s replacement – two tonnes of pure solid oak – has been hoisted into the kitchen.  A private ad on Gumtree to sell the table resulted in a flurry of enquiries – including the bizarre telephone call from an elderly gentleman who sounded very keen to purchase. He asked all the right questions – age, size, condition etc. Sale! I thought, but sadly no. His final question, the deal breaker; did I have any cats or dogs? Initially I wondered whether he wanted one of those to accompany the table, but when I replied rather hesitantly that yes I did have a cat, he then said he couldn’t possibly have the table due to an allergy. If that was so important why wasn’t that the first question he asked.....

Never mind – on to the garden. Devoid of foliage since the Autumn I have carefully re-designed my rather small plot to include new paving, new seating and a lot more (evergreen) plants.  A visit to a local garden centre, a half an hour free consultation with a younger, much trendier version of Alan Titchmarsh and new ideas abound.  All I now need is Ground Force – instead – six trips to the recycling centre later, I have a garden not just devoid of foliage, but devoid of any plants. Plus I think I’ve probably just about finished off my other half who is now so unused to any kind of manual work. Despite the installation of a brand new super duper shower just before Christmas, all he has wanted to do since he got back from Saudi is soak in the bath to ease his aching limbs.

We have been shopping – numerous trips to DIY shops to purchase paint for the re-vamped bathroom, tools for the garden, accessories for my re-styled kitchen. I have browsed for material for new blinds – do I outsource and get someone to make them for me, or do I make them myself? I know I am capable and it would be a lot cheaper but do I have the time?

Adult education has re-started and I’m back to my creative writing course.  Three pieces of homework in the first week on top of this rather rash promise to produce a weekly blog. It’s going to be tough finding the time to run up a couple of Roman Blinds, plus I have applied for a job. Yes, a trip to yet another garden centre and there it was – the perfect opportunity, a customer services assistant required for just a few hours a week.

‘You could do that...’ my husband suggested, clutching his bad back.

Yes I know I could,  but do I want to? Selling plants? Definitely preferable to a battle with the sewing machine.....

Week 1

The the first week of the new year is nearly over and we’re already striding purposefully into January. The Christmas decorations have come down – not that we had that many. Always planning on being away for the festive period our house was definitely lacking in the Christmas spirit, I had already decided a tree would only decline into a delightful kitty play gym, resulting in nothing but destruction and  a constant sweeping up of mess. 

As it was when we did hastily change our plans and retreat to a hotel in a former country manor house, I must have had the only child in the whole universe who complained about things coming down the chimney on Christmas Eve.  Unable to pacify a 21 year old with tales of Dancer and Prancer up on the roof, we concluded it was probably just hailstones knocking debris into the fire place.

Our halls are no longer decked with Christmas cards – birthday cards quickly replace those in our household. Yes, way back on New Year’s day in 1996 we made our mercy dash through the streets of Southampton at 3.00 am in the morning, weaving our way through hoards of drunken teenagers spilling out of the night clubs, on route to the maternity hospital. 17 years later and I have my own drunken teenager, arriving home at 3.00 am in the morning, with several others in tow. The party she had planned to overnight at had turned into another trashed house without a dry piece of carpet on which to lay her head, so she had decided to walk home. Probably very sensible in the circumstances, however her own legendary Halloween shenanigans have now been surpassed in the great party stakes. She had never seen so much mess – and her friend’s mum was even joining in the drunken fun.

‘Aren’t you lucky you have me,’ I pointed out. For once she agreed.

Of course it was totally uncool to open birthday presents until the motley crew she brought home with her had left – so birthday celebrations were postponed to the afternoon.  The L plates were gratefully unwrapped –  and more champagne consumed.

The husband finally made it home and is now back in the bosom of his family for the next couple of weeks.  We took a trip up to London to celebrate his return with daughter No 1 and a trip to the theatre to see the Woman in Black. While the teenager and her sister dutifully screamed, despite having seen the film and knowing exactly what to expect, I had to keep nudging my other half to make sure he stayed awake. ‘Jet lag...’ he kept mumbling in his defence.

After the show we walked around Convent Garden. The atmosphere was great and definitely beats anything we experienced in LA hands down. Pasadena might well have its New Year’s Day sunny smiley smiley Rose Parade*, but we had giant baubles and serenades from a busking budding opera singer. It was the perfect opportunity to recapture my lost Christmas spirit – and before I knew it I found myself wishing we’d booked a pantomime instead of a horror show. An old man in drag; a buxom young soap star dressed as a boy, lots of clichéd innuendo and look who’s behind you. Now try explaining that to an American!


*The Me Shopper Jan 2012 & The Rose Parade Jan 2011

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http://www.lifeinthelabubble.blogspot.co.uk/2011_01_01_archive.html