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

http://www.lifeinthelabubble.blogspot.co.uk/2012_01_01_archive.html

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