Resolution

Every new year begins the same – the promise of positive thinking. A whole list of new year’s resolutions that are obsolete by the end of January. This year – no resolutions.

Last year I was on a high of positivity – our last Christmas in California; I was looking forward to that downward spiral knowing I was coming home. Of course when it was time to come home, I was incredibly sad, all that glorious Californian sunshine and that easy convenient lifestyle, gone.

Fitting back in is hard – much harder than I thought - especially now as I am on my own.  Yes I have days when I relish my freedom, but there are other days – especially weekends, when I feel like a complete social pariah – weekends are family times, my friends are busy with their own husbands and their own kids.  Friday and Saturday evenings are the worse and I find myself willing the weekend away – Monday comes a relief. Back to normal again, a routine.

Of course having our Xmas plans scuppered at the last minute didn’t help. A week in that Saudi sunshine loomed but was thwarted by the ‘mañana’ effect –  despite assurances our paperwork was being processed, the 'official’ invitation did not arrive. No invitation, no visa;  no visa, no flight.  “It will be with you shortly” translated into not on your nelly.  Perhaps in time for a trip at Easter, the husband suggested hopefully. Forget it, I know where I’m not wanted.

So feeling a bit like Cinderella we set off for a couple of nights at a local hotel with spa facilities where the teenager, daughter No 1 and I indulged in some mother-and-daughter bonding over copious amounts of Prosecco and a mushroom risotto for Christmas dinner.  Long walks in a very wet New Forest, a howling gale and flooded roads only made me miss that Californian sunshine even more.

Last Christmas we spent the day on the beach in Santa Monica. This year the beach at Highcliffe wasn’t even visible through the murk and the mist  from the cafe 50ft up at the top of the cliff.

To get out of the Boxing Day rain we browsed the shelves of the W H Smith sale, where a small booklet entitled 365 Positive Thoughts – one for every day of the year – caught my eye.  This was what I needed, a little something to look at every morning, to spur me into action.  Alas, as I perused the pages I realised this book was not for me, one of the quotes instructed the reader to try again at whatever they had failed at the day previously.  Sometimes you just have to re-group and move on; I can’t think of a less positive thought than failing miserably at something two days on the trot.

Creativity is born from the pit of despair.  All those great writers with their miserable lives – Emily Bronte trapped in her isolated parsonage riddled with ill health; lonely vicar’s daughter Jane Austen, and all those anguished great poets; would they have been able to write such works of arts if their lives had been filled with endless sunshine, riveting company, and a dizzy social life? Highly unlikely.

So this year no  promises of self-improvement, trips to the gym, inspired cooking or lowering my alcohol intake. Just one aim and one ambition. Get published – or at the very least – keep my blog up to date!

Happy Christmas

A frustrating, stressy week

Christmas plans changed

Workmen in the house

Creativity at all time low

On with the Xmas shopping

Start the Xmas wrapping

And count my blessings

Hopefully back on track with the blogging in the New Year

Brrr.....

When I started this new blog the aim was report on how we were settling in after three years of living abroad; how we were acclimatising and adjusting to life back in the UK

As the first freezing sleet of the year begins to fall I can tell you now that far from settling in, hibernation has never seemed such an attractive prospect.

Brrr it’s cold.  After three years of Californian winters I’m not prepared for this.  I don’t even own that UK bare essential – an ice scraper for the car. I am actually one of those rare people who overnight their car in the safe confines of a garage,  but heading out for the evening last night I realised the car may well  freeze up in the two hours or so it was going to be left outside.  Could I find an ice scraper? No, all I uncovered in the depths of the garage was the culmination of our seasonal motoring needs in the US  - two sun shields for those hot sunny afternoons in the parking lot. Fat lot of good they are going to serve us here.

My wardrobe is totally inadequate.  I have had to purchase several jumpers, warm socks, and a new winter coat. I’m already on my third umbrella. Our heating bill for this quarter – and I’m sure January and February are only going to be worse – is enormous.  In Pasadena I only remember putting the fire on about twice in three years.

At first the thought of being cold was a novelty; the chance to wear some different clothes. I quite liked the idea of wearing long sleeves, and my discount boots purchased in those designer mega-stores, well they were hardly worn.  Now I rarely take them off.

I scuttle from the car to the house and then back out again, not a mere ounce of flesh on show. I’d forgotten what frost looked like, I’d forgotten those biting winds, the sunsets at four o’clock.

But of course it’s not all doom and gloom in the UK,  because Kate Middleton is finally pregnant! You can almost hear the sighs of relief all round.  The American tabloid press had Kate pregnant with twins since her wedding night – if not before.  Every time I stood in line at Ralphs supermarket the gossip mags by the check-out lead with headline stories about Kate’s ‘secret’ pregnancy.

The Americans love our royals – I was constantly quizzed about the Queen, Helen Mirren, Prince Charles and  Harry and Wills as if I knew them personally.  If we British ever decide to declare a republic and get rid of our royals, there will always be a home for them in America - apart from Camilla, of course. At least that's one suggestion that probably wont be cropping up on the list of  prospective baby-names....

The Week That Was

One of the hardest things about blogging is trying to find something exciting to write about in a rather dull week. It’s the art of making the ordinary seem extra-ordinary.

A relatively quiet uneventful week really, the highlight of which was teenager’s first UK school report in three years.  When we left the UK back in 2009 we were warned by teachers at her local comprehensive that we would be doing our daughter’s educational prospects irrecoverable harm by moving to the US.  Fortunately this does not appear to be the case – her school report was positively glowing and she has coped with the transition from her small US high school to mega college style sixth form very well , with a work ethic and academic standard that appears to exceed many of her comprehensive school contemporaries.  I’m not saying the US system was perfect, far from it, but in our particular case I can’t help but think far from being detrimental to the teenager’s education it will prove a positive asset. (This may well say a lot more about her previous comprehensive school than the marvels of a private catholic high school education.)

A second highlight was another pub quiz team win, a nail biting evening with victory clinched by a single point.  Low lights included the dismal weather, a rather poor attempt at Christmas shopping, a trip to the dentist to have my very expensive US crown admired and prodded and eventually filed down, and an overheating cooker – which quite naturally failed to perform the same trick for the domestic appliance engineer when he came to examine it. 

The Christmas shopping is now on hold; a present ordered on line to save a trip to the shops arrived in pieces and had to be returned – to the shop, defeating the whole object. The cat has been cooped up in the house because of the weather and has perfected the art of jumping all over the furniture and chasing scrunched up pieces of paper  around the house – my rather desperate attempts at keeping him occupied. Almost barricaded into the house by a wall of leaves outside the front door I finally lured the cat out in a rare moment of watery sunshine and we did a bit of gardening.

All in all  a rather depressing week, which ended on another low - an over-indulgent Friday night trip to the pub resulting in a very groggy subdued weekend. Another Saturday night eating cheese on toast, drinking a cup of tea, and watching the X-Factor – how to make that sound interesting?

An evening spent with a delicious plateful of heart warming welsh rarebit,  accompanied by sips of refreshingly leafy Earl Grey, whilst watching a pointless exploitive exercise in media manipulation.  

At the least the creative writing course is coming on well.

Belgium Day II

Our second day in Bruges dawned clear and sunny. Wrapping up against the cold we headed out for a canal cruise. Tourism is the mainstay of Bruges’s economy; it’s an attractive city, full of historical squares surrounded by shops selling Belgian lace, chocolates, waffles and beer. It’s a positive calorie fest with an overriding sense of dental decay.

After our canal cruise, we headed for the town’s one remaining brewery for a guided tour, and a free glass of beer.  Following the beer, and a long walk around the town, admiring the architecture and a spot of shopping, we headed back to our hotel to take advantage of its wellness centre. Hidden in the vaults was a spa with a small steam room and sauna, the opportunity to relax and take the weight off our feet.

Did I fancy a steam? Yes of course but not with the naked elderly European man who, despite wearing his swimming trunks into the relaxation room promptly took them off. Why? Nobody else did. We retreated instead to the Sauna, to be joined by a costume clad German couple nursing their baby monitor. We relaxed to the contented gurgling of the baby.

We noticed the young couple the next day at breakfast, still nursing their baby monitor as opposed to the baby. Fortunately there was no embarrassing encounter with the naked steamer, although of course, would we have recognised him anyway with his clothes on?

Remaining slightly paranoid about our lack of flourescent clothing, I insisted we keep to small side roads as we headed for the coastal town of Blankenberg, one of Belgium’s premier sea side resorts.  Wrapped up against the biting cold of the foggy North Sea we took a stroll along the pier, where with a grimace and a squint, it was just possible to imagine ourselves back in Santa Monica on a bad marine layer day.  On our return we found ourselves facing an entire photography class capturing the grey mood through a telescopic lens – I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we don’t end up in someone’s portfolio in an arty little shot entitled Grim Couple on Bleak Pier or something depressingly similar.

 The Belgians might well have a reputation for being rather dour and a little dull, but they are definitely not lacking in a sense of humour.  Three large babies, part of a set of 15 created by the Czech sculptor David Cerny and originally placed along the sea wall to represent the town’s child friendliness, now adorn the wall of Blankenberg’s one casino, perched quite precariously at great height, and doing very little to reassure anyone about the town’s pledge to child safety.  

Blankenberg was definitely one of those places that would look better in the sunshine, but as for Bruges, I couldn’t fault it. The ideal spot for a romantic getaway – and talking of getaways, yes we did make it safely back to the UK without receiving a penalty for any traffic violations...

Under the Sea to Bruges

Extremely doubting the wisdom of leaving the teenager in charge following the Halloween debacle, it was with great trepidation that we set off for a romantic weekend in Bruges.

When our girls were little we holidayed in France nearly every year, usually heading to Brittany or the Vendee, an easy drive from the western ferry ports. The crossing used to be part of the fun.  Our holidays were planned with military like precision, routes researched, the car packed with hundreds of euro's and supplies for every eventuality; those continental motoring necessities of headlight converters, first aid kits and warning triangles safely stashed on board.

Now, when he's home on R&R and it’s just the two of us, we can be spontaneous, just hop in the car and go. We had decided to take the Channel Tunnel. Despite the fact that there is something slightly unnerving about travelling in an enclosed confined space under the sea, half an hour as a submariner in November seemed a preferable option to risking a choppy cross channel ferry. 

To pass the time on our short train journey, we munched on a sandwich and studied the RAC European motoring guide, where the words fluorescent jacket jumped out at us – a new legal driving requirement in both Belgium and France. Did we have one? No! Failure to possess a jacket, which has to be clearly visible in the back of your car, apparently carries an on the spot fine.

Before you could say moules and frites we were driving off the train in Calais and heading in a Bonnie and Clyde style of lawlessness towards the Belgium border. What if we were stopped by the police?  

Let’s just get to the hotel and all would be okay, I urged.  In an uncharacteristic stroke of forward planning Mr Romantic had phoned ahead and booked an underground parking space – our car, and its lack of jacket, would be safely hidden away, out of sight. That was when we discovered that not only did we not have our jacket, but we didn’t have directions to our hotel either. It was fine, he assured me, he’d stayed at the hotel before, he could remember his way through Bruges many tiny cobbled Medieval one way streets...

Circling the city twice, more through luck than judgement, we arrived. The car was deposited in the elevator to the garage, we were safely installed our luxurious room overlooking the canal.   He had redeemed himself, until he checked the website of the restaurant where we planned to spend the evening indulging in an expensive gastronomic delight, to discover it was cash only on Saturday nights. We headed out into the pouring rain to find an ATM.  So much for spontaneity....

The House of Horror

These were the rules: Yes she could have a party but for no more than 20 people, they had to stay in the kitchen and the conservatory, use the downstairs cloakroom and definitely no smoking indoors. We would go to the pub, but we would come back. It had to end at midnight.

It’s only a small Halloween party, I told myself, a chance for the teenager to catch up with her old school friends, socialise with some of the new, and drag in a couple of complete strangers off the street. The perfect party combo.  Add in some beer, copious amounts of vodka and a generous dose of who knows what else, and there you have it - 30 teenagers in the kitchen, in various stages of fancy dress, undress and total inebriation. Of course they weren’t all in the kitchen -  just go straight to your room mum, she said, don’t look at the stair carpet and don’t worry about the lad passed out on the landing or the two puking up in the bathroom.....

So how were these teenagers planning on getting home? On the train? Good what time is the last train? Half an hour ago. Apparently she had told them all they could stay the night. Where exactly??

The lights went on and the damage assessed.  Why do they drink so much? Why don’t they know when to stop? Why can’t they pick up a bottle when they break it? Why can’t they take their shoes off when they come in from the rain and head upstairs? Why were they even going upstairs? Why was I making such a fuss?  

Because I was genuinely concerned – not just about the state of my bathroom and my kitchen but about the welfare of these teenagers. I had visions of police, paramedics, parents, professional carpet cleaners..... 

So was I mad to let her have a party? Definitely according to my other half, what was I even thinking of? Discussing anything on our regular skype sessions is extremely difficult – conversations generally run along the lines of I can’t hear you, you’re frozen, you’re pixellated, what was that you said? I said she’s asked to have a small party on Halloween. I think his reply must have been lost somewhere in cyber space.

Those who did stay the night (and it was very many) seemed more than happy to clear up in the morning and they all assured me they’d had a great time.  If great referred to the amount of vomit produced, I could understand it, but is it really such fun throwing up all night?  

24 hours later and the house was more or less back to normal.  The worries and dramas of the previous evening had evaporated - the lost i-phone  had been found, the 16 year old set off by herself on the 3 mile walk home at 1.00 am had safely returned, and the passed out had revived. 

Nobody died, the teenager cheerfully pointed out. There was no permanent damage apart from a broken candle holder which I didn’t even like, the stair carpet was already looking better after only one attempt with the Vax, and ever since we’d moved in we’d been saying the hallway walls needed freshening up with a new coat of paint. In fact, both the bathrooms and the kitchen are now a lot cleaner than they’ve ever been so she’s probably done me a favour really....