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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