De-Cluttering

When we arrived back in the UK 18 months ago and moved into our new house, we realised we had accumulated a lot of stuff.

We had shipped home the contents of a spacious three bedroom apartment, plus we’d kept a UK flat containing the ‘basics’. The new house became home to two sets of everything.  One year on and daughter no 1 graduated and returned home, albeit briefly, with several boxes of possessions acquired as a student, and then the husband finished his stint in Saudi and another overseas consignment arrived, containing yet more stuff.

I’ve realised I’m not so much living in a house as a three storey storage unit with a kitchen and a bathroom.

A few years back I was a great fan of that programme ‘Life Laundry’.  I’ve always been quite good at de-cluttering, trying not become too sentimental about inanimate objects, and encouraging the others around me to 'let go'.

With my other half now home and relatively quiet on the work front, we decided it would be a good time to finally put our stamp on the new house and decorate. What better opportunity, as each room is emptied for painting, than to de-clutter.

I don’t need four cut-glass fruit bowls. I rarely entertain.  Nostalgia has its place, but the chipped Grecian urn bought many moons ago on a package holiday to Rhodes has probably had its day. As with clothes, the fashion, and passion, for kitchenware and ornaments change. It’s time to be out the old, and not necessarily, in with the new.

I have every intention of downsizing in the not too distant future, so it’s off to the charity shop with several bags of belongings.  Old furnishings, Jigsaw puzzles, boardgames – why am I keeping them? Trivial Pursuit anyone? No, I didn’t think so.

Perhaps it’s the arrival of the spring sunshine but I’ve also felt the need to rejuvenate colour schemes, plump up cushions and re-arrange a few pictures around the house.

‘You wouldn’t know I lived here,’ the teenager complained when she noticed her photograph had been removed from the mantelpiece.  (One look upstairs and there is no doubt we still have a teenager living in the house).  Despite the fact that there is very fetching picture of her on a nearby windowsill, and another on the bookcase, a photo on the mantelpiece is apparently the ultimate accolade.

As for the bookcase, do we actually need books any more now that we’ve all evolved onto the Kindle? Should I de-clutter my bookcase, throw out all those much loved favourites now that I have the ability to download everything?  Now that’s a tricky one. Maybe there are some things that are still sacrosanct after all.

Gone Girl

We all have to learn to take criticism.  I’m a Virgo which means I take it quite badly. However, in the writing game you have to learn to take your knocks – and your rejections – and pick yourself up again.  We all know the story of JK Rowling and how many publishers are now kicking themselves because they turned down her first story about Harry Potter…

So, when my tutor gives me advice, I generally take it.  We are constantly told to ‘show’ not tell, leave the reader guessing, allow them to use their imagination to fill in the gaps. This directly contravenes with ‘too many questions unanswered’ – another one of my tutor's favourites, presumably when I have taken the first piece of advice too far.

People think writing is easy, and it isn’t. It’s a skill, it’s a craft.  You have to hook your reader, keep them guessing, then give them a satisfactory finish. Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl was (apparently) the book of last summer.  It’s not an easy read, but I persevered only to be rewarded with the crappiest ending ever. Having stuck with the two obnoxious antagonists over many chapters I felt I deserved something better - one of them at least should have got their come-uppance (and it's not very often I'm on the side of an adulterous husband....).  I felt the author had copped out and I felt cheated.

Last term my tutor told me I’d ‘cheated’ the reader out of a proper ending on a 900 word short story because it didn’t have a definite ‘conclusion’, I re-wrote it.  I understand that Gillian Flynn has now done the same for the film version of her book. Shame no-one suggested it earlier.  I'm usually the first one up in arms when a story is changed beyond recognition to satisfy Hollywood. As far as I can see in Gone Girl's case it can only be a good thing!

War Horse

Some people resort to Amazon and Trip Advisor to let loose their amateur feature writing skills.  I want a quick review of a book and I get a 1000 word synopsis.  All I really need to know is did the reader enjoy it and would they recommend it. Likewise hotels.

We all really want to write for the Sunday Times Travel supplement, but alas, we can’t. Sometimes we have to make do with blogs.

Today, I’d like to be a theatre critic.

Back in the Autumn I’d been given theatre vouchers as a birthday treat. The husband isn’t a great one for the theatre, so I was determined to spend them wisely. At least I would have the consolation of knowing that if he was going to nod off, as has been known in the past, it wouldn’t be my money he was wasting.

Months ago (and just as well as the show is now sold-out) I used my vouchers to book two tickets to see the National Theatre’s production of War Horse at the Mayflower Theatre in Southampton.

I could tell he was apprehensive –  was it a musical? I assured him it wasn’t. Would there be dancing? I highly doubted it. Was it a comedy? In a story about the Great War - unlikely.

Having been advised it was helpful to know the plot beforehand, he quickly Googled the book.

‘There’s an awful lot of characters…..’ he warned me.

It's true. I’ve never seen a play with such a large cast. At least the Mayflower has a big stage, and it certainly needed it with galloping horses, tanks, and field guns.

The puppetry was – to coin one of my (least) favourite Americanisms – awesome. For anyone who has no idea what I’m talking about, the two full-size horses in the show are operated by teams of actors.  The co-ordination of the mechanics, atmosphere and creativity that went into the whole performance was stunning.

The basic premise of the story – boy meets horse, loses horse and finds it again is played out against the brutal backdrop of the First World War, which is of course very topical, and perhaps even more poignant in this centenary year.

War Horse is clever, emotionally charged and thought provoking, yet at the same time, very entertaining.  If I had one criticism - and it would be very petty - it would have to be the accents.  I know the farm boy was meant to be from Devon but did he have to sound quite so much like a Wurzel?  Yes I enjoyed it, and yes, I’d thoroughly recommended it.

Starting Over...(again)

I woke up this morning and decided to start blogging again.

I’m not quite sure why it fell by the wayside. I’ve hardly been busy – but perhaps that was the problem. Not enough to write about.

It’s all right harping on about the challenges of being an ex-ex-pat but eighteen months on and it's as if I’d never been away.  There's nothing surreal about shopping in Tesco and bumping into people I’d known at secondary school.

My creative writing tutor says we all need a ‘writers’ platform, where we can boast about our successes and promote our work.  We need to blog, tweet, and brag about ourselves on Facebook. I’m self-effacing so that type of thing doesn’t sit comfortably with me, but having finally had a short story ‘accepted’ by a magazine - albeit it a local free one (and the story is on hold until later in the year) – I probably do need to start getting myself out there again.  

So, six months on from my last post, where I am? Adjusting.  The husband has returned home so we’ve progressed from me, the cat and a teenager, to a household of four. It’s amazing the additional amount of housework one extra creates -  and a routine again as well. He wants proper meals – none of that oh we’ll have scrambled egg on toast tonight in front of the TV I could get away before.

The teenager is also now 18, a fully qualified driver and less teenager and more young adult – although one look in her room confirms the teenage status. Keep the door shut on it all the parenting books tell you, so I do.

Daughter No 1 graduated and is working abroad.  We’ve obviously given her the taste for the travel bug.  She is also a blogger – probably another incentive to take it up again (a little competition is always a good thing).  She has moved to Asia, where she is embracing a celebrity lifestyle as something of a novelty – a blonde in Beijing.

 I hit the half century – a depressing day brightened considerably by an early morning flight to Rome and a wonderful week’s holiday in Italy – which I could have written numerous travel blogs about, and probably should have done, although it’s a bit late now.

The weight gained from seven solid days of pasta has refused to come off, despite lengthy walks – currently in waders and wellingtons along the river.  I had hoped this weight increase could be blamed on muscle from increased sessions at the gym, but a diagnosis of high cholesterol at my over 50’s health check put paid to that. Too much cheese, wine and yoghurt apparently (I thought yoghurt was good for you?)

Anyway, life isn’t so bad on the downhill slope.  I’ve decided not to hurtle, but to gently slalom. I can’t put off the ageing process so I might as well enjoy it. At least I can finally put my ‘senior moments’ down to just that.

One picture of Italy - more may follow 

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......