Victorian Attitudes

Posted on January 24, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes

Behaving at school!

 

Times are a changing!

I guess for adults reading this your age will change your recollection slightly.  When you recall your school days some like me; will be filled with horror at the tunnelled opportunities and others will remember the expected respect and obedience.

I was limited to find a profession I would be happy following while at school. I eventually settled on wanting to be a nurse; it was a good respectable career, it also turned out to be one of the few acceptable jobs Sister Edward Mary our esteemed head would allow.  Coming from a medical background I was already comfortable with blood and gore.   The nuns at the school disguised themselves as teachers but in reality;  secretly were trying to recruit potential novices and I ticked all their boxes; except compliance.  So if they really couldn’t persuade me to be a nun, there were a few options left; housewife but I needed to find a husband and in our ultra protected girly environment that was never going to happen.   Teaching was an acceptable profession but as the availability of A’levels was decidedly inadequate; teaching was also a non starter.  Actually I had wanted to go to university to do Mechanical Engineering.  Even now I can see the tiny Sister Edward Mary wither visably at the sheer horror of it.

I did want to be a writer even back then but creativity was drummed out and it was certainly not a suitable calling for a young innocent catholic girl.   Stories with any imagination were rewarded with low marks and punishment for the insolence and lies told within them.  To be fair I spent a lot of time in punishment for other things I now consider very unjust.  Thankfully by that time castigation had moved from corporal punishment to sitting in the head’s office.    In my later years I now empathise with the likes of the Bronte sisters writing under the name of Bell and Mary Anne Evans who most people will only know as George Eliot.   Now it will not be disapproving  society perceptions that prevents my novel being sent away and published.

I, being the eldest of a dynasty of little catholics, three of whom were girls and would follow me through the school, gave me particular kudos.  The school struggling to survive and having to turn to non-catholics to keep the numbers up meant all “little birds” (catholic children) were particularly special to all the nuns which equated to most of the staff.  We were as spirited as other children but as long as we appeared penitent at the right times we could get away with a lot more.  I was particularly special, I was not really naughty but found myself removed from certain lessons where a clash of personality may ensue.  I ended up studying Latin with the aforementioned little nun, thus increasing my unique position in the school,  and opening up more channels to rebel.

Rebellion was slight and never malicious.   Life was too stern for that and you took your chances if you did step out of the deep accepted furrow of acceptable behaviour laid out ahead of you.   I probably still bear the scars mentally if not physically from rulers across my hand or chalk hitting my face.   I became rather practised at avoiding the blackboard wiper, which the girl behind me never quite forgave me for.   It would not actually occur to those of my school generation to talk back to an adult, or to be caught doing anything that could even be construed as really naughty.  We would not only be punished then but also with no questions asked be punished at home as well.

Times have changed a lot and some of it for the better.  Children can certainly enjoy their schooling and they have so many opportunities to really make it the best time in their lives.    They are involved in decision making and given the opportunities to discuss and make informed decisions ranging from projects at primary school right up to the myriad of courses offered at A’level, college and work experience.   Praised and encouraged to work hard, to express themselves  and to utilise the wonderful resources available, youngsters today have so many prospects to enable their lives to be enriched and their opportunities endless.

There is and always will be poverty which is as apparent now as it was in Victorian days.  There will always be adults who abuse and hurt children just as there have always been and no amount of freedom for the children to highlight it will prevent it happening and may keep it underground for longer.

Mini Son is studying Victorians at the moment in school.  He has found it hard to accept the barbaric treatment of boys in those days.  His class are going on a school outing and will be taken to an education museum where they will dress as Victorians, the teachers going with them are dressing up too and the venue will be set up as a school with the old desks and chair in the corner.

They have obviously been told how hard schools were in those days as he told me this morning that if the school caned him, he will sue….!

We enquired why he thought he would be caned and were told, “if I am naughty at school they put you on a chair and make you look at the corner and if you are still naughty they cane you”.  We suggested he behave during the trip and there would be no risk of him being punished.  Instead of promising to do as he was told he informed us seriously “I will sue, mummy if they cane me”.

I asked if he knew how to sue.   It involves sending a letter; he needs to practise his riting to send the letter, his reading to understand the reply and his rithmatic to count all that money.

How times have changed.

 

Tiggy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Cunning Smoke

Posted on January 17, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes

I, like hundreds of others tried smoking at a very tender age.  My parents were smokers.  They had grown up when the risks were not as emphasised as nowadays.  Everyone in their social circles smoked even their close friends the local Doctors and their wives.   As I reached my teenage years the risks were far better known and I watched my parents struggle to give up. They did both manage to kick the habit but it had been hard.

So, as a youngster I thought it best that I try it out. Being the eldest I would be called upon at some point in the future to show the others how to do it.    After one of my parent’s parties I, being an early riser even then, carefully gathered all the old dog ends I could find and created the beginnings of my pyre.  With my parents and any overstay guests still sleeping off the excesses of the night I launched into my first (and soon to be only smoking frenzy). I was adept at lighting the cigarettes and puffed on them quite contentedly and so grown-uply. Realising that I could not emulate the hypnotic smoke rings without inhaling as well as puffing, I lit up another.  I put the tip to my mouth and inhaled deeply, drawing in the dying dregs of nicotine before it hit me; that awful nausea.   I was so violently sick that day that I have never even been tempted to try another cigarette to this day.

At 15 I was distraught when my best friend did an exchange to Spain over the summer and came back hooked on the mild ciggies as she told me.  I was convinced she would not live to see out all our plans we had made.  It was other circumstances that changed our plans; her running off to marry and have children thankfully she is still here today and sadly still trying to quit.   I had come back from my summer exchange incredibly fit, radiant with sun kissed colour but with a broken heart having fallen passionately in love with the slightly older, tanned, sporty brother of my exchange friend.

Without being hypocritical I do have an issue learning that Middle Son has been caught at school smoking.  A few years ago I discovered that he was smoking while out with friends.  In a town as small as ours where we know nearly everyone, he will need to be a lot smarter than he currently is to keep many secrets from us.   We discussed it at the time and he assured me in his nicotine smelling breath that, it was his friends that were smoking and he was just there cos they were his friends.

A year or so later I did really believe that the novelty and defiance had worn off and he had given up. However even a mother can be hoodwinked especially when she wants to be. He had begun cleaning his teeth vigorously and discovered lynx deodorant which he used liberally.

Warning bells then rang when a few weeks before the end of last term the school called me to tell me there had been an incident at school, a near fight was averted with the timely arrival of the teacher.   Middle Son was about to turn on the boys tormenting him.  He was removed from the group and the boys were reprimanded.  They had been after his bag to get hold of the tobacco they believed to be in there.  He assured his head of year he no longer smoked and the boys were mistaken.

They had only been back a week and he was seen rolling papers on his way to school, which when confronted he emphatically denied the smoking and told Sexy Sporty Dad they were for the friend he walks to school with as she smokes and her parents are ok with that.

I now learn that he was taken out of school one day last week and spent the day with his tutor, other teachers having  to set him extra work to do as he followed her from lesson to lesson.  The head of year will be calling me to inform me he was caught smoking on the school grounds.   I dare say this same head of year, who has invested a lot of time in Middle Son will be more upset by his not telling the truth before Christmas than this latest misdemeanour .

How thin is the ice I am about to tread.  He is a teenager and I am afraid to say, it is in his nature to try these things.  I suspect there is nothing I can do to actually stop him, as he will do it behind our backs.  What I intend to punish is the fact that he lied to his head of year, to his father and to the boys who were punished for bullying him.

He is grounded for a fortnight.

It has all turned out ok because he has decided to take up running and he disappeared having borrowed Sexy Sporty Dad’s running shoes to go for a run all by himself.  A battle of cunning I suspect.  What he forgets is his parents may be aged and forgetful now but it was not that long ago we were teenagers and we helped write the book on rebelism.   We called him when we realised that the poor boy must have fallen in a ditch or been kidnapped by aliens he was running for so long.  We also called his friend’s father.    He returned needing a desperate wee in the downstairs bathroom that I now realise has acquired a spare toothbrush.   Sexy Sporty Dad delayed him long enough to receive a nicotine enhanced tang each time Middle Son spoke.

It is going to be a long fortnight.

 Tiggy 

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Broken Resolutions

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes

Happy New Year.

I hope the festive season brought all you desired wrapped in love, health and happiness.  My biggest complaint; that it was not long enough, and I feel propelled into the New Year having not stopped for breath.

Before Christmas my boys had a wonderful week of pyjama days, not emerging till late morning and thanks to CBBC entertained almost all day long.  By evening, emotions, ennui and exhaustion were taking its toll on their weary bodies as bickering, banal banter and boorish behaviour broke out.

That week, I worked hard. I ran round cooking, shopping, wrapping and delivering presents.  The mountain of washing generated by three boys in their pyjamas was phenomenal.   I met my mother on route to stay with my brother, to swap presents.  Actually she had been organised enough to give me hers the last time we had met.  I on the other hand had not actually bought mine then.

Christmas Day we had a quiet intimate day.  Following midnight mass, the hope the boys would continue to sleep late was a mammoth misconception.  Having got them all to bed and waited till I could do my Christmas Eve creeping around I finally rolled into bed in the early hours of Christmas morning.   Amazingly it was barely a few hours later when little feet crept into the lounge and sorted out how many presents had their name on.

I was prepared; thanks to Nigella the turkey was bathed and cooked slowly overnight so was out of the way.  The veg had been lovingly peeled and chopped in readiness the day before and a very rigid list had been prepared; starting with breakfast.   Why then did I still spend the day in the kitchen slaving over the hot stove;   and what is wrong with beans on toast?  Next year I vow to go to the pub for Christmas Dinner.

What is wrong with Baked Beans on Toast?

We spent the next couple of days visiting family, which was where I was given Herman the friendship cake. I would put it in the league of how to lose friends and upset people.  Apparently on the continent you give them instead of Christmas cards; imagine if you have a lot of friends.  Herman is a cake mixture which you are supposed to stir each day, talking to it.  On day four you feed it then continue stirring till day eight.  You feed it again, divide into 5 portions, the first of which you cook and eat.  The other four portions you give to your friends who covertly curse your generosity.

I have to confess; I accepted it grudgingly but resolved to do my best by it.  The first days I could be found stirring and talking to a bowl!   Day four I did stir but forgot all about feeding.  Day six and seven I forgot to stir or talk and Herman stuck together.  The thought crossed my mind that I should feed him but Herman was not salvageable.  He was sent with other excess food past its edible date to the great compost heap in the brown bin.

This led to one of my more inspirational resolutions for this year:  the word is no!  I am resolved to try to learn the word no, to use it and to allow others the opportunity to say yes.  Saying no will probably be far harder than the usual getting fit, losing weight and writing; some of the other resolutions I have again signed up to.

Returning to work my resolution ringing in my ears; the word is no! The word is no.   I discovered my colleague is yet again signed off sick possibly only for one week but most likely for three.   Would I cover her workload; pay outstanding invoices, advertise for staff, all as quickly as possible.  The word is n-n-n n-n-n – well what was I supposed to say?    She has been off sick having had multiple operations over the last two and a half years and I get pulled in to cover each time.  She never even made it back full time between these last two operations.

So who has kept their resolution?

On my list I was going to walk 1 km a day, it wasn’t far I know but in preparation of my friend and neighbour Natty who is planning to get me jogging again.  Last time I jogged safely was pre-complications that originated from caesareans.   I had managed my walk until yesterday when I ended up staying late at work, meaning I was running late to do the shopping.

Oh well there was the 100 words; I wanted to write 100 words every day, to help get back into the discipline of writing.  I did very well earlier in the week, then yesterday knowing I only had to work the morning I left it till the afternoon.  Being the first day back the morning was stressful enough.  Guess what; I was late back from work, didn’t have enough time to do a proper shop and hence never got to do my 100 words.

There is always the healthy eating resolve.  Unfortunately yesterday I ended up working till late with no lunch and being the first day back no nibbles in the staff room.   I came back starving and late, so I grabbed a few chocolates from the tin, you know the ones that get left as nobody really likes them.   I finished the three half biscuits in the biscuit jar and grabbed a glass of weak squash all that was left in the bottle,  to keep me going.  Having done the shopping and spent far too much because I was hungry and everything looks so much better, I got home and collapsed on the sofa with a cup of tea and Christmas cake.   So much for saying no!

I have however, resolved to overcome my big fear about sending out my story; Memories.   I picked three very dear people who like the friendship cake may not appreciate my generosity.  They have supported the story from the beginning and all three had read and commented favourable on the first three chapters, so I sent them the story.   It took me two hours to send it. The body of the email got longer and longer till it was nearly a book in itself, I scrapped it and began again.  I procrastinated, prevaricated and paused several more times before plucking up the courage to finally press that send button.   I hope they will come back with some glimmer they think it is worth pursuing with.

So having broken only my first resolution it resulted in the domino effect on all the other resolutions. What about yours?  Have you made any and have you managed to keep them going longer than a few days. I have managed to write at least 1 word this morning – just popping off to do my 100 km walk or maybe it is the other way round!

Tiggy

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Nativity Tidings

Posted on December 23, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

celebrating the birth of a very special babyOnce upon a time in a land far far away a young man found himself travelling miles from home with his pregnant fiancée to a town heaving with visitors.   The emperor had decided to count his wealth and check that all his subjects were paying enough dues.  Our young couple arrived tired and hungry having travelled many days to reach there.  The young girl scared and heavy with child, wanted to lie down and rest but there was nowhere left for them to rent.   Joseph, for that was his name, knocked on every hotel asking for a bed but they were all full.

Finally a pub landlord taking pity on this young couple, allowed them to use a rickety draughty barn behind the pub.   It was dry and warmish; there were animals already in there, but they could at least rest.   Gratefully they moved in and settled themselves in for a long night.

As Joseph slept, his fiancée Mary gently woke him to tell him the baby was coming.   He padded around the little stable, not sure what to do as his beautiful bride to be cried out with pain, fear and emotion.   He held her hand, wiped her brow and watched as she gave birth to a bouncing baby boy.      The landlord had managed to dig out an old sheet for them to sleep on and Joseph carefully wrapped the baby in it laying him in the animals’ food trough.

He gently caressed Mary’s shoulder; she soothed the baby’s tears.  A group of cold tired shepherds came in from the hills around the town.  They had received the heads up about a baby’s birth and had come to see what the fuss was for themselves.

It took twelve days for Joseph to register his name along with Mary and their new born son; and for Mary to feel like travelling again.  The night before they left was a clear starry night and they were disturbed again by three surprisingly rich men travelling to find a baby.  A bewildered Joseph welcomed them into his humble stable as they offered their precious gifts to this tiny tot.

The next day they all left and lived happily ever after.

Well it didn’t quite end like that did it?  Apologies as well for having adapted this story slightly.

A story we all know so well, woven into the very fabric of our lives.   Many people the world over will 2000 years later still; be celebrating the birth of that tiny infant so many years ago.   They will be giving and receiving expensive gifts in remembrance of the gifts given by those wise men.   They will eat drink and make merry in celebration of that baby lying in the manager from where animals ate their food.  There will be a prolonged season of good will towards others, sending of cards, going out for drinks, the works party.

Will we remember that tiny child who came to save the world, with every card we get, each drink we raise to the heavens? That swaddling babe grew up instead of happy ever after; his distraught, alone and tormented mother stood and watched him die on the cross like a common criminal deserted by his followers and friends.

In a solitary strike against commercialism I gave up sending Christmas cards some years ago.  I would find myself traipsing through shops looking for cards with a semblance of religious meaning; and found them increasingly rare.   I am glad to note that charity cards are making a comeback; many with nativity scenes on them.   I also resent the cost of the stamp when there were charities struggling to help really needy people.   I, like many friends I now realise, have for the past few years donated a sum of money to a charity instead of the sending the traditional cards.   This year my charity will be the Dorset Air Ambulance who are often called to the rugby club or the school fields where there is accessible space to land.  Thankfully not all the time is it a rugby or school injury but the ambulance is the quickest route to hospital for anyone sick or injured in our town.

I don’t have a problem with other people sending cards, although my mother was complaining it had cost her nearly £50 in stamps to send her cards this Christmas.   With her generation it seems to be a way of keeping in touch although each year brings a spate of more sad news, as someone has passed on during the year.    News we may have kept up with on facebook or twitter, if her generation were more technically adept.

There is a flurry of consumerism that becomes more and more fanatical at this time of year.  The news tells us we are in a recession, many people are out of work and struggling but the adverts are still full on with suggestions to tempt which they know will succeed because we cannot bear the thought of someone not having what they want.

Children have switched on to Christmas in a big way.   They watch the adverts; they comb through the Argos catalogue, and add all kinds of items to the shopping basket at Amazon.  The list of things they have to have from Father Christmas is two A4 sides long.  The same Father Christmas that they no longer believe in but would be horrified if he passed over the house on Christmas Eve and forgot to leave a stocking and present for them.

Most children will have taken part or at least watched some form of nativity play these last weeks.  Many of them will be humming carols and Christmas songs as they go about their daily toil of chilling out, now the term has finished.   There will be a spate of Christmassy films on the TV for them to watch.  A few will attend midnight mass with all its cheer and Christmassy music, and will the priest be giving out chocolates to all the children in the congregation again this year.  Can No 1 Son and Middle Son still claim to be children in order to get the chocolate?

How many people will stop and really think about the real Christmas?  Who will go and wish the lonely old man next door a happy Christmas.  Who will remember those who have lost loved ones in this run up to the festive season, when the grief is still raw and normal life cannot return?  Which carols will be sung with true meaning remembering the story they tell and not just mouthing the words?   Somewhere in our hearts let us show goodwill to others and help someone out over the Christmas period without the expectation of reward.  Each carol we sing out with enthusiasm and excitement; allow it to strike a chord as we remember the tiny baby born in a stable with the cows and sheep looking on.

I wish all my readers a happy and peaceful Christmas.  I trust my new year will be filled with exciting happy events for me to tell you all about and that my children continue to grow and do well at whatever they choose.  I hope your new year will be filled with love, health and prosperity.

Wishing you all a very joyful Christmas.  Thank you for reading, subscribing and commenting on the blog.

Tiggy

 

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New Celebration

Posted on December 16, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

It was only five minutes ago I was waddling around rushing to complete my Christmas shopping way too early, for me at any rate.   We went out on the Saturday in Sexy Sporty Dad’s little spitfire and traversed the countryside finally finding what I was looking for in the town only miles from where we were living. It was a pair of leather driving gloves for my brother.

As we reached home a friend rung to say her digs had been burgled and she didn’t know how to change the lock.  Selflessly as ever Sexy Sporty Dad got back into the spitfire and we drove back to town.

That night, 10 glorious days before he was due No 1 Son made his debut onto the world’s stage.  Well not quite that night; 2 days of hard labour for his mother.  At least he wasn’t 10 days late and arrive on Christmas day as people had warned me, first babies had a habit of doing.

Beautiful Bouncing Boy

I remember in minute detail, the movements of that day and week 16 years ago, as yet again we find ourselves celebrating the events of that weekend.  That tiny little thing, who would only open one eye at a time to peer round taking this new wondrous world in, is now taller than me, plays rugby, is about to finish school, he thinks and is; he informs me allowed to buy a lottery ticket.

I have been buying them since before he was born and my numbers are still waiting to come up, so if he can do better; then give it a try but remember whose £1 it was first.

Buying birthday presents for 16-year-old boys is not an easy task; the moped he was desperate for had been consigned to another list, if not the bin.  Thankfully he has listened to my comments about tax, insurance and petrol.  Persuaded against the moped, by his safety conscious mother he asked for a SLR camera.

A learning curve in camera lingo ensued as I trawled the internet for a suitable present.  I found one on Amazon that matched all our requirements except the price band. If we gave him a joint birthday and Christmas present, a practice I have avoided for 16 years, we could nearly justify the cost.

The new Canon EOS has been launched and this company were selling off their old style, said the blurb.  We would never afford the new one but could stretch for this one, it had all that a 16-year-old boy would need including interchangeable lenses that he could buy more of as he understood the camera better and earned his own money.

We bought and paid for the camera, sat back with smiles upon our faces pleased that we had sorted his present in such good time.

The camera duly arrived in a box I could only just manage to carry sideways through the door of the post office.   We hid it with all the excitement and trepidation of a toddler waiting for Christmas, until all was quiet in the house and we were able slowly to open the package.  Inside was a Nikon camera case.   Not what we were expecting.  We looked at each other, surely we had bought Canon.  Delving further inside the case was a Canon EOS carefully wrapped in bubble wrap and a lens also wrapped in bubble wrap.  No leads, no instructions, no memory card to get him started.     We were holding; not new, but a second-hand camera.

Back onto the website I could not find the complete advert but under my recent transactions the description definitely says condition: new.  To me I understand new to mean unused, in the original packaging together with instruction manual and guarantee.

Sexy Sporty Dad had found a delivery note.   It said this is a nearly new item and the lenses are very new and fabulous.

Tremendous Tackling Teenager

A very strongly worded email was sent via the Amazon web site to the seller and to Amazon themselves who replied within a few hours, apologising that one of their market sellers had upset me.   Could I allow her 3 days, then if I was not happy they would file a claim.

We are now awaiting the outcome of the claim.  The seller did send a very curt reply after Amazon had filed the claim against her; stating that had it been a new camera we would have had to pay more but it was with regret she had sold it at that prix.   No refund would be given as the lenses had hardly been used.

No 1 Son had to make do with a few rushed pressies I was able to pick up at the supermarket to celebrate.   He is now of the age where he can understand what is happening and he has picked out a camera he quite likes when the claim comes through.  I am fairly confident we will win as Amazon have agreed with us that new means what I understand it to mean; unused.  Also if they lost me as a customer I expect the whole e-commerce market would collapse into an irrecoverable recession.

Now that the birthday is out-of-the-way we will be permitted to begin preparing for the Christmas festivities.   We will be looking for a Christmas tree this weekend, a new one not previously used.

Tiggy

Ps  Amazon have settled the claim in full including postage costs before the date they promised and the money has already gone back onto the credit card, which was lucky as my car needed work to the brakes in order to pass its MOT.  With the weather threatening and some long journeys looming over Christmas my brakes needed to be safe.

No 1 Son has not been forgotten; I have already ordered him a bridge style camera for him to use and learn on, including memory card and case.  I am not sure my feedback will be quite as fantastic as the photos we are expecting from No 1 Son

 

 

 

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Achieving the Goal

Posted on December 7, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

Tiggy inspired by team members

You join me a week after the end of NANOWRIMO and forgive me if I am a little self congratulatorythis week, but I did manage to complete the mammoth challenge I had laid out for myself and wrote  50,816 words in just 30 days.  I finally uploaded my words for verification and felt a huge weight lift from my shoulders; especially as the weekend before I had only uploaded 26,000 words. I had hand written more but did not know if I had written an achievable amount or if I would be too far behind.

I know if you cast your eye over any local paper you will see hundreds of challenges being completed; treks to outer Mongolian jungles, cycling from John-o-Groats to Lands End even jumping from an aeroplane, they are all personal challenges driven on by a desire to succeed.  My personal choice may have been less physical, just words and not something my boys will admit to, but it was my challenge and I feel suitably smug now that I again have the choice to get up early in the morning, or leave the late night typing to another time.

There were hurdles along the way and unexpected calls on my very precious time which sometimes I may not have given quite as generously as normal.    I still had a house to run, three growing children needing food and water and a husband requiring guidance and tending.    I have another job that required my presence, not to mention the time I already give to the children’s rugby club.

Nothing is possible without support and I couldn’t have done this without it, keeping me going particular when the task seemed just a little too overwhelming.  Some people may not have taken on board quite how daunting the task was;  “yeah I always think I might write a book, it’s not that difficult you just need time” a close friend told me as she went on to tell me how her daughter was and why she was cross with her ex husband this time.  One friend shrugged her shoulders and said “oh well I must introduce you to someone, she’s a real writer.”  I am not quite sure what defines a real writer but I am working hard to qualify.     Most people were far more complimentary about my attempts even if they thought I may have overstepped the insanity line.

Scrum Down (working title), starts on a rugby pitch with a team of under 16s players.  It looks behind the obvious game and battles on the pitch at the private lives and what makes them tick.   I learnt more about the scary transition young lads are making as they bumble blindly into adulthood.   I think I realise the difficulties they have; to rise to the expectations of their families, their teachers and the outside world.

After all they are grownups; in some cultures they would have been welcomed into the adult world via some traditional and often weird initiation ceremony.   Here, in this country they are still children and particular as my study has shown me, boys, still wanting to run and have the freedom to play around.  Convention tells us they need to knuckle down and think about their futures and study subjects they just don’t get; they are still unsure of what they want, unready to take on the responsibilities of maturity.  Relationships are suddenly so fragile yet so intense.  Games they play have more consequences and can be more dangerous where alcohol and drugs are readily available.  The once playground battles of cowboys and Indians are played out on the wider scale with rival gangs often fighting for a cause they do not know;  play pistols and daggers replaced by knives and tension entrenched with a testosterone fuelled force they did not know existed.

Shakespeare first commented on this in Romeo and Juliette, exploring the feelings and unpredictability of teenagers.   Tybalt, I am convinced never really meant to kill Mercutio and likewise Romeo most certainly did not mean to kill Tybalt; he had just married Juliette, Tybalt’s cousin but in a heated moment it all goes too far and too wrong.

Sondheim and Bernstein updated the theme for their version of West Side Story where the same thread runs through their musical in a 1950’s era of Jets and Sharks.  You believe the union between Maria and Tony will bridge the disharmony on the streets; again it is the futile tragedy of Riff, Bernardo and Tony all dead that finally unites the Jets and Sharks.

Many other films; for example Grease and even the magical world of Harry Potter explores the tensions and rivalry as boys grow up, some with thankfully happier and more realistic endings than Romeo and Juliette.

I have tried in my novel to explore the inner workings of boys’ brains as they struggle with the conflictions and expectations they feel are expected just as hormones reach raging point and adulthood determines their expected loss of emotion and vulnerability.

It is very rough draft at the moment.  I am taking an enforced break from the pressure of deadlines but will go back to the story in time.   I already feel the need to change the end slightly and develop some of the characters and their families.    Memories1 is still waiting for me to brave out the publishing world so I would not hold my breath about Scrum Down being in print anytime soon.

Unfortunately I have missed the latest series of the choir, despite having been in love with Gareth Malone ever since he turned the troublesome school children around.  This time he picked on a group of military wives and has nurtured them into a 100 strong choir who sang at the Albert Hall for a Remembrance Day concert.

This particular project of his like the children at the school just hit a chord that I find hard to ignore.   The song has been written from the letters the wives sent to their beloved husbands while they served abroad.  I don’t want to ever take anything away from our brave brave soldiers fighting wars, who put their lives on the line every day for Queen and country.  Gareth, has however,  brought an awareness of the wonderful women they leave behind.

We only hear the bad press stories when a soldier is killed.  These woman wave their men off as they leave for war torn foreign places, as I wave Sexy Sporty Dad; then live in unbearable fear they may never see their loved one again.   They look after the homes and the children and carry on with their lives dreading the car coming to their door with bad news.   They welcome back their husbands, partners, fathers of their children and help them adjust to life back in a country thankfully not at war, often suffering if not from physical injury but the horrendous mental images that will never leave those men.

I have got behind the movement to get “Wherever you are” to No 1 for Christmas for two reasons; firstly I don’t care how brilliant, great, entertaining the winner of the X factor will be, I feel they do not have a right to take the No 1 spot.  So many artists produce great songs around this time and in recent years have not even been able to compete.

The second reason I will pre-order this record is that it is a long time since a song has moved me so much I actually want to buy a song.  The words mean so much and are written right from the soul.  You don’t have to wave your lover off to war to tell him “wherever you are; our hearts still beat as one.”

Please go to Amazon (https://www.amazon.co.uk/Wherever-Military-Wives-Gareth-Malone/dp/B006DWW4SA/ref=sr_1_1?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1323162722&sr=1-1) and play the video and I challenge you not to cry.  I have watched it several times now and I think my tears are starting earlier each time.   To quote Chris Evans “it is a song the world needs”.  If you feel strongly about anyone then dip into your pocket and buy it for them for Christmas.  Help Gareth and his wonderful choir to achieve their goal.

Thanks

Tiggy

Memories1    written for NANOWRIMO last year and still being edited, waiting for me to overcome my fear and send it away.

 

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Tumble Down

Posted on November 23, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

The mountain of washing that accumulates in my house is gargantuan.    Like the famous Forth Bridge; by the time it is completed, it needs starting again.   We own two washing baskets one for the children’s bathroom and one for ours; magic baskets that fill and overflow without any visible signs of help.  I can empty them; sorting them both into piles, colours dark and light, whites, woollens and special wash items, return the baskets and by the end of the first wash I guarantee one at least will be full to overflowing.

I have a theory; one of course disputed avidly by the rest of the family.   I wash and return the clothes not quite to the inner sanctum of their rooms; where I dare not tread for fear of never coming out alive, but to outside their rooms.    The clothes then dutifully disappear inside the room away from my watchful eye.

Cries of, “I have no socks, boxers, jumpers”, resound around the house regularly, despite the pile that was left ready and waiting outside their rooms.   Finally another clear out of baskets reveals, socks amazingly only one of a pair at a time.   Also boxers, jumpers and all manner of trousers, shorts and shirts miraculously refill the baskets.     Items of clothing which I have just washed and we haven’t actually had the opportunity to wear.

My theory is that outside the bedroom is only one step away from being thrown back in the wash bin.  I have on occasion, actually emptied out still folded and ironed items of clothing.  Naturally none of my boys would dream of such a thing ; so I am in ownership undoubtedly, of a washing imp.  The antithesis of my more hallowed kitchen pixie who appears early in the morning and clears away the debris left from the night before when I am often too tired to contemplate it.

In a household of sports loving boys, along with the washing machine, constant supply of washing powder and conditioner the other can’t do without equipment to keep this never ending task from backing up; is the tumble dryer.   Understandably not everything can go in the tumble dryer but with winter fast approaching and the mud and wet of sports kit more caked on and needing re-wearing on an alarming regularity, there is a large proportion of my washing that needs to be tumbled.

For weeks now my little tumble dryer has been on the blink, literally.    It tumbles with no problem however the heating element has been completely temperamental, only working when the door is firmly shut or it is completely empty of water or when there is a T in the day of the week.    It will tumble and turn the washing for hours without actually doing any good but having used huge chunks of electricity, not to mention swear words under my breath.

This weekend it finally died on me once too often and I was left with no heat at all, no matter how carefully I patted, encouraged or gently co-erced the stupid machine.   Nothing would happen.

The house was beginning to resemble a clothes factory with items of attire adorning each and every radiator in the building.  The banisters make a fabulous bar to throw skirts (mine of course) or trousers over and the shower rail is ideal for hanging pre ironing on.  Added to which the heating has to be running constantly and the children complain of the heat, not required against cold but to get the clothes dry.  Bedding, towels and anything that can be delayed was piling up into an insurmountable peak in the bathroom.

In a fit of desperation I advertised on freecycle just in case anyone had a spare.  Well if you don’t ask you don’t get.  I am very well aware that tumble dryers are the kind of thing you only replace when one is broken.  Just maybe, I conjured the scene in my mind’s eye; someone had one that would limp through the winter until the January sales offered me a never to be repeated, once in a million, incredible saving on just the perfect tumble dryer for me.

For all cynics in this world; there is a god.

I had a phone call last night from a friend of a friend; checking there definitely was not more than one of me in the area.   I could assure her there is only one of me. Apologies for calling you at home but did you place an advert on freecycle for a tumble dryer?

I have a second hand one that works fine but with all my children, and she does have a lot and much younger than mine, my mother has just, for my birthday, bought me a new all singing all dancing super fast model to keep up with my washing.   I was about to offer my old one on freecycle and recognised your name.

What could I say.

Her husband brought it round and fitted it last evening with Sexy Sporty Dad; I sent back a bouquet of flowers which I hope she will enjoy looking at more than the utilitarian gift of the tumble dryer her lovely mother treated her to, which will last many years longer than the flowers.

Four loads of washing later I am delighted to report; it works a dream and there are radiators visible once again in my house, I can pull myself upstairs using the banister and no more balancing on the edge of the bath to take the hangers down before climbing in to shower.     It doesn’t take much to make me happy.

Writing

Apologies for the lack of posts just lately,  I have been a little busy.

Here is a speedy update on the latest novel “Scrum Down” .   I have uploaded just over 22,000 words,  I have another 8000 possibly 9000 written awaiting typing but only 9 days left to do the final 20,000.  Having got most of the story down, am flagging a little with interruptions like work and family life, not to mention catching up on washing.  There are still a few gems of wisdom I hope to be able to find to finish off this week.   No promises.

Tiggy

 

 

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Time Passing

Posted on November 8, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

We moved from Devon 6 years ago this November and only fleetingly have gone back to visit.  Initially we did go back briefly to stay with my mother, refusing to visit any old haunts or even see old friends.

It was a conscious decision at the time as the choice to move was not altogether a happy one.  We had been settled where we were, the boys at a school that seemed very much to match our needs despite the 15 minute drive each way.   I had my own business having been made redundant a couple of years earlier and Mini Son had just started nursery.   My mother was in the same village, a peaceful stroll away past the cemetery where my father now unfortunately resides, the children would always stop and visit his grave as we passed.  Birthdays and anniversaries would be marked by a few flowers often picked from the hedgerows as we walked.

Why would we ever wish to move you might say.

Sexy Sporty Dad had got a new job which was just over that feasible hour’s commute. He got his new job the day the builders moved in to build the fantastic new extension we had been working to get for the previous 7 years.    It took three months before he actually had to move, so he would return each evening to yet more chaos as they built the foundations and blocked the garden.   My business was just taking off and timings really couldn’t have been worse.

Once his new job began, Sexy Sporty Dad left us each week, renting a spacious flat, yards from his office which he stayed in all week.  We visited during school holidays when he still had to work.  I have many friends, braver than me who go through this every week, it is not unusual particularly in these days of recession, but for us it was difficult.  Three boys growing up needed their father’s presence to guide and reassure them.  I had terrific support from friends and family while I was on my own but I too missed him and the half hour phone call each evening, shared with the boys did not really compensate.

The final straw came when Middle Son was run over and leaving the other two with neighbours, I was blue lighting down the motorway in an ambulance and I had to ring him mid week and ask him to drive down to Devon not knowing if Middle Son would make it.  Thankfully Middle Son did make it, escaping with a fractured skull and cracked hip.  That was September, 9 months after he had left.

By November we had let the house with it’s fantastic new extension and my own designed kitchen to die for.  We bought a new house on an estate with a primary school next door.  The boys had their greatest wish, they could walk to school and not have to drive each day.  The irony now is that they have a 15 minute walk up to the top school and they try all kinds of persuasion, urging and subterfuge to persuade us to drive them the half mile or so up the road.

It has taken a long time to go back and face our past.  My mother moved about two years after us to a village close to both my sisters and nearer us than she was in Devon, which negated the need to return regularly.

With the school half term upon us and my brother having just moved back to Devon, to the next door village, it was time to return and check out old haunts.  On our way down we took the boys into Exeter.  We were about to show them the old maternity hospital that saw all three of them born over the years.  No longer a hospital; a brand new Waitrose had opened its doors to the public apparently within the last month.    It triggered many hilarious jokes of giving birth in the aisles of the supermarket, and the quality of Waitrose producing strapping young men, not to mention questioning their returns policy.

We also drove them past the hotel where we had celebrated our wedding reception, the colours and feel of autumn similar to that day so many years and so many lost friends and family ago.  Then taking the longer route managed to meander up through the village and past the tiny cottage where following his birth No 1 Son came home for his first six months on this planet.   Poignantly we visited my father’s grave 9 years to the date of his death.  Mini Son watered the plants on his grave,

he doesn't even remember him

despite having never really knowing his grandfather.  His older brothers commenting on the number of new graves and the baby boy, who had been in our thoughts many a time, buried behind Gramps still has constant fresh flowers even after all this time.

My brother has moved to a wonderful old house where he will spend probably the next 30 years doing it up, and like the Forth Bridge will require starting again before it is finished.   There is now central heating to top up the rayburn and woodburners that circulate warmth around the thick cobbed walls.

Narrow passageways lead through the house to uneven walls and non regular rooms.  Original beams on the ceilings so low, that my boys now have to stoop to save their heads from being hit. The large enclosed and fabulous garden full of apple trees, climbing trees and a huge kitchen garden where they plan to grow all manner of vegetables and fruit.   Hidden beneath the overgrown hedges we found sheds and fruit cages, a bird house above a stone bird table and in the middle of the garden the pond with a tiny stone bridge over just begging for a fishing knome to dangle his rod.   They are going to have their work cut out but they will have a great project for years to come.

We finally plucked up courage to go back to our old house, well to the road we use to live in.  We called in on our next door neighbour for coffee and realised her baby was now a boistrous 8 year old with a mind and life of his own.   She suggested we knocked on the door and have a look around the old house.  Not that brave yet we but noticed the new windows and checked up on all the other neighbours and what they were doing now.

We moved round the corner to great friends of ours and were met by their youngest child. It was only yesterday had he started nursery; when I first met his mother, he and No 1 Son were just a few months apart and attending the same nursery at the school 15 minutes away.  He has now left top school and travels each day to college to do his A-levels.  He too is taller than me and his sister who was not home is away at University no longer in her second year of top school as she was when we left .  Where did the time go?

I know we have kept in touch and commented on what our children have been doing, over the years.  Meeting occasionally when work commitments brought her within spitting distance, but it is only the visible sight of the children that makes you realise that they are no longer the tiny people we left behind.  They, like us have grown up and got on with their lives and there is no way of catching up on that lost time.

Writing

Well NANOWRIMO is upon us all too quickly and as threatened I have again fallen under its spell.  I have committed myself to trying; even if this does not succeed I will be able to say I have tried.  Writing a novel is quite scary anytime but to do it within the tight time frame of a month is probably as Sexy Sporty Dad has commented complete madness.   He has been very supportive so far asking how it is going and how many words so far.

Delighted with his new found interest in my writing, although I believe it is more in keeping with the idea that he wants 50,000 words to be written quickly and be out of the way, rather than interest in the actual story.  I will however treasure the fleeting interest I might receive from him for as long as it takes and if I can produce a half decent novel at the end then all the better.

Tiggy

I also write this with thoughts and prayers for all those affected by the horrendous M5 crash.

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Big Cook Little Cook

Posted on October 24, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

The nature of being a mother, as all mothers know, is that when the unthinkable happens and we actually do not feel well, we lack the ability to pull off “man flu”, or sit around the house moping as if we didn’t want to be there; whereas, in point of fact, we are lapping up the attention.   With mothers, it doesn’t happen like that and despite all ailments life throws at us we still have no choice but to carry on.

Schools are a breeding ground for bugs and viruses whose parasitic life cycles evolve and feed on the wonderful close proximity of children.  Parents sending in their ‘under the weather’ children when maybe they shouldn’t; scared to keep them at home for too long lest the school chases them up.   Time off sick now will go against them if later during the term they wish to take a holiday.   As the children grow older the work they miss never really gets repeated and they do struggle to catch up, but the biggest reason for returning the child to school too soon is that mums these days have to get back to work before her boss creates a fuss, and childcare for poorly children is not always readily accessible.

The worst people for returning early to school before they are ready are staff themselves, who lack children’s rapidly repairing ability to get over things quickly.  Staff struggle back to work determined not to let their colleagues or the children down, some with lack of voices, some struggling for breath and some just not sure what they are doing.   Inadvertently they exhale still festering germs over their friends and charges reintroducing the mutating bacteria and triggering yet another cycle of illness and poor health.

I have been attacked from all sides at work: colleagues, children and even their stricken parents as they coughed their apologies over me.  At home I have struggled to keep us virus free but tell tale coughs and sneezes tell me that we are not quite succeeding.  Dosed up with Echinacea and Vitamin C I have managed to reach half term, albeit with my voice 2 octaves lower; some might say sexier, I say struggling, sneezing fits that render me completely useless where ever I can collapse, a train thundering through my brain passing through every station without braking and my eyes and nose crying without cessation.

I don’t need sympathy, I am a mother and no matter how bad I feel the house still needs to function with me at the helm.    It was with trepidation I mentioned to Middle Son that, it would be great if he could finally use his GCSE cookery skills and create a meal for us on Saturday evening, allowing me to wallow in self pampering and medication.

“Take away Pizza” came the eager reply.

Not quite what I had in mind.

A little coercion was required I admit, on my part.  He was permitted to work through my new cook book bible: Indian Superfood by Gurpareet Bains.  In consultation with Sexy Sporty Dad he settled on ‘Best Ever Chicken Tikka Masala’.     As I cook from this hallowed book at least once a week many of the spices and condiments are already in the cupboard but we needed chicken, more ginger along with coconut milk that I seem to have run out of.   An ingredient that no-one in the house except me likes: coconut.  They would be horrified to learn how often the creamy texture of Indian or Thai food has resulted from the dreaded coconut milk.  The cats had also dug up my coriander from my herb garden; I am not sure if that means they liked it or they hated it but it did mean I needed to buy more.

I was unimpressed when Sexy Sporty Dad handed him a jar of tikka mix at the shop, time saving was not the idea; creativity and taste were what we were going for.   Thankfully I had gone with them, lousy as I felt, but able to steer them in the right direction we bought all the outstanding ingredients and unloaded them ready for use around the kitchen.

Middle Son then carefully peeled and chopped onions, peeled and grated ginger, finely chopped garlic, chilli and skilfully crushed the cardamom pods releasing their pungent aroma into the room, which he was not as enamoured by, as I was.  He slowly cooked off the spices, filling the house with the warm heady perfume of true Indian cooking.  Sealing the chicken pieces and adding water he placed it all except the coconut milk and coriander in the slow cooker where unhurriedly, leisurely and deliberately the spices and herbs infused the tiny tendons of melting meat.  Shortly before serving he threw in the can of coconut milk and chopped coriander leaves.  Unable to cope with the trauma of homemade naan on this occasion I had relented and he warmed the shop bought naan bread serving it alongside the curry and rice with a flourish.

Middle Son complained that it didn’t taste like the curry he gets from the take away.   I would agree with him on that point.   The chicken melted in the mouth, tantalizing the taste buds with hints of the strong spices, never too hot or too overpowering to detract from the creamy rich indulgence of this most definitely best ever tikka masala.   Fantastic, out of this world and absolutely delicious probably do not accolade enough, and I hadn’t cooked it, that in itself was a treat I will savour along with the memory of that superb dish.

Last night I joined him as he watched ‘Jamie at Home’, preparing yet more delicacies, with the promise that we could look up the recipe for carrot and avocado salad and even, dare I hold my breath, cook it sometime this week.

As long as this may last, I will enjoy and appreciate each delicate meal prepared lovingly or under duress, but if he can produce meals like this at home I trust the same can be expected at school for his course.

Sausages for Tea

Tonight, in the absence of his brother Mini Son joined me in the kitchen where he set about cooking sausages, jacket potatoes and baked beans for his Home Help badge at cubs, different but equally delicious.  I could easily become accustomed to this wonderful state of affairs with all the family offering their cooking skills, long may it last.

Writing

Following last year’s attempts The Readers Digest are asking for this year’s entries to their 100 word story competition.   I hope to find some inspiration and send in at least a few entries, I will also persuade Middle Son to try and emulate or better his endeavours from last year.

NANOWRIMO month is upon us in November and despite the comments of insanity, madness and lost your mind, I do intend to try and complete ‘write a novel in a month’.  I am much more prepared this year than I was last, to begin with I have an idea of what I might try and produce: a mystery aimed at teenage boys……   best read up on some Michael Morpurgo or Antony Horrowitz novels this week.

Tiggy

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Techno Dependent

Posted on October 20, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

I am struggling this week, swimming in a sea of uncertainness and floundering in life’s flotsam without a float.   You may well wonder what could leave a normally together, organised and some might say, efficient person in such a state of disarray.   It was just a little accident; Mini Son did not mean to do it but as he rummaged for some now unknown item he knocked my Iphone into the tumbler of tea I was making my way through.

Mortified by what he had done, he stood transfixed waiting for the whole of Hade’s underworld to engulf his young being.  There is not a malicious bone in his body so how could I be cross.  I did react; not with anger, flames or any other kind of explosive exhibition of emotion.  Instead in a swift cool, calm and collected show of control I fished it out of the cup and began wiping it dry.   One thing I felt were in my favour at the time; the tea was half empty so the phone had only gone in part way.

It took me some time longer to register that I should take the protective cover off and check no liquid may be lurking underneath.  Realising too late, when I did check, tea had seeped in and the phone itself was wet.

The phone deteriorated as tea meandered through the mechanism until I was no longer able to turn it on; well strictly speaking it was already on and I could not turn the device off.   The screen was blank and there was no response to my touch or voice control.

I googled, ‘what to do with a wet iphone’.  The replies are bleak, but putting it in bag of rice was one of the consenting ideas.   For the remainder of this week the phone has lived in a bag of rice, not in my pocket.

All week I have been leaving messages of how to contact me in an emergency with the children and their schools.  I have been ringing people to check that I have not missed appointments.   I did have a dental check-up this week; thankfully they send a SMS reminder to my home number.

You cannot imagine how dependent I have become on that tiny rectangular appliance.

My diary with warning alarms, contact details, notes of what I must bring is on there.  All my phone contacts, many with email addresses I don’t need all the time but when I do they are all stored safely away.    I didn’t realise how often I check the weather, my facebook, my twitters from school.   It was just a gimmick when I downloaded “my weight” and I only weigh in when I am feeling strong enough to cope with it telling the truth: “no weight lost” yet again!  How many times have I weighed myself this week?

I have sample books in my bookstore to see if I want to buy the hard copy later and my weekly menu is stored on notes with a shopping list that is updated as I amend my menus. What of my cycle-ometer?  I can download it again but I will have lost the accumulated trips that I so courageously struggled to complete.  My alarm that gently summons me from slumbers doesn’t go off anymore and I am waking so early in case I oversleep.

I actually feel like the storage part of my brain, where I offload all my baggage to be remembered later, has been cut off from my very being and I am struggling to cope.

Fortuitously, I happened to be on a course in the town where Sexy Sporty Dad bought me the phone as a present last year.    Taking the opportunity to call in at the very shop I asked them to take a look at it.

“Is it still under warranty?”

I couldn’t quite remember the exact date.  It wasn’t an anniversary present as Sexy Sporty Dad is not that romantically inclined but it was certainly around that time as I, in my rose tinted world,  treated it as such.  Our anniversary is on Saturday.

“Whose name is on the account?”

That will be Sexy Sporty Dad as he paid for the handset outright and continues to pay the contract for me.

“I am sorry we can’t do anything without him here”.

But it is my phone and my number.

“Without him we can do nothing; I can’t get past the first page without his authorisation.”

She was unable to tell me when the phone was bought, how long I had left on the contract, if it was possible even to send away without Sexy Sporty Dad giving permission.  I suggested ringing him and dragging him out of his important meeting I knew he was in that afternoon to give permission for them to deal with me.

“He needs to speak to customer services and go through the forms and then they would update his status which would show within 24 hours hopefully.”

Twenty four hours was no good I had parked for 1 hour; that in itself was a problem, having used all my change to park for the course, normally I ring Ringos: the nationwide parking company who run some of the machines.  They have my account details triggered by my calling on my phone and car details.  I just park, call them, it is all automated and I don’t worry about small change. My phone was broken; I couldn’t ring.

Desperate and teary, not sure what I was going to do.  I stumbled over a thank you and left hesitating long enough to ask the name of the manager of the store.  Unsure what I would do with this information as I hadn’t even demanded to see him, and they had not been rude just unhelpful.

The next thing I knew the manager was there; how could he help, obviously he could not divulge any information as it was not my account but let’s have a look.

“Ahh the phone is just out of warranty, by 10 days.  The warranty did not cover water damage, however we could send it away for me and it would cost £150; we would have to discuss any repairs with your partner.”

He is my husband and £150 sounds a lot, couldn’t I get a new phone for less?

“Well yes, surprisingly you are entitled to upgrade the phone, it would cost £59.  Just let me check,  oh yes the faulty handset we will pay you £49 despite it being faulty.”

What were we waiting for?

“We can’t do that, we need your partner here to authorise it; it is his account.”

My husband!

The manager did kindly write everything down as I was not confident at remembering all the details I needed to quote to customer services.

We rang the number, queued forever, while waiting to be answered.  Finally we gave up;   Sexy Sporty Dad promised faithfully he would phone again tomorrow.

Disappointed, I, who does everything online these days, went in to check his account for which I have the access.  I could upgrade the phone and account online.  It took moments to decide which phone to order and to shorten my contract to 18 months for only £5 extra a month. I did inform Sexy Sporty Dad he would be paying.

My new phone has arrived, my baggage store is filling up and I am already feeling back in control.   Will I limit my dependence on this new one, I doubt it. Will I keep it away from tea and any kind of hazard in the future, yes, if for no other reason but for the sake of my marriage! (Says Sexy Sporty Dad.)

Tiggy

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