Public Dilemmas

Posted on October 15, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

Sexy Sporty Dad and I were invited to a pre-pub opening this weekend.  It was an honour to be invited; there was never any question, of us not going but it led to some difficult dilemmas.  The first of which is obvious: dress code. We don’t go out very often and usually if we do, we go with friends or family, the dress code is very precise.  But what do you wear to a special invite to a pub opening.  Mallyshag Ltd the newish owners and friends of ours were showing off the pub following a long extensive refurbishment where advisors, close friends and supporters were invited;

I trawled through my inappropriate wardrobe and found nothing even remotely suitable.  I wandered around a few shops and found even less suitable attire.  What is suitable?  Time was galloping away while I luxuriated in the shower rather than make a decision.  I began mix and match my eye makeup and realised it was imperative I come to a conclusion.    I chose a dress with streaks of differing colours and voluptuous folds so I could get away with spilling my drink or dropping a canapé down it unnoticed.  It was comfortable and allowed for plenty of indulgence of the aforementioned canapés.  It also turned out to be suitable; there was a wide range of outfits and I was not out of place.

It has taken a long time to have the courage and trust to leave all three boys at home unsupervised. At nearly 16, No 1 Son goes off to babysit for friend’s children, he is certainly old enough and probably sensible enough to be left at home.   Middle Son is quite self sufficient; he prefers to stay home at the weekend; goes to the shops to fill my fridge with pizzas, cheese and ham croissants and high energy drinks; not that he needs any.    He will cook all this as and when he feels peckish and can entertain himself playing God of War on the PSII for hours as long as no-one disturbs him.  He will be totally domesticated when he leaves home although his financial thriftiness may well delay that adventure for many years to come.   The most sensible of the three; Mini Son is deemed by his age to be too young to leave at home alone.

I have relented and now leave all three for an evening but with very strict instructions, which I am sure they all agree to until the car has driven round the bend and then completely ignore me.   They don’t realise they are left with a huge amount of trust; they do understand the threat of a babysitter, if they misbehave, looming over their heads.  Mini Son also has a get out clause and there is always a neighbour aware they are on their own if he feels assistance is needed.

This has worked well so far and I have toned down my calls back home now, not even reminding them that bed time has passed.   They are more than capable of being on their own and probably far more reliable than I am prepared to give them credit for, but however old and independent they become I am their mother and it is my right to worry about them.

There was however the added complication of the carnival being in town; bad enough as that may seem but the fun fair cleverly attaches itself to the carnival and relieves the townsfolk of all their hard earned cash.  The older boys had their social lives cemented firmly in the spiral that surrounded the carnival and were not prepared to stay in and babysit.   Fleetingly I did consider allowing Mini Son to tag along behind one of his brothers but it was very brief.   Horror images flooded my mind; him being left on some unknown float full of aliens and monsters, Harry Potter throwing an unforgivable curse in his direction, or his brother dragging him on to the screamer, I don’t even know what the screamer does but the name conjures up too many horrors.

My friend Natty mercifully not only offered to have Mini Son, she offered him a bed for the night, allowing us the freedom to return when we were ready guilt free about a babysitter who had a time restriction.   Mini Son went over with a bag of drinks and snacks for a midnight feast which they started about 8pm and concluded the following morning for early breakfast.  He took his DS for the challenge that would happen, barely managing a goodnight as I left him already battling Pokemon with Natty’s son.

Sexy Sporty Dad and I did go to the ball or rather the pub opening and we were very impressed.   We arrived and there was no where to park, the car park full to bursting with newly plated number plates.   Sexy Sporty Dad left me at the door while he hid my little battered car somewhere he could find space, out of sight.   Noise and laughter tumbled out of windows and door as I stood counting the seconds until he returned and we could walk in together.   Naturally like any good party, you dread going in, not sure if you will know anyone.  We were greeted instantly by our friends who insisted on champagne and a personalised tour.   We knew many of the others through our various walks of life.

Exquisite interior design has taken the old listed building, completely refurbished it in a fusion of

The Fontmell, Fontmell Magna, Dorset – 01747 811441

period and contemporary furnishings, blended with the natural stream running between the dining room and the bar.  We threw coins to wish them good luck and also to ensure we return.  The bite sized canapés that came round were taken directly from the more formal menu combining exotic, expensive and everyday ingredients in mouth watering morsels.  There will also be a bar menu for those who just want pub grub.   Plied with champagne we were led upstairs to admire the bedrooms with their modern en-suites and imaginative use of historic feature blended with extra touches to make the stay memorable.

Unfortunately the pub is too close for us to justify staying overnight unless some willing or maybe not so willing family member wanted to entertain three adorable, well behaved and incredibly endearing boys overnight.   Next time we have an overflow of guests we will definitely be suggesting they stay at the Fontmell, just maybe I can contrive to have dinner there first.

We will be going back now that the pub has finally opened, probably again and again, already I am looking through my diary for an excuse to be taken there.

My Writing

I have an update on my article for the local paper.   The RFU have published October’s issue of their magazine Touchline; also available online.  I couldn’t find it at first until they published another October issue and I realised I was looking through October 2010.   Under Clubs on page 8 is my unadulterated report with the full picture of No 1 Son leading a charge on some unsuspecting opponent.

Another piece added to my growing portfolio, now maybe I need to start making some money from all these publications before Sexy Sporty Dad sends me out to work full time, particularly if I wish to stay at the Fontmell or even visit regularly.

Tiggy 

https://www.thefontmell.com/

https://www.rfu.com/News/2011/October/News%20Articles/~/media/Files/2011/Touchline/TL-October%20LR.ashx

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Wicked Mother

Posted on October 2, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

That is me not my mother; just in case you were wondering, in the eyes of my children.

I feel that I am quite defensive and proud of my children but there are still times when we do not see eye to eye.  My idea of “For the greater good” is not necessarily their choice of pathway.

Mini son was once an athletic socialite, who could not stay still for one moment.   A footballer for his local team, Saturday mornings would see me drive miles for his matches.  I have stood in pouring rain and sleet cheering his school team on.    He progressed through the levels in swimming not wanting to move from his fabulous teacher who has advanced his confidence as well as stroke.  He is the proud owner of the under 7s “player of the year” rugby trophy which adorns my kitchen unit, and had me again driving all over the county each Sunday morning to watch him tot up tries as he outran all opposition.

In July it all stopped.

We were busy, summer holidays were full of activities to keep him occupied and I was not too upset if he chose to sit out these past times.

September arrived upon us all too quickly and with it Mini Son announced he did not want to do anything.  Now he is happy to miss football training, content to pass up the chance to play rugby and battling valiantly to avoid his swimming lesson.  What has changed?

We did; we finally succumbed, to his pleas and desperation.  He is not a child who wants for much but, he did want a DS because, all his friends had one, both his brothers had one and he was always left out.  The benefits, we thought,  to a long journey if each child has their own entertainment are immense, so it seemed a reasonable request and we acquiesced; buying him the latest model and a couple of games for his birthday.   Since that day in July he has spent a considerable amount of time on his toy.  Naively I thought he was rushing out to play with friends and he was; on his DS which has a link feature and he plays his team games sat on friend’s sofas surrounded by DS playing chums.

Evil as it may seem, particularly if the tears and “I hate yous” are anything to go by.  I have banned him from his beloved DS.   There is however an “unless”; he has to earn the time through some kind of activity, I have not specified which; he can choose.  This week he has joined in with Tag Rugby Club and Simply Football Club after school and splashed and dived for half an hour proving to his teacher he needs to be moved up.  I am happy for him to now play on his DS for the weekend.    He is after all in the school football team for next week’s match.  Not one to gloat too much but the grin on his face as he returned from the clubs and the smile as he once again was allowed without argument to resume his latest DS challenge proves that maybe I am not so horrid.

When are you justified in doubting your child’s motives?

The other day was not really a good day to be stuck indoors learning while the sun was out and the teachers droning on about their boring subjects.  So when I got a text from Middle Son saying he had a headache, I confess I was suspiciously unsympathetic “have a drink” I responded harshly.   The conversation continued via text on the phone he is not allowed in school.  “Come and get me – I will just go to bed”.

I can’t just turn up at the school and say I want to take my son home as he has a headache, and following a few weeks of trying times with some verbal bullying I had my slight doubts as to the severity of the headache.   To be fair he has inherited my propensity to suffer migraines and with the heat and closeness of the atmosphere not only did I too have a headache, I had already sent three children home from my school.

The school phone rang and I answered it.   It was his school, laughing I told her I already knew what she was going to say.  Perfidiously, I asked if she thought he really was ill.

“I have checked his timetable and he doesn’t have science this afternoon, he has just had PE”.  Guilty as I felt, the school were ahead of me and had already checked his timetable; science being the subject with the bullies in.

It made sense that having done PE he probably hadn’t drunk much and probably did have a headache; borne out by him coming home and sleeping all afternoon while his wicked mother went back to work having given him painkillers and penitent sympathy.       Thankfully sleep and quiet is a great healer and he was miraculously recovered when friends came to call after school.

There are times in life when your children make you immensely proud and there are times when you do something to be proud of.   Sometimes they even link together although both of you may not be on the same wavelength.

No 1 Son has been through a long harrowing and painful year of major injury.  His whole life revolves around his rugby and it is a bitter pill when he is unable to play and train with his team.  He has been very brave and patient as his team developed their game and gained success last season.   Towards the latter part of the season he was joining in with the training and even playing the odd training match, but his horrible mother did not relent and allow him to play a proper match.

His consultant finally agreed to allow him to return to his cherished pastime so reluctantly I had no choice but to permit him back on to the pitch.   Under my very protective eye and vocal protestations he played a full match against an unsuspecting opposing side.  I would hope that as he walked off that pitch he felt as much pride as if he had scored the winning try in the world cup final; not because he helped his team to a 40:15 win but because of the personal battles he had overcome to get to that point.

With a relief that only a mother can even begin to imagine I walked away, full of pride and the germ of a story for the local paper.  Pen to paper and some consultation with my new found friend at the RFU and I was able to produce a press release charting his triumphant return to the game.

A child waiting for Christmas day could not have outweighed my anticipation as I waited for the paper to drop through the letterbox on Friday morning.  In my excitement and fear I nearly ripped the paper apart to find it.  Page 105 was a long way through; I should have started with the rugby and sport pages really.

It was there, my article and my photo for the whole of the world to see.

Leading the Tackle

Ok, so they had changed a few words and described his injury in lay man’s terms, added a few extra bits and left out some of my carefully crafted copy and the worse thing of all added a typo to a sentence they added but; it was mine.  They also forgot to credit it to me as they don’t credit any of their stories but I was on top of my world.

I woke Sexy Sporty Dad up as I danced into the room flinging the page at him.  He reluctantly obliged by opening his sleepy eyes, reading and commenting favourably on it.  I forced it under the nose of Number 1 Son who was less than impressed, even to the point of acutely embarrassed.

I was over the moon, another piece to add to my slowly, very some might say, growing portfolio of published writing.   More was to come, my new best friend from the RFU has asked if she can send it into their own magazine “Touchline” for publication.   Do you really think I turned her down?

A wry smile crept over No 1 Son’s face as he told me he was asked “what it is like to be famous?” the following morning at the rugby club.

We sometimes don’t walk along quite the same pathways but parents only do what they see is best for their children; hard and wicked as it may seem in the eyes of their offspring.

Tiggy

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Teething Expense

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

It was never going to be a smooth day, I’d overslept and had too much to squeeze in to too little time.

Middle son had been referred to the orthodontist for corrective braces on his teeth.  Our sleepy little country town does not have a resident orthodontist so we drove the 23 miles stuck behind a tractor, 2 lorries, numerous buses on the school run who stopped at each bus stop to load hoards of noisy teenagers.   Finally reaching our destination as tomtom pointed out, with 10 minutes to spare.

What tomtom failed to mention was where I could park and where the actual building was.  On the third time round the one way system, I did the weak womanly thing, wound down the window and asked some unsuspecting passerby the way.  A local; he hadn’t heard of this clinic, by the way the megastore next door has changed its name; we had passed it.

Round again, we found the correctly named megastore, but still no sign of the clinic.  The news came on the radio, we were late. Back on to double yellow lines, I called to explain we were lost.

A helpful voice told me not to worry, asked where I was, then directed me to the supermarket car park which I could see.  Walk towards town to Waterloo Road; follow it to the bottom where I would find the clinic.  I put the car into first and glanced up to check it was clear and spotted the road sign next to me: Waterloo Road.

The clinic was not what I expected.   An old converted building but completely modernised and purpose rebuilt inside.  Oodles of youngsters in uniforms with mums fussing over them, purple clad nurses rushing out of the many doors and through other doors, all manner of names being called and disappearing with surgeon dressed dentists.  It occurred to me that our lateness was not an issue we were on a conveyer belt and took our turn.

Following an x-ray Middle Son was called into the consulting room.   She asked him to bite, to open, to close, she had a look at his x-ray and started again all the time dictating to the nurse behind her who was tapping it all into the computer.

Yes he did need braces look, he had too many teeth and they were beginning to overlap.  Unfortunately it all came down to measurements and he is a millimetre too straight, therefore they could offer us nothing on the NHS.   My brain processed what she was saying and I felt for the chair behind before I swooned in womanly fashion.  She kindly told me they would do everything in their power to make it easier for me.  They ran their own payment scheme which I could set up and continue even if the treatment finished

Then very sweetly, thankfully I was sitting down, she actually mentioned the figure: £2100.

The next half an hour sort of blurred a bit….   another dentist, this one in an expensive well fitted suit came in to give a second opinion.  There was no doubt Middle Son needed braces. Fortunately we were in one of the few counties that really invest in their dentistry, unfortunately the NHS in this county has just been told they need to save £18 million so borderline cases such as Middle Son could not qualify.   They did have a great interest free scheme for 12 months if we would like that.   Steve the treatment co-ordinator came in to explain how the finances would work and to book us in as soon as possible.

I was not prepared to sign on the dotted line and agree to pay anything without talking to Sexy Sporty Dad who after all will have to bear the brunt of all this as I don’t earn that much a month.   I would ring and let them know if I wanted an appointment.  No I needed to book everything then so we would not be put back on the list.   They were pretty full up anyway.   A little pat on the arm as they told me Middle Son could choose his appointment times; they kept special late afternoons and Saturdays for paying clients, not patients.  He would send a complete quote with explanation in the post; they have my details.

Reeling from the shock, we left the clinic and popped into the supermarket to grab some food for tea, also a large latte.   Before leaving we dashed into the garage and filled my close to empty car with petrol.  You know how it is, queueing for ages to get to a pump then the one I got to only had two out of the three nozzles working and would not let me “pay at pump”.

Figures tossing around my head, could I sell my body, as if I would have the nerve and who would pay for it anyway?  There was the holiday fund which was empty at the moment but would have nearly enough in 12 months; we couldn’t go away again next year.  I checked the pump nearly £50 it will stop soon, wow the price of a litre is really lower here.  It clicked and stopped as it registered full, a tiny extra squeeze before the second click.

It was as I went to put the nozzle back into the pump that I became aware, very slowly from the pit of my stomach meandering up through my senses.  Green, why was I holding the green pump?

Everything hit me at once: my car uses diesel.  Diesel, comes in black. I am holding green. I have just put an entire month’s worth of petrol in my diesel engine.  Panic! What shall I do?  Instinctively I returned the petrol cap and went to drive away in horror.  I saw my phone on the dashboard: Sexy Sporty Dad will know what to do.  I dialled his number; before he answered, I realised I was on the garage forecourt.  Leaving a bewildered teenager in the car I went into the kiosk to join the queue to pay.  Seeing two attendants outside, I caught up with them.

Excuse me, then with my third womanly trait of the day I burst into tears.

They pushed the car to a corner of the forecourt and told me to ring the AA; for which I will be eternally grateful to be a member.  Over a terrible line we managed to establish what I had done and how they could help.  It would however cost me £280, but, as a member I have discount, only £175 and this did include £12 of free diesel.  The next available slot was 3pm and they would call when he was 20 minutes away.  I did sign on the dotted line and gave all my details over the phone in that crowded kiosk: privacy was not top of my list of concerns.

I locked the car and left my keys with the attendant.  As I retreated, he quietly pulled me over and reminded me that I still needed to pay for the petrol that I had put in the car even though I was not going to use it.  Acutely embarrassed I handed him my card.

We spent a long day window shopping and wishing, Middle Son and I.  Dejected and fed up because I would not buy anything Middle Son wanted to return to the car.  I relented slightly and bought lunch.

We returned to the car to find the AA man had collected the keys and already half emptied my tank.    Once empty he added my free £12 of diesel with special cleaning agents.

Then he dropped another bomb shell.

The cleaning agent was very strong and would need diluting.  I had to refill the tank to full with diesel this time and when it goes down to half full to fill it up again.  Other than that I was good to go.

As I again handed my card back to the attended he said “hope the day gets better”.  Oh so do I!

I managed to get home in one piece and as I sat down with a large cup of tea, I realised I felt physically sick, but worse than that I was actually shaking from head to toe.

Two good things happened today; I finished my anti-biotics which means a large glass of wine finally has my name on it tonight.  Middle Son is made up at the fact we never managed to get him back in time to attend any of his lessons at school today.   I am just glad we didn’t run into a truant officer as we strolled round town, for his sake as well as mine.  I did get £12 of free diesel!

After all that, I still need to find £2100

Tiggy

 

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Priorities

Posted on September 20, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

I am good at my job; normally within the limited scope I am permitted, I am good at prioritising.

Stress Balls

I have come from a highly charged and pressurised career where I had to deliver accurate and timely financial data onto live systems for immediate dispersal around the world all before 8am in the morning.  I have run my own property management company from home where the discipline of dividing home life and work was paramount to success.   So why now do I find it so difficult to prioritise my writing?

I describe myself in my CV as methodical, organised and accurate, which on the whole I would stand by.  Sexy Sporty Dad might dispute some of these, as he can never find anything on my desk.   I, on the other hand, know exactly which pile to look in to find things, if people would just not move anything around.   I can actually lay my hands immediately on all our passports, medical cards, car insurance with MOT Certificates.  A few weeks ago we were challenged about the extent of our property boundary; I was sadly able to pull out the copy of the deeds to prove the point in question.

An untidy desk is not a mark of an untidy mind.

I confess, although I would never consider myself OCD at anything, I do compartmentalise my time.   I allot time slots for certain jobs, inevitably running over and throwing my time frames awry.  My working hours at the school are easier to adhere to; although it is not in my nature to walk away leaving things unfinished and impossible to leave a crying child.  I have fallen into my own routine and mornings are my special time; no-one in the house is up and probably few people in the town are stirring.   Alone with the early morning Dawn Chorus emanating gently from the surrounding trees, I have gained one, self centred hour every morning for writing.

It doesn’t matter too much what I write but I must write.  E-mails and facebook status updates do not count as writing.   So, yesterday morning, I clambered reluctantly from my large, warm and peaceful bed to stumble downstairs to a cold, miserable morning and lonely desk to spend an hour and a half on Rugby.

I could justify permitting myself to do this;  I was due to finish work at noon and would spend the whole afternoon catching up with myself and my writing,  what a pleasure to look forward to.   I left work late at 1.15 and came home to a stack of more rugby orientated emails which needed immediate attention.   All afternoon I spent scrummaging through fixtures, throwing challenges to the opposition and trying to appease our teams.  Even during the evening whilst I was at a meeting, at guess where, the Rugby Club, Sexy Sporty Dad forwarded a message confirming No 1 Son’s team has a game this weekend.

My novel, it sounds good doesn’t it?  My novel, Memories, lies still unopened with the third draft only partly complete. NANOWRIMO – write a novel in a month (November) is looming hesitantly on the horizon.    I have no short stories to send off to the copious magazines I buy for research or the competitions I dream of entering if not winning.  To cap it all, at the moment, even Middle Son’s under 15’s team still have no game this weekend.  So what was it all for?

Is it just that I can’t say no; does it go deeper into the psyche than a simple word.

My history is littered with extra-curricular clubs and societies; early on it was the socialisation and charitable need that drew my attention.  Latterly, school based committees and now the rugby club are not as much for my benefit as that of my boys.

One Sunday morning a few years ago, I looked round at the family dynamics to realise I had lost my three boys and my husband for good.    Three rugby players and a rugby coach left me deserted every weekend, with nothing in common.  I had a choice: let them go or join them.    Playing rugby was not an option, even watching it as a mother, was a heart rendering pastime I found too difficult.  What was left?  The one thing I was good at: volunteering!    Every organisation can find room for a volunteer and so did the rugby club, the more I did the more I became involved.

Now a few years down the road, only No 1 Son is really playing the game.  I am unable to break the spider’s web of commitment I have invested into his club.  Not while he is still dependent on our support, both financial and parental, can I cut the threads.  He himself is carving a name for himself at the club.  While out injured last season we pushed him to take up refereeing which he is developing as another strand to his rugby career.  A rising star, full of determination to succeed and already being congratulated on his ability and fairness, he has local RFU referees watching and mentoring him.

Of course there are benefits to being involved, free RFU stress balls and with the world cup coming to this country in four years time I am hopeful that my involvement with the club will help me gain a ticket to watch No 1 Son as he plans to play for England at that time.   Although I am not sure I will have overcome my horror at the game or the carnage left behind.  I suspect, No 1 Son will not want his mother screaming at the opposition “get off my son”, instead he will have some gorgeous model hanging round the hospitality suite on my ticket, to soothe his battered and bruised brow.

So just maybe I now know where my priorities lie.  My needs, in my mind, come below that of my children!

The meeting last night did however introduce me to a press officer who gave me tips on match reporting and how to develop a human interest story.   It also left me with a tiny germination of a seed for a story this weekend.

My personal preference is writing and clearly the boys’ priority is fun sports; “never the twain shall meet” or maybe they just did.

Tiggy

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Broken Ripples

Posted on September 8, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

My friend and colleague Jenny announced or rather stumbled through the desperately sad news that her husband was leaving her.    Gathered in the staff room, she told us, in painstakingly slow sob infused words asking us for help to get her through this heartbreaking time.   She was honest, and it was the raw emotion of bewilderment, guilt and fear as two giants of passion; love and hate clashed deep within her, openly evident to all.

Tears flowed freely around the room; hugs came free with the tea, as we all reeled with the shock of Jenny’s news and the force of her grief. We gathered round her; in a united tirade about the fickleness of men, how he would regret his decision and how could he do that to her.

“He has taken away my security and my future and that of our child. How could I have been such a failure?” She sobbed.

It is easy for us to be pragmatic. We are not suffering the conflict of love against hatred inside us.  We know she will pull through this; she is strong and clever, inspirational and definitely not a failure. She doesn’t know this; she cannot at the moment, find a way to get over the hurt that is ripping through her.

Her eyes have gone past the red rimmed stage of crying and have lost their huge playful sparkle.  Still wide; they are haunted and touched with an inner grief which is heart rendering to those who watch.  My response was to hug and hold her; but what I would love to be able to do, is gather her up and cocoon her, in beautifully soft clean white clouds until all her pain has subsided.

Of course the irony of the interwoven fabric we call life was; one other person in that staffroom had news to tell.    She kept very quiet and did not join in with the diatribe of hatred that poured around the room against Jenny’s husband.   She, I guess has already spent time and emotion on this situation.

Although it has not been announced, in an ironic twist; Hetty has become engaged over the summer holiday.  Her beau to be; with an unexpected act of romanticism, whisked her away to a hotter sunnier climate to propose to her.   A most wonderful moment in their lives except; her beau and Jenny’s husband not only work together, they are best friends.

So what happens now to the outer circle of friends which include Jenny and Hetty?  Most of the staff are very much anti Jenny’s husband.  Is the same scene being played out in her husband’s staff room with his colleagues all standing by him in solidarity understanding why he had to leave the wife and fall for someone else.

If by some wonderful prophetic turn of events he realises how foolish he is being, how much he will be losing and begs to come back to Jenny; the crowd of friends and colleagues will open up their welcoming arms to take him back into the close knit inner weave of friendship.  This little episode would be forgotten until some tiny misdemeanour in the future. For now though, friends will be wary of their comments, husbands and wives will take opposing views as to who was right and who was wrong, things will be said in the heat of a moment or in support; that in the future will take a lot of bridge building before being able to reach that previous status quo.

It is inevitable that I will come across Jenny’s husband, but the friendly jokey banter we shared in the past has gone.  Jenny will, I hope, remain in my circle of friends but I will feel disloyal and uneasy next time I meet her husband, just as he will avoid any friendly repartee we would have otherwise had.   I will be looking over my shoulder checking no-one can see me talking to “him” and reporting back to Jenny, that I was colluding with the other side!

Whatever the tragic reason he felt he had, to leave his marriage, his child; I doubt he ever realised quite how large the ripples of his actions would be, particularly in a small provincial town like ours.

What is the recipe for a happy marriage?

I read only this week how second marriages are failing at a higher rate than first.  Are we, as a society becoming too self-centred and unable to commit to the ups and downs of relationships?   Marriage vows still say for “better or worse” not “when things go my way or else I’ll walk”.  In life there will be “better”; times will be good, happy and financially stable.   As we all know there will also be “worse” times; sad times and difficult times, financial difficulties and children issues.  Are these not the times when couples need to stand together against the complications of the outside world and fight together rather than packing a bag and saying “I’m off”?

Is monogamy the answer?  History has a colourful view of marriage and expectation.    Henry VIII and his Tudor courtiers all believed in the sanctity of the actual marriage until someone else came along.  The king and high placed courtiers were expected to have beneficial arranged marriages, often when they were very young.  A blind eye would be turned on secret night time adulterous trysts; so secret that families battled to have their daughters be the latest mistress, bringing glory and untold riches to the family during her popularity.

Men in power and the spotlight have always had mistresses throughout the ages.  The primal male psyche still lives within other cultures. The animalistic pride-like custom of taking a wife and then another is still accepted in Arabic culture.   Even today, leaders such as Bin Laden and Gadaffi had multiple wives and children. Throughout history and religion, characters such as Jacob had many wives; the son of his favourite wife was his favourite son to whom he gave a multi-coloured coat; Joseph.   Hugh Hefner founded a financial empire by surrounding himself with glamorous young playthings.

Does this polygamous lifestyle really lead to harmony or happiness?  Joseph was hated by his brothers, who sold him into slavery.  In our liberal westernised culture, a report recently told of Lord Bath with his polyamorous lifestyle and the night time disputes resulting in one wifelet calling police following an altercation with a fellow wifelet.

It might work for the male ego, but Henry got bored and changed wives nearly as often as he changed mistresses.   Madam de Pompadour was the third but not last mistress of Louis XV of France.  Whilst J F Kennedy’s legendary conquests are well documented particularly Marilyn Munroe and Jayne Mansfield.  Men find it so difficult to commit to one person; why?

If Jenny, who puts 110% into everything she does, including her marriage can love one person so much then why; is it not enough?  Why do men need to stray?  What more do they want?

Jenny has her friends; her child and can hold her head high, knowing she gave her marriage everything.   It will take time, for her husband to realise quite what he has lost and then sadly it will be too late.

 

Tiggy 

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Putting off Procrastination

Posted on September 5, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

I have developed a serious case of writer’s block and am not sure how to get over this hopefully interim state of barren creativeness.

Always one to lack the confidence in my own ability to create and share, I think I have got out of my routine where I just wrote rather than thought about the outcomes.

How did it get so bad?

Once upon what seems a lifetime ago; I would wake up full of creativity and spend an hour allowing the pen to scrawl the old fashioned paper, before the rest of the world began to emerge from their slumbers.   A few stolen moments of my time allowing me to pen a few random (and they were random) thoughts nurtured into an entertaining piece of prose.

I then took on the biggest challenge of them all:  NANOWRIMO – to write a novel in a month:  Even when I realised; to achieve this mammoth task I needed to produce 2000 words a day for 30 days, I undaunted, agreed to attempt the challenge.  After all 2000 words were marginally over what I could produce in a morning anyway.

I took the challenge and although technically I failed; in my mind, I succeeded in producing a skeleton of a novel with 60,000 words.   The disputable issue is that it took me just over 2 months to produce; hence in the eyes of the organisers it was not finished.   I on the other hand was pleased with my effort and really believed my story had wings to fly.    I then took the tentative next step to edit and fluff out the bones of my skeletal tale.

Two rewrites later and my story has depth, characterisation, intuition and realism about it.  That of course is my opinion.  What the story lacks is decent punctuation, spelling errors of the most basic kind and the readiness to be sent away.    I know the story well, I know and identify with all the characters and I can spend wasted hours just trawling through adding a colon, correcting their to there and remembering my speech quotation marks.

I loaded it onto the “you write on” web site for other writers to critique the first 7000 words, and surprised myself at the favourable comments that have come back.   A lot of people have given negative feedback on the punctuation and grammar, which are not in the remit to comment on.  However the positive feedback on the storyline, characterisation, pace and  structure, narrative voice, settings and themes has been overwhelming in their encouragement and assurance that this is a story that should be finished and published.

I learnt quickly to review other people’s attempts with some catching my attention so much I can’t wait to read the finished product.  A few, thankfully not many, such dire attempts that I struggled to make it through the 7000 words but I still managed to find some good things to say.  After all, I was learning fast just how callous and soul destroying a negative review could be after the effort put in.

I read somewhere:  a writer needs a blog; an opportunity to allow your work to be read and commented on.  I began a blog; unsure of who was going to read the blog, after all who is going to randomly read someone else’s delusional musings. I link it to a facebook account as a conduit in order to direct some traffic and some comments.  Comments are rare and usually come from my children telling me “that is not what facebook is about”.   I try to write the blog once a week meaning my creative juices at least get a stirring; but it is not the same as the outpouring of weird and wonderful writing that I was producing only this time last year.

Time out during the summer holidays meant I did not get up at the usual time and join the dawn chorus, not only because birds are not as vocal at this time of year but with the pressures of school and work not on, naturally there would be more time in the day to write.  Who exactly was I kidding! Three boys take a lot of looking after even when they reach teenagedom.  Continual raids on my fridge and snack cupboard requires regular trips to a shop.  Gangs of 9 year olds traipsing through my kitchen requiring squash, is interruption enough either to prepare the squash or to clear the mess when they beat me to it. They say girls are fashion conscious and fastidious about their attire; then explain to me why boys require several changes of clothes per day and the bathroom floor is a constant extension of the washing basket.

The autumn term has now reached us with alarming alacrity, the boys are going back to school, Sporty Sexy Dad is already back at work and I return to the school office today.    Although New Year and the resolutions we all make is thankfully still a few months away.  In the school calendar the New Year starts here, so with it comes a resolution:  to return to the halcyon mornings when I wrote for the sake of writing.  I have a list of competition short stories with the dates they need to be sent in.  I do not flatter myself by thinking I stand a chance of actually winning, but if I could only put pen back to paper and create a flow I believe I can overcome this interim stumbling block.

A sense of duty – that will win me a holiday, but what could I write about.   Obligation, undertaking, what you have to do, all good descriptions of the word duty but how can you make them into a story.  The sense of duty I have is to write but about what?

Make ‘em laugh  –  that is a good one I can write about anything but it has to be funny,  telling a joke is too subjective and as my children are at pains to tell me; my humour and theirs is worlds apart, so maybe not this one.

Atrocious first line – this sounds better, they have even given me the first line “And then I woke up to find it was all a dream...”   Ooh gosh, feelings of déjà vu and Bobby Ewing in the shower, not a bad image, but maybe not for this.

There must be something I can write about.

Pen poised, paper at an angle…. no wrong angle, that’s better and………..   oops the troops are emerging, I have to rejoin the real world.

Well maybe tomorrow……….

Tiggy

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Camping vs. Pampering

Posted on August 24, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

Peace and Harmony on the Lake

We are on a family holiday only we are not all together.

Families are made up of individuals and as such, each has their own idea what a holiday should consist of.  Harmony cannot possibly be achieved if any one personality is not catered for.  So where as a family do we choose to go for a holiday; Roadford Lake!    We brought so much equipment that it required two cars.  Towing the mirror dinghy full of sailing gear, the smaller topper upside down on roof bars, inside crammed full with camping equipment and kids the car meanders through the lanes to the main road. A second car follows behind; stuffed with clothes and overnight basics or food and drink, we travel down through the West Country to the border between Devon and Cornwall.

It takes so long to put up a tent, particularly a frame tent; with its three bedrooms and kitchen area; room to house the portaloo (Sexy Sporty Dad was adamant he was not bringing that as well) another separate room for the wardrobe, which again was left at home.   The windows have twee little curtains to close at night, which all have to be threaded correctly and laboriously.    Extra bits mean extra effort.  Trying to remember which poles go where and what bit of the canvas tightens at which corner.   Where are the tent pegs?

The whole process is a recipe for an argument and I don’t remember a time when it has been done without cross words.   Teenage boys having grown up helping,  now; either sure they know best or otherwise can’t be bovered to help.   There is something to be said for these throw up tents although they are not that practical for a rainy week anywhere in England during the summer.  At least once the frame tent is up it provides some protection if not comfort from the rain.

Overnight even without rain everything becomes cold or damp and having nowhere to put anything means dirty clothes and clean get blended in a heap of grass flecked damp pungent material.  The towels hang anywhere they can, outside for a shadow of sun or whisper of wind, inside dangling from door frames or roof poles.   It is not often I have to queue to use the shower at home but at the campsite it is a common complaint, having traipsed all the way over to the shower block clutching my damp clothes and wash bag, I stand in a queue while everyone else who got there before me, takes their time.  The lukewarm piddle of water trickling slowly down the body in an effort to clean the night-time grime away.

There is sociability about camping which I intuitively flourish at; chatting aimlessly to the neighbour, discussing deepest secrets as you wash pots together.   Apologising for strained words or fighting, they hardly seem to have noticed although you hear everything going on in their tent.  Lending tent pegs, mallets, husbands to help, borrowing a can opener and bottle opener or sharing a long awaited glass of wine; all come in the unspoken rules of camping.  Children all play and muck in with other children finding any area to kick a football wrestle a rugby tackle or bowl a maiden over at cricket.

I have done my fair share of camping over the years; reaching a stage where it really is no longer pleasurable.   The children enjoy the experience; not fussed by damp clothes, mud, grass or any other inconvenience, happy to forgo the shower altogether.  Middle Son, getting in the spirit of things,  took me shopping for breakfast; ginger cake, biscuits, mini croissants, multipack cereals, chocolate milk, Jaffa cakes and a whole hoard of things I didn’t know existed and certainly do not come under “5 a day”; crates of coke (thankfully; another year or two and it will be beer) to keep the thirst quenched.

The venue for this holiday was to give everyone the opportunity to enjoy the lake and the sailing; Sexy Sporty Dad needed a break from his female orientated office and to get back to the basics.  No 1 Son and Middle Son needed some physical He-Man sailing, with many opportunities for capsizing or racing across the windswept open lake to impress some of the girls who are on sailing courses at the centre, thrown in for good measure.   Mini Son just wants to kayak for hours or days; appearing for food and drink when the need takes him, then to join in playing with any shaped ball with  anybody willing to let him.

I; on the other hand, need warmth, dry, comfy bed, electrical sockets and a touch of pampering.   None of which is available even at the top or the range, fully equipped pre-erected Eurocamp tent.   I chose once again not to be part of this camping experience, instead booking myself into a bed and breakfast just 4 miles down the road from the campsite. Cathy and Paul from The Old Cottage have only one aim in their lives this week, and it all centres around me! Definitely not a feeling I have very often!

Dream about a light pink and lilac room larger than the whole tent, a super king bed with net curtains draped round the head, bigger than Middle Son’s two man tent. This is my reality and my room; all the extras you would expect, tea and coffee.  I can take the weight off my feet and luxuriate, lay even sit on the deep cosy sofa or snug relaxing arm-chair as I watch TV on the freeview set.  When I feel it is all too much the bathroom is as big as most tents, with a bath to rest my weary limbs or a power shower to massage them awake after a long nights sleep.  It is warm, it is dry and I am reassuringly comfortable.

And then there is breakfast.  Breakfast is; I am ashamed to say, a ritualistic and leisurely feast of historical proportions.  I mistakenly assumed when reading the menu there was a choice, but early on have come to realise the menu is an explanation of what you will be eating.

I sit quietly watching over the other dinners, “Jenny-No-Mates”; not a bit of it. I chat to others at their tables, in the small beamed breakfast room.  Cathy and Paul both come in asking of my day yesterday, what are my plans for today, am I alright?  Do I need more toast, coffee or anything else?  Is there anything I need for my room?  I am called “sweetheart” and “darling”; I feel like the most important person in the world.

Afterwards, I wander reluctantly little by little back to my room and then to the campsite where, with the sudden abruptness of a bomb, normality breaks through my haze of magic.

“Hold this!” as I am given a rope with a sail attached.

“Launch me” as I balance precariously one footed, on the jetty pushing a vessel into the water with the other.

“What’s for lunch, I’m hungry” as I rummage through the remaining food stores, now housed all over the tent.

Can I go on the wow balls? Can I have a burger? Where are my clean boxers?”

Tiggy

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Sad demise of Tetley Teabag RIP!

Posted on August 17, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

You cannot imagine how guilty I feel!  I have killed the cat!

Firstly, so that you are aware I personally am not a cat lover. In our early years Sexy Sporty Dad persuaded me to have a pure grey kitten, Buttons.   I think the idea was to steer me away from wanting babies.  Buttons, beautiful as she was; was a flirt, as soon as a man walked through the door she would be all over him, winding her way round his legs, purring softly, she would roll over on her back expectantly, her colouring and big eyes melted many a man’s heart and he would bend down and tickle her.  A typically jealous female she resented me.  Sexy Sporty Dad would kiss me hello or goodbye, instantly she would be between us; spitting and giving me the evil eye.    Sadly, and nothing to do with me, as No 1 Son was born Buttons developed feline leukaemia.  Following progressively ferocious fits she had to be put down.

Now I avoid cats as much as possible, conversely they single me out.  I am the quiet person in a room of chattering feline loving females but the cat always chooses to sit on my lap!  I do look after and feed my neighbours cats while she is away on her carefree holidays, content in the knowledge they are being cared for!  It is a reciprocal arrangement she looks after our two rabbits and our now one cockatiel when we venture away.

Tetley.

My neighbour, Natty has or rather had two beautiful fur balls; twin cats Tetley and Tilly, who roam the neighbourhood freely.  Everyone knows and loves them, they in turn are happy to be loved by all.    Tilly is far more of a cat than her brother; she will go out and hunt in the fields behind the houses, bringing back little treasures for her mistress.   Happy to be picked up and loved but eager then to escape on to the next adventure.  A little promiscuous she flirts with all the other cats in the area though there is no one special in her life except her brother.

Tetley, got his genes mixed up when he was born; more of a baby or puppy than any cat.  He is a large ball of fur who has to be with people.  He will not venture far from home except to school where he follows Natty to collect her son.   He can often be found curled up on someone’s bed having sneaked through an open door.

He will sit and watch for hours while the rabbit, having escaped, plays happily in the garden.  His fur on end, ready to pounce until the rabbit looks at him and he runs crying from the garden.  Sneaking unnoticed into our house he stands on tip toes holding the birdcage just watching the bird.  Reg the very grumpy cockatiel does not take kindly to this and having pecked Tetley  once in a lifetime, only needs to look in his direction to again send the cat crying from the room.  This huge ball of fur was happiest when picked up and cradled like a baby; he could stay like that for hours if ever given the chance.   Exercise was not Tetley’s speciality; he would prefer to be cuddled or just allowed to sit in the sun on  any surface that caught the day’s rays.

So it came to pass that I was left on Saturday in charge of both cats as Natty departed for her hols.    That evening I dutifully went across, calling and whistling for the cats.  Tetley was on the doorstep waiting.   I opened the door expecting him to twist and turn around my feet in his eagerness to get to the kitchen, instead he cried pathetically and walked upstairs.

Although his behaviour registered slight alarm I figured he was missing the sound of children in the house and fed him as usual.  Returning early on Sunday I found he had not eaten anything.   Now, I was worried, no matter how much he missed the family Tetley always managed a little comfort food.  I found him asleep on the spare bed and as he was not very willing to move I lifted him downstairs and out.    Tetley was seen shortly after stalking our rabbit cage.

We returned quite late and let Tilly in for her tea but Tetley was nowhere to be found.  I guessed he must have wandered into an open house for warmth and food.   How wrong I was!

Next morning I found Tetley in the den the children had made a day or so before, curled round a blanket.  Although definitely breathing he showed no interest in me, even when I spoke to him on my way past with the morning’s first load of washing to hang out.

I knew then he was unwell and this was a job for the vet.  There are two vets in town but which one did Tetley belong to?  Did he have an account?  I couldn’t go running up vet bills on someone else’s account.   Carefully I carried the prone body of the sleepy cat in to the house, wrapped in the blanket.  He moaned; a quiet painful moan that will haunt me forever.   I gave him a bowl of water which initially he ignored.   Later he woke momentarily and manoeuvred himself painfully to the bowl, lapped some water then fell asleep, head in the water.

Holiday or no holiday I phoned.  Like all good comedy films, Natty was in an area of poor reception and a stilted conversation ensued where she only managed to hear two or three words from each sentence I said.  We then got cut off.

Realising it was important, she found a spot in the holiday house with at least a margin of reception and called me back, just as I finished typing a long text.  We agreed the Vet was needed.  She arranged for her brother, plus cat basket to come to collect the ailing Tetley.

“Tetley had kidney failure and had to be put to sleep.  There was no way of knowing that it was happening to him, so please don’t feel bad.”  My text bleeped a couple of hours later.

Bad!  I don’t feel bad,  I feel awful, I feel guilty, I feel as if I have let not only Natty down, but her son Mini Nat, Tilly and most of all Tetley.   227 days into the year and he fell ill on the second day of Natty’s holiday.  It was always going to be a sad day when one of the cats died but it was not supposed to happen when I was in charge.   I will understand if next holiday, that is if she ever goes away again, Natty asks someone else to look after Tilly.

Tilly is bewildered, she knows something is wrong, she keeps coming to me and looking up and crying “where is he?”   How do I explain to a cat that her twin is gone?

Tetley, sadly missed, Rest in Peace!

Tiggy

 

 

 

 

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Capital Punishment

Posted on August 12, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

“ havin the most borin time in London after b’in dragged here by my mum”

Middle Son’s entry on facebook read during our recent trip round London.   How much entertainment do teenagers need to keep them from the riotous anarchy that has taken place in the capital.

To the Tower!

What is boredom?  Can this tedium, monotony or dullness lead to anarchy, disorder, chaos and lawless mayhem?     Three weeks into the holidays and teenagers are complaining of being bored.  There is nothing to do, friends are away or they are bored of just watching telly, playing on the DS or updating facebook status.  Emotions begin to run high, there are more arguments, more tears and more injuries.   Are the riots in London an extension of the symptoms belligerently being played out nationwide by bored teenagers with nothing to do but re-enact their “call-of-duty” battles as a release for frustration and energy.

Unpopularly, we took our teenagers away for a couple of days.  We meandered through Hyde Park against a barrage of ennui and lethargy demanding bikes from the bike pools that are now cropping up throughout London.   No way would I allow myself or anyone remotely connected to me to be permitted into the fracas they call traffic around the town. I didn’t plan to spend my holiday at yet another A&E.   However Hyde Park itself has a myriad of cycle lanes and on a damp midweek afternoon in the middle of the summer was not overly populated with unsuspecting tourists.  I relented.

It is not a straight forward process dismantling a bike from the pool but we succeeded in the end. Freedom and off they went; mini son took a turn before Sexy Sporty Dad led the older two round the outskirts of the park, I suspect to where the London Triathlon was conveniently being set up.  Mini son, still young enough, was placated with a large ice-cream.

The motivation for this trip had been to take them to see the Lion King.  Wow!  A fantastic production, the whole theatre came alive and the show was incredible.   The scenery a mind-blowing feat of engineering as it turns and grows up from the stage.  Animals so convincing, a picture could not do them justice; their characters, movements and elegance flowing with the music.  We all took away a special memory but I cannot tell you which bit the teenagers found boring, as they watched awestruck at the spectacle unfolding before them.

Booking in to our hotel we were directed down a steep set of stairs into the basement of the tall building where we found a small room housing a double bed with a further three singles in a row.  With barely leg room between them meant the boys were almost sharing a triple bed.    We did have our own private en-suite which, in a previous existence may well have passed for a built in wardrobe.   The toilet had the basin perched precariously above it.  The shower; a particularly small cubicle with the side panel not quite reaching as far as the wall, left about a foot of unused and inaccessible floor space.  Unbelievably the water that powered out of the tiny shower head was strong and hot, washing away the lack of other facilities.   It was cheap, clean, central and it gave us breakfast.

My Favour rests with Lord Neville

I had vouchers for the Tower of London where, having climbed along the various castle battlements and found the square where so many famous gruesome executions are supposed to have taken place; they disappeared in to the armoury.  Animated with the idea they should have been knights or kings of the realm, these children ran around interacting with bows and computer graphics.  Suddenly we found ourselves on differing sides of the battle of Roses supporting opposing duellers in an “impromptu” battle.  I am delighted to say my allegiances lay with the victor on this occasion; Lord Neville who beat Lord Woodville in the final dramatic battle.

Later we dragged the children to Bella Italia where we fed them copious amounts of pasta and garlic bread followed by the “Godfather” of all puddings; a combination of whipped cream, chocolate ice-cream, chocolate mousse and brownies.   Pudding was demolished in moments!

The next day with the weather unable to concur with the sun promised we found ourselves sat in sporadic showers watching the end of the ladies triathlon full of patriotic emotion as our British girl won not only the triathlon, but her place in next year’s Olympic team.    Having collected every possible giveaway we could manage we caught a cruise down the River Thames where an entertaining crew member gave a colourful commentary of the history as we passed by.

Cafe Rouge, a favourite I have to admit of mine, was the choice for that evening with the French atmosphere and wonderful food.    Despondent teenagers tucked into plates of mussels, garlic bread, steak and of course French fries.   Needless to say the Ice-cream sundaes did not stay in the glass for long.    Still bored we went in search of Covent Garden and the nightlife.

Bearing in mind that it is 30 years since I lived in London and even then my constant companion was my A-Z, maybe my memory isn’t quite what it was.  Turning left instead of right out of the restaurant will not have helped.   We trudged along streets and through still open shops until finally we agreed we were in the wrong place.   Two teenage boys slowed their unenthusiastic pace to a standstill, eyes opening wide, a flush visibly creeping across their faces.  No longer bored; their mother was dragging them through SOHO just as it woke up for the evening.

I remember coming here in my former life; we would frequent a particularly good Chinese restaurant where I learnt to use chopsticks and eat authentic Chinese food.   I don’t remember it being quite so loud or bright. It was dismally dull as we furtively scurried down the shadowy lanes bypassing the occasional noise blocking door or young beautiful Chinese lady beckoning us.

The ladies have been replaced by big thuggish looking bouncers, the dull black replaced by bright colour posters displaying scantily clad young ladies.  Striptease clubs, lap dancing clubs, casinos with music blaring out competing with the neighbours all advertising their wares.   Punters tumble already inebriated out of pubs as they make their way to the clubs, some of them particularly the females dressed in not much more than the girls in the posters.  Apparently SOHO has become more upmarket since my time; we had found one of the few streets still heavily reliant on the sex trade.

Keen to speed them up, each turn took us further into the depths of SOHO, for the first time on our trip not a word of boredom, in fact not a word even babbled from their open mouths.

Not so bored now!

“Oh cause ur funny dragging me through sex ally in London”  

Tiggy

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Neighbourly Unease

Posted on July 29, 2011 by Tiggy Hayes

My neighbour is killing me!

Don’t get me wrong he is not a pathological killer or a mass murderer or anything like that but he is bending the law and generous spirit of those around him to breaking point.

We live in a small courtyard off a spur on a large rambling rabbit warren of shoddily (in my opinion), built George Wimpey homes (another story!).  Four homes surround this courtyard, three inhabited by young children who play out and mix very well together.  The fourth property, a badly designed flat lies above our four garages, the windows, instead of looking out of the back across the rolling hills of Dorset, open over the courtyard.  The incumbent tenant is middle aged and very much unattached.  He also works from home and there is not an ant that crosses the courtyard without his beady eyes picking it out and commenting on or to it.

Remember Hyacinth Bucket from Keeping up Appearances, she could learn a lot from my neighbour and his neighbourhood watching.   During the term time it is easier to suffer the continual interruptions and comments on how to bring up the children.  He being the expert; having fathered and brought up precisely, no children!

Now the summer holidays are upon us and the children have days stretching out in front of them to play and argue and learn their social skills.   What they do not want is some “Old Man”; a term I use hesitatingly, as he is not that much older than the parents of these children, commenting on their every movement.

They, in my mind have a right to grow up and learn by themselves.  I know my children are far from angels some of the time, but it is in a child’s nature to stretch the boundaries of truth and temptation to the limit.  I don’t want or need my neighbour explaining the ins and outs of the children’s arguments.  I want my child and his friends to learn by admitting the truth, discussing the consequences and agreeing together, which they are more than capable and happy to do.

I am lucky, having a husband, so the attention I get from our neighbour is tempered.  However another of our neighbours isn’t so lucky.  She is on her own and has a young son who is well looked after, well fed, very happy and neither of them suffer for lack of a man around.  No 1 son sometimes babysits while we have girlie nights out; we have a wonderful reciprocal arrangement not only on babysitting but feeding the animals whilst the other holidays.

Our neighbour pays special attention to her; his hearing acutely tuned to the tone of her car entering the estate.   He miraculously materialises as she turns the engine off, he hauntingly emerges from his door as she leaves her house and aggressively questions every visitor venturing past his windows; particularly male visitors.   The window cleaner makes a big thing of announcing his presence by doing ours first so he is allowed past.  The postman dashes through the courtyard so as not to be questioned on what he is delivering.    As for the recent plumber, who was interrogated as to what he thought was wrong and how to go about fixing it, I think he will not be returning in a hurry.

Once upon a lifetime, it was common practice for neighbours to just enter each other’s houses; but they were usually women popping in to check on something. They also had an open invitation.   We no longer live in that kind of open society and walking through the garden into someone’s kitchen without invite is pushing the bounds of neighbourliness to stalking, don’t you think?

Magnanimously, I could, almost accept this in the spirit of neighbourliness however, what I do object to is his business.   The four garages are each owned by the four houses within the courtyard.  He has the garage next to his front door and from there runs a business; industrial painting.      I don’t have a problem with people who work from home; many businesses particularly in the beauty or alternative medicine sector have their consulting rooms at home.  I myself write from home and in a previous existence ran a property management business from my home.   I would guess the, difference with all these are they do not inflict on people outside the house whereas painting does.

He opens up the garage and appears clad alien-like in a World War 2 gas mask for protection.  Wearing over large protective gloves to accentuate the need for safety, he takes out the spray gun.    Apart from the fact that my once dark blue car is now officially dappled blue, as we are unable to remove the specks of grey, white, gold and silver from the bodywork.  It is the smell of those pungent toxic fumes that I strongly object to.  He only needs to be out spraying for about 10 minutes before the tang of toxins pervade my home and my nostrils.  Maybe more than most, but I am directly downwind ; I react strongly to them suffering headaches, nausea and incredible muscle lethargy.

So, if this paint makes me feel so lousy, my neighbour feels the need to dress up in quite so much protection, is it safe to be spraying while there are children playing in the courtyard.   Personally I do not think that it is a safe industry to be carrying on in any residential area.

So what do I do?   He says he couldn’t afford rent on commercial premises?   If one of my children becomes ill he will not be able to afford the compensation or lawsuit either.    We have implicitly implied that it is not appropriate to work while the children are on holiday but he says he needs to work while the work is available.

I have looked up industrial paint on the internet to be told that once it dries it is safe.  As soon as the paint is dry he disperses the now newly painted and safe apparatus to his clients.  I seem to be fine with the dry paint.

I am in a quandary; I do not plan to spend six weeks with a headache, but also do not want to upset the delicate balance of tolerance we all enjoy.  Here’s hoping no new big orders come in!

Suggestions are welcome! Please.

Tiggy

 


 

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