Tiggy Hayes

Cleanliness comes before Godliness, Happiness and MRSA.

Unfortunately, I was caught short at the supermarket this week and had to use their facilities.  Leaving my half filled trolley at the end of the milk aisle I made a dash for the front of the shop.  It was a slight shock to the eyes as I burst through the door to encounter a rather rotund mature lady sat in a cubicle with everything on display; I take it she had forgotten to shut the door.   Acutely embarrassed, I not her; stood back with my eyes averted blocking the entrance door to prevent any other unsuspecting customer rushing in.

This was not the episode that stirred my emotions; after all, I do hope to reach that age of forgetfulness some day in the distant future.  Public conveniences are not terribly large and shutting the door may have been too tricky with her bags, walking stick and bulk.

My equilibrium was thrown into turmoil as she finished, and without flushing, she hauled herself out of the cubicle to gather her bits.  Grunting at me, she pushed past and walked through the door I was still guarding.

Reeling from the shock of being grunted at and pushed, the realisation that she had not washed her hands pervaded my mind passing through the rest of the body with a shiver. Tentatively, I moved forward slowly to enter the now vacant cubicle. The other cubicle door opened and a youngish (my sort of age so very youngish) lady in a stylish well cut coat stepped out, passed in front of me, to leave through the same door.  She too had forgotten to wash her hands.

I am not a paragon of virtue and as Sexy Sporty Dad will testify; our house, most of the time looks as if a bomb has hit it, in fact a bomb would most likely leave it tidier.  There in, lies the difference; my house is clean if not tidy.   I am in some respects OTT about some things being clean, much to the hilarity and despair of the family round me.   I not only clean with copious amounts of fairy liquid and running water the meat board following a chopping session, but then insist on it being added to the dishwasher for a final sanitisation.    Rugby or Football boots; be warned a hissy fit of volcanic proportions will follow if any of the family dare to use my kitchen dishcloths for their muddy smelly shoes.  They take their lives in their hands if they dare to use my towel; when we each possess a different colour set of our own, (or my toothbrush for that matter).

Having used the supermarket facilities, I washed my hands thoroughly, in fact twice to make up for the previous two occupants.  I continued shopping but even a squirt of the bacterial gel I keep in my bag, could not remove the feeling of internal repulsion that shivered through me as I chose pre-bagged vegetables over the choose your own.

I wonder how these ladies would feel if they were in hospital and the nurse didn’t wash her hands.  How quickly would they point a finger if they contracted MRSA from a few seconds’ lethargy?   A wave of nausea passed through me when I recognised the well dressed lady at the end of the bread aisle.

There are “now wash your hands please” signs up in the store,  the basins and free soap are all available and clean but if someone wishes to ignore this common ritual what can the store do. Changing supermarkets is an option but I suspect the problem is not isolated to that particular store.  I will in future wash my vegetables a second time, or possibly a third before venturing to feed them to my family; tea may be delayed, but at least I will feel I have done my best for them.

In future, rather than change supermarket I must try and limit my use of public amenities following another little incident that happened a few weeks ago.  I attended a conference for school secretaries at a rather elegant converted mansion house. Returning from coffee my colleague and I popped to the ladies.  We joined the shorter queue downstairs.  A lady came out from the disabled door, so I urged my colleague to use that one.

Being now last in the line I barged through the main cloakroom door, to be met by two ladies drying their hands who kindly pointed me to the cubicles.  Having finished my business I stopped at the basin.

“Oh how embarrassing” came a very deep voice from the corner.

Turning round I found out that not all the male visitors were aware of the change of use for men.

“Oh I am so so sorry” I sort of stammered, pulling my eyes back; not to the mirror but the basin, the soap, the colour of the floor tiles, anything!

The voice came up behind me and quietly in my ear I heard “you can tell them you spent a penny with the headline speaker”

His speech, a harrowing account of his kidnap and torture was incredibly informative but also extremely entertaining; and bless him; there was no reference to our earlier meeting.  I however, was still too embarrassed to stand up and ask any questions during his Q&A session!

Tiggy

As I approach and agonise over the speed of time passing and my next milestone birthday, I try to plan how I should mark the occasion for myself.  Thankfully I have a couple of years to plan it but with each week, then month, a year will follow on closely behind.  It is not just the planning but the financing to be taken into account.

Looking around for inspiration I am aware that this year sees a spate of significant birthdays; none more so than Brother-In-Law (BIL) who with much aplomb celebrated a half century this weekend with a Glastonbury style bash.

Glasto like, with many guests opting to camp in the field, rather than make their way home in the wee small hours.  An excellent band entertained us during the evening, after a close friend opened proceedings with a fantastic rendition of the quintessential “summertime”.  No mike, her audience surrounded her as she stood on the lawn in the sunshine (which finally deigned to join us), pimms filling our glasses, she serenaded us acappella.

Before the disco began BIL did make a short speech before inviting his niece, my Goddaughter to the stage where she sang a beautifully in tune and strong performance of Keane’s version of “somewhere only we know”.    Not a dry eye in the marquee!   Her mum did not breathe for the whole three minutes and suffered all the agonies you can imagine whilst willing her daughter on. Goddaughter captivated her audience as if this was a regular gig.  Move over Keane!

Beer and wine on tap saw many youngsters stretching the bounds of limitation past the limit, not to mention a few adults.  BIL will awaken to a huge dent in his bank account, a serious hangover and a resounding memory.  The memory that will stay with me, was the following morning, after the bacon baps and help yourself to tea and coffee urn.   A progression of classic cars left the house to take part in a rally; organised by his fellow car enthusiasts as a final treat for his special occasion.

Ready to Rally!

I am not sure that this kind of party is very me; I would spend all night worrying so much that everyone else was enjoying themselves that even the idea fills me with sleepless nights and disturbed thoughts!

Grandad of course has just had his significant birthday and memories of that stressful holiday still haunt my dreams and waking moments.   Gathering several members of mine and Sexy Sporty Dad’s relatives together for a week is not on the cards either.

A close friend of ours has also just celebrated his half century.  He and three close friends hired a VW campervan and took it to Glastonbury for the long weekend.  His family camped at the festival and at times they met up; but the family never found the campervan.   Unknown to him his family also had a treat in store; they took him to Silverstone for the Grand Prix, three weekends later.   Unfortunately for me having a winter birthday means Glasto is definitely a no no and to be honest I would rather Wimbledon than Silverstone.  The idea of the campervan and friends is a possibility!

My best friend reached the “life begins at” age of 40 some years ago and her husband spent a long time rummaging through old address books and past Christmas cards to arrange her secret party, which she thought she was hosting for their eldest daughter who reached 21 two weeks later.    Yes! She was a child bride and yes it has lasted the course.   The idea of Sexy Sporty Dad fumbling through my history to drag out childhood schoolmates that I would rather forget is not that appealing either.  Although the possibility of him sharing a birthday with No 1 son is more likely as there is exactly 30 years and two months difference between them.

Talking of which; for his last milestone I whisked him off to Rome for a weekend.  It would have been a complete secret had there not been an important meeting he tried to organise on the Monday; he could not understand why his wonderful secretary had booked him holiday that day.    She argued valiantly that it had to be kept free, until finally in desperation, she suggested he speak to me.  So a week before we flew he knew something was happening involving a flight and days off work!    I am too much of a control freak, like BIL, I would not allow anyone else to plan my revelry for me.

My ideal plan was to take three to six months off with Sexy Sporty Dad and three boys and go on a long world cruise, stopping at all the places I would love to visit, but know I will never get the chance.   Money of course comes into it.  Taking the three boys out when they will all be at critical educational points in time will, I fear, be the final nail in that plan!   No 1 Son will be in the middle of A ‘levels and doing any AS levels he might choose to take.  Middle Son will be taking his GCSEs and Mini Son right in the middle of SATS, if his school continue to take part.    Not good planning really to allow me to take any time off with them.

Happy Birthday BIL! Appropriate greetings; to those celebrating a special event this year.  I will head back to the drawing board and contemplate a quiet retreat in a spa hotel with good wine and good food and a handful of my best friends!  The local airfield takes adventurous passengers on flights over their houses as they acrobat around looping the loop before trying to land again.  Not sure the body is, or will be, still that adventurous!

Tiggy

I spent Sunday cooped up in a boiling car, with the family travelling to and from Bristol.   No 1 Son got out of it by ironically attending a First Aid Course for his Duke of Edinburgh, despite his apathy this I believe to be a necessary life skill.  You are quite entitled to ask why the rest of us wanted to spend the day in the car?  So would I, so do I!   Sexy Sporty Dad was in the Bristol Triathlon along with what seemed to be thousands of other people.

I have nothing against Bristol as such but to me it brings back fearful memories of trips and stays at the Children’s hospital which would rather remain hidden.   It is not a town I would contemplate living or working near for that very reason.

All weekend Sexy Sporty Dad was having reservations about taking part; the drive, the heat and this time it was not a little village attempt.  This was going to have Olympic trainees also in attendance albeit attempting to go twice the distance. When it came to it, if we went to give support then he felt obliged to attempt it.

I cannot say for one moment the journey was in the slightest bit enjoyable; squabbling children, overbearing heat and never ending traffic jams.  We arrived with minutes to spare; Sexy Sporty Dad leapt from the car and sprinted down to the registration tent.  I was moved on by the marshals.   It took another 45 minutes for us to meet up again to deliver his bike and kit.   As I rejoined the carriageway the road led into one of the many ring roads out of Bristol.   Try as I may, I could not get back.  Middle Son and Sat Nav were doing stirling work directing me back but each time we got near, the road was blocked due to you guessed it; the Triathlon.

There were differing groups and we watched the beginning of his swim.   50 eager wet-suit clad middle aged men climbed down into the oil filmed dirty brown water of the harbour. A klaxon sounded and they were off, fifty white swimming hats bobbing along towards a blown up bouy in the distance.     We watched as they began to arrive back.  One man was dragged from the water; paramedics helping him to sit up and breath as they unzipped his figure huggingly tight wetsuit.  He wasn’t going to finish.   We waved cheerily as Sexy Sporty Dad came out of transition and set off for 11 gruelling miles around Bristol on his bike.

Horror set in as we watched two cyclists come together, their bikes and bodies intertwine as they somersaulted together in the air.  The action slowed like in the films, as the scene played out in front of us; there was nothing we could do to stop the inevitable.  Marshals and paramedics flew to their aid and began unravelling the intertwined bodies and bikes. One of the cyclists finally got back on to his bike and wobbling precariously set off to face the struggle ahead.   The other after much attendance by the medics was removed by St John Ambulance crew either to hospital or the start, his bike walked back to the start by a marshal.

Wandering around at the end of the race amidst spectators and competitors alike, there were competitors who had completed the race, radiating bright red faces, bent over trying to catch their breaths having expended their final calories.   Some were being forced to drink to combat the hallucinative effects of dehydration.  There were upper bodies bared with open weeping grazes covering the whole back, shoulder and upper arm.   There were competitors with their legs and arms with new bandaging protecting injured limbs.   Sexy Sporty Dad reported passing fellow competitors who had just stopped still, unable to take one more step; one person bent over vomiting on the side of the road incapable of moving another inch.

All this in the name of sport!   How many of the many hundreds who took part will be off sick today from injured body parts or worse still stomach upsets having swallowed even just a tiny bit of that water.

I have spent many a Sunday afternoon and night in casualty followed by the children’s ward at hospitals following a game of friendly rugby.   I take the children in and go through the usual question and answer session.  “Oh you have been before, yes we have your son’s name on record.”  You can see their minds working with suspicion.

“He plays rugby” I hastily explain.  Suddenly they understand and I am a kind hearted concerned mum; no longer a potential child abuser.  My child is suffering these horrific injuries for a game.    It is OK for me to allow my child to put himself into danger each weekend for a game of rugby or bmx biking; as long as it is considered sport.

What of the poor spectators who are not taking part but cheering their loved ones on.  In Bristol we found the lakeside cafe who gave us tea, coke (the drinking variety although others may have been passively filling the air), tiffin to die for and ice-cream.  The lad serving said they had not stopped all day.  I also noticed the pub opposite the start of the swim had people bulging out onto the road with pints in their hands raised in cheer towards friends or family in their efforts.    St John’s ambulance was out in force administering water and the like to dehydrated onlookers who hadn’t had the pre-thought to bring a drink with them.

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for a walk or a family bike ride but we seem to have the two extremes in this country.  We either go all out, suffering for sport or we support with a raised glass and a snack.   Nadal and our own Murray suffered injuries on the way to their final departure from this year’s Wimbledon but did they give up?  No they pushed on; possibly doing more incurable damage rather than feel a failure which neither can really claim to be. Is it not a better thing to enjoy playing a game or taking part in some form of activity, rather than pushing ourselves to the limits.  Has the greater good gone to far. Have we taken the Governments warnings on obesity to obsession!

So, to all those triathletes who competed in Bristol this weekend, WELL DONE.  For those who make it into work an even bigger WELL DONE.  To all those supporters: I hope your loved ones come and cheer you on next time you take part in your chosen sporting activity!  In my case Sexy Sporty Dad can join me on a gentle bike ride to the next village’s coffee shop, or have the children when I attend my pilates class or Zumba.

Tiggy

Goddaughter was confirmed with all the pomp and ceremony they could muster and I was her sponsor.   Torn with emotion at leaving No 1 Son behind to do his own thing; but delighted that Goddaughter was making the commitment and that I am still part of her spiritual life we embarked on the weekend.

It should not have been that long a journey but having stopped to buy trainers and the frequent “I need a wee” stops. We at last reached the A27, the home straight. I began calculating in minutes the time until we arrived.  I could almost smell the fragrant honeysuckle climbing the pub wall where we were meeting everyone.  Then we joined the queue; an accident, the traffic slowed and we were in the middle of it.

We missed the pub.  Finally tea and cake made the journey seem nearly worthwhile. Goddaughter and siblings excited about it all and delighted that we had finally arrived. In-laws and out-laws had arrived and the party was in full swing.

Goddaughter showed me her dress, a flatteringly beautiful sea green dress to be worn with a neat little black shrug.  Then she produced her shoes!   Three inch black stiletto heels, elegant, sophisticated definitely; but at 14 she already stood several inches above me in bare feet.  Who was sponsoring who?

The following morning breakfast and lunch ran nearly into each other in order to get everyone fed, showered and dressed in their finery ready to be at the church by 3pm.

Arundel boasts a beautiful Cathedral dominating the ancient and historic city.  A fitting venue for a special occasion. We arrived in torrential rain, kindly dropped at the door to save our skimpy dresses and inappropriate footwear.  Inside, we were ushered, by ancient guardians of the Cathedral, to our seats in ceremonial style.  Confusion set in when they discovered we had more than the allocated 8 people in our party.  A lot of conferring and shaking of heads went on while they discussed the matter, looking on in disbelief at the embodiment of a large catholic family!

Leaving the ancients to confer I led extra members of the family to a side chapel where not only did they have a better view than us, they had a door to a hallway and conveniences which apparently were used repeatedly during the long service.  I being an important part of proceedings had to return to my allotted seat.

The pomp was well done, the choir resplendent in voice together with the magnificently restored organ and passionate organist.  The ceremony stage managed in true high Catholic style adding in all the extras to make this day a most unforgettable experience.  Incense burned and diffused into the congregation causing many a coughing fit; as the modern catholic reacts to the allergens in the strong smelling oils.

I protest at the length of ceremony.  Remembering the late start and that people had travelled to get there, not in the least ourselves.   Two hours of religious service was a long time for the many younger members of the congregation to behave, not to mention the elder members who by rights should have been taking their afternoon naps just about then. Of course many of them might have been and I mistook it for piety.  What of the candidates themselves; Goddaughter I know was showing increasing nerves as time went on; I am sure she was not the only one.

With dwindling churchgoers, the opportunity to encourage people back in should be a priority at such an opportunity.  Don’t do away with the pomp and ceremony, build on it; include a few favourite hymns the congregation may have heard.   Siblings could be invited to the alter with the candidates to involve them.  Maybe I am missing the point and keeping the strict rigidity of the ceremony is how the church hopes to encourage people back.

My role as sponsor was relatively easy. Goddaughter handed me a sheet of instructions to follow and as long as I remembered the confirmation card and put the right hand on the right shoulder I would be fine. I hope my usefulness extended to calming her nerves and keeping her focused on the ceremony.  A look of horror crossed her face as we advanced up the side aisle to stand in front of the bishop; when she realised she would have to walk up two steps in her heels and worse walk back down again in front of everyone.   An achievement she accomplished with unexpected aplomb.

A far more worrying feat for me was when I discovered that the sponsors stand on the step below.   Goddaughter will never know the effort I put in to reach up and rest my hand lightly, barely touching. The rest of the congregation were subjected to my whole body reaching and stretching a practice I usually leave to my Pilates class.

We made it through and it was still raining as we emerged spiritually refilled to look across the hills of Sussex.    The hour later than planned we made our excuses and departed for a journey which again should not have taken that long but sat nav (that’s another story altogether) led us through tiny villages and hamlets on a slow and picturesque tour of southern Britain.

Tiggy

No 1 Son has been on his first (and at the moment; last) Duke of Edinburgh expedition; a trial run for assessment in September, while we were away for the weekend.   Torn with emotion at having to leave No 1 Son in the capable hands of organisers; none of whom I had met I had to travel from the area.

If I take you back just a week when we were holidaying in the Lake District.  Imagine if you can a high street of any town or city, take it further and picture any town in the Lakes.  Every other shop selling outdoor walking gear, camping equipment, trekking paraphernalia of every description size and usage.   The day after we return home No 1 Son brings out a letter explaining what is required for his weekend!

Everything on the list we could have bought time and again in the Lakes but back home in our sleepy town there is not a single shop of use.    Sexy Sporty Dad rummaged in long forgotten storage boxes and found an old pair of walking boots from his trekking past.   There is not a lot of difference in shoe size between them these days, and these were, as the letter said broken in – it said nothing about by whom.  I benefitted by being treated to lunch and an afternoon’s shopping in the nearest city to boast a camping shop.  We bought him everything he will ever need, whether trekking 10 miles across local fields or setting off for the Mississippi jungles!

I was careful and clever to buy tins checking they all had the ring pulls.  I bought plenty of treats to keep him going, biscuits, packets of hot chocolate to make up and fruit.    He would not go hungry. He had a large water bottle to keep with him, little box drinks and milky cartons; he would not go thirsty!

Saturday morning laden with his rucksack; it took both of us to lift into the boot of my car, I took him to the rendezvous.   I needed to tell them I was away for the weekend, and they needed to know who I was.

“I will be away for the weekend”

“So what do you want us to do?”

“Well if you needed us you have to use our mobile number”

“Fine.”   She didn’t check her list to make sure she had my mobile number.

“On Sunday when you get back we won’t be here to pick him up”

“So”

“He is fine to walk home or he has permission to be given a lift by a parent of one of his friends from the trek”

“OK” and she looked at me as if I was not from the real world and waited for my next gem of over protective parenting.

No 1 Son tugged at my shirt sleeve suggesting it was time I left him with his friends and went home before too many people arrived.  He refused to kiss or hug me and barely managed a bye.

I drove away slowly going round the block to check; I am not sure what; but to check.

The following evening, I waited four hours after I expected the call, rain pouring down in torrents, I not knowing where he was; he was not answering the home phone. In motherly desperation I called a neighbour.    She ran over and knocked loudly on the door.  Finding it unlocked we assumed he had at least arrived home.   A few minutes later a gruff angry voice rang my mobile.

“Hello, I’m home.  I had a shower an shut my eyes for just 10 minutes four hours ago and now I just got woke up.”

At least he was safe.

We returned home to listen to the painful step by step account of his traumatic never to be repeated weekend.   His rucksack was heavier than anyone else’s; nobody else had tins which weighed him down.  He had to help carry the trangia as well as his luggage.  Apparently someone took pity on him and carried the tent.    It rained the whole weekend and all his clothes were wet, his feet were cold and wet and his sleeping bag dripped as he unloaded.

Despite four hours sleep followed by a good night’s sleep Monday arrived with the argument that he was too tired still to go to school; and it would not be worthwhile  as he wouldn’t be able to learn anything.  Wicked, evil mother that I am ignored the barrage of excuses.  I did relent by driving him to school, consequently making myself late for work.  He returned that night complaining that his friend who had also been on expedition had taken the day off because he was tired.

He does not plan to continue with the Duke of Edinburgh Scheme at the moment; although next time the sun might shine and we have already learnt a lot about travelling light, not to mention bought at vast expense the accoutrements to last him a lifetime.  I have plans for him to continue.

The apron strings are still attached but becoming taught and frayed.  When does a boy become independent enough to make his own arrangements and a mother stop worrying about him? At what stage do I sleep through the night without waking and wondering where he is, how he is and who he is with?  When do I no longer need to give him permission and he just does?

Tiggy

he was right the views were spectacular

(Thank God for Wine and Tea)

Having nearly reached the end of the holiday; the scales of sanity are being helped with copious cups of tea and gargantuan glasses of wine.   It is a fine line we tread to keep the troops occupied, fed, watered and ultimately happy.

A bare minimum of 16; a maximum of 26 individuals with needs and opinions of their own and we are still speaking.   Speaking may be a slight exaggeration as communication is not the strongest forte we display.  In a modern existence where every one of us is connected by mobile device of some description it is unbelievable how much of the day is spent chasing round after people.

A plan comes together and we prepare the lunch, the towels etc only to discover they have gone on ahead and not waited for us.   We don’t arrive and they are puzzled as to why we didn’t realise they were there, going there and would not be back till whenever!   We should have rung!  We did but they did not have their phone with them/switched on/charged.

We have managed an early morning discussion to plan the evening meal which is no mean feat.  Even together with all the different forms of accommodation; we lack pots large enough or forks to go round and we have resorted to shift meals.

I have been to the Lake District in the past, in the knowledge that for these geographical lakes to survive the area is prone to heavy precipitation.  In fact I, like many visitors, can recall rain soaked weekends and damp caravans and know that one does not come here for the weather.  If you want sun go to Greece!

Again this morning I have woken to beautiful clear blue skies; not a cloud to be seen across the horizon.   There is a feint breeze that will keep the sailors happy as we make use of the boat for the final day.    There have been many excursions across the lake aboard the boat; with each visitor being taken along the wide expanse of Windermere, mooring up where possible for a spot of lunch and enjoying the spectacular views not often seen through the rain.

I believed Sexy Sporty Dad when he suggested a walk;   it’s not far, slightly up but the views are spectacular.  He was right about that.   The not far bit may have had some essence of truth had I been a crow!   The slightly I would dispute at length.  From the time we had driven round and round to find a parking space (a feeling of foreboding in my limbs) to just the start of the walk was up!  A little incline I admit and one I felt happy to endure.  Then the walk; another fact I dispute, the climb went on and on.

Every step hurt, every step was up!   Some poor soul at some point in history had created a form of path for the hundreds of visitors who actually wish to do this sort of thing for fun.  There were steps made out of rough broken stones, some large some just rubble and easy to slip on.  Some were very wobbly and there were parts hewn out of the cliff which stretched the leg muscles in new demanding feats of unnatural challenge.

The sun beat down upon us as we discarded our coats then jumpers.  The exertion watered down by the bottles of squash we had taken with us.  Waterfalls and streams running parallel to the path providing ample cold water as we dipped our feet and hands with unreserved relief.

We made it as far as the small plateau of level ground, for lunch.  Yes he was right, the views were spectacular.  A view which probably few visitors will actually ever see, due to the normally, low visibility known to imbue the Lakes.

Then came the shock realisation; having climbed all that way which was tortuous enough; now we had to climb all the way down.   Going down is not a lot easier than going up.  Each step still hurt and each step required balance, determination and grit to see through the aches and pains of impending ancientness.  There was a large pot of tea with my name firmly imprinted waiting for me at the bottom of the mountain.  That is the only thing that kept my feet one after the other, pain after pain and heat wave following heat wave, going down.

Am I glad I did it?    Well I know I will not do it again.  The fact that my hips have seized up, my neck and back feel like they have done 10 rounds with Mike Tyson.  Dehydration is saturated in tea and the hallucinations of a large spa bath and massage are fading into a distant dream.  The achievement is enormous and I am sure after a good night’s sleep the pain along with the memory of the pain will disappear and I am left without the burn but the Grecian tan, along with the imprint of those incredible views and the elation at having triumphed through the agony.

We assembled for a meal together again, although gathering the clans is not an easy task.  Each family brings their own idiosyncratic foibles to the preparation and service of the meal.  It is a precarious balancing act, keeping those who claim to be starving hanging on, with our “just about ready to serve” and finding those who can forgo any formal recognition of meal times to come and join us.  Keeping the food hot for everyone and all the different component parts cooked and ready at the correct time has proved a challenge of extraordinary ingenuity.

We are early risers and hence reasonably early to eat then to bed.  Others are late risers missing large amounts of the day and cannot understand why we wish to see our beds this side of midnight.   As the evenings turn to night and the children keep going others begin to turn in not able to keep the candle burning brightly at both ends of the day.

Thank God for the many bottles of wine consumed this week and the liqueurs that followed.   Without these, emotions may well have reached fever pitch and the battles that ensued would be hard to recover from.

Tiggy

It has been a funny few days.  I have been organising the end of season meal for No 1’s rugby team.  A difficult enough job at the best of times but this year it has been a diplomatic nightmare trying to avoid toes to tread on.   Finding a date that all can make, organising the awards and hiding them from my own children not to mention organising the coaches and buying the gifts they have to present.   The meal did however go better than I expected, so we advance into their final youth year; a strong successful team of developing young men.

I went for an interview yesterday.  A job had come up at the school the older boys attend; in the reception office for longer hours and only for maternity cover.   Both boys insisted on a lift the mile to school, so on the proviso of no fighting and definitely no stressing of mum; I took them to school.   On reaching the school gates I indicated to turn in.

“Don’t drive into school with us Mum”

They would be mortified to be seen getting out of my car.  I parked outside the school on the road and they leapt from the car as if their lives depended on it.    I was escorted in by one of No 1’s friends who was only too delighted not to walk in with his older sister but to chat to me about the weekend.

There were seven of us being interviewed for the position; all in good jobs already but all prepared to leave and take a year long post at a low wage.  Is this a sign of the times?  Apparently there were over 50 applicants for this job and they had narrowed it down to seven.

I didn’t get the job.  They managed to whittle it down to four of us and then found it hard to decide but the lady who got the job will do a great job and I think she was probably the best.  Why wasn’t I the best?  I have honed my CV to catch the attention but I falter at this final step every time.  The feedback is always positive; I answered the questions correctly and said all that I should and it is always a close call but the other person always has something.  Whatever it is that other person has, I want some; to pull out in times of need.

I admit I felt  a lot of hesitancy; it was a lot more hours and childcare would become an issue.  The temporary nature was another big issue and in the current job market was a factor in my reluctance.  Maybe I did not portray my enthusiasm as well as I could.  They are going to keep me on file as they think other jobs may come up better suited to my experience.   I was not disappointed when the call came.  In some ways I was relieved I didn’t need to go through that wind down period of guilt while everybody blames you for leaving a sinking ship.

It now leaves me to concentrate on my writing.

I have not done much writing myself but I have developed my reviewing methods, which also give me an insight into reviewing of my own story.   I have also received 6 reviews on “Memories”, none of them as harsh or critical as Ericj’s original attempt.

The remaining critiques all agree the story line is good and going somewhere although none seem sure where.  Each one of them has picked up on one or two of the critical clues fed in to lead the story, they comment these don’t seem right or in keeping with what they have read.   They are not meant to!  Unfortunately they seem confused by these bits.  It is difficult to know where a story is going when you have a maximum of 7000 words from an 80,000 word novel.  I think sometimes these critics need to remember you cannot reveal the whole plot in the first chapter or you might as well not finish the novel.

Onwards and upwards; there is work to be done on it, but the essence of the feedback is that the story has the potential to run.  Now I need to hone down my basic grammar and spelling.  Maybe No 1 son would help; as he has his second module for GCSE English in a couple of weeks.  I have agreed to read and help with his homework so just maybe………..

Tiggy