tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34323828049174976502024-03-05T05:51:38.429+00:00Is there a Plan B?Life: Just not always how I plan it.Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.comBlogger400125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-41631615698816390642019-11-22T17:31:00.001+00:002019-11-22T17:31:18.751+00:00Moving on - to another blog - and TokyoIs there anyone out there?<br />
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If there is, hello. Nice to be back. Briefly.<br />
<br />
Because there are changes afoot.<br />
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We're off to Tokyo. Overland. Starting in February.<br />
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Read all about it (and comment and follow and let me know what you think) <a href="http://tweedtotokyo.com/">here</a>:<br />
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So this is officially the end of this blog.<br />
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Thank you for reading. For a little while it (and you) were a big part of my life. Thank you.<br />
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Over and out. xx<br />
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<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-1263911227154423432015-10-05T22:52:00.003+01:002015-10-05T23:42:56.269+01:00A blank pageIt's not a page, obviously. But they make it look like one, so I think it counts.<br />
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I had a blog post in my head, some years ago, about a book. It's a beautiful leather covered book from Aspinal with my initials on it. My mother-in-law bought it for me in about 2008 for Christmas. Lucky me. I'd asked for mixing bowls, but (to coin a phrase) you can't always get what you want, and I think she thought the book was nicer.<br />
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It was. It is. It's also significantly less use. Because I don't know about you, but for me there are few things quite as terrifying as a blank page. Especially a blank page in a really nice book.<br />
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What do you say? What do you put down that merits the effort that goes into moving the pen, or tapping the key?<br />
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What do you write in your first blog post for over a year?<br />
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Yet here I am. Tap tap tapping. This is stream of consciousness stuff because if I stop to think about it I'm not sure I'll start again and being here feels, yes, scary, but also comfortable. I think I might have missed it.<br />
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It's <a href="http://blogiota.blogspot.co.uk/">Iota's</a> fault. And here's a thing. Since last I wrote I've got to know her in real life (can't do the acronym stuff, never could) and it's a mark of how long I've not been blogging that in my head she's not even Iota any more, she's her real name....<br />
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Anyway it's her fault. Because it turns out there's a groundswell of old bloggers, popping their heads up above the parapet (probably with fewer mixed metaphors) and saying "We're here. We've been here for a while actually. And we haven't really gone away". And it turns out too that despite, sort of, still feeling like a newbie, I'm an old blogger.<br />
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This is, it turns out, my 399th post. My first (also not quite co-incidentally) was on the 13th October 2009. That's nearly (very nearly - for a moment I was tempted not to post this for another week) six years ago. I never stayed in any one school that long... So, I suppose I am. Old. And possibly a blogger too.<br />
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And in an old-school (see what I did there?) kind of way Iota's given me an award. Of the here's a pretty picture, now write something and tag some people variety.<br />
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So here it is. And I'm glad of it. Because I'm glad to be back. I think.<br />
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Apparently I now have to reveal seven hitherto unimaginable truths about myself. So here's seven things that I've been up to since last I wrote:<br />
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We had a referendum on independence. You might have noticed it. With hindsight it may have been a bit of a factor in my ceasing to write. It felt too important not to write about yet at the same time too scary and important to attempt to address. Maybe that was a mistake. I have just deleted the draft posts...<br />
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My children are now 8, 6, 6 and 4. That seems ridiculously grown up given that 399 posts ago, the three eldest were all under 3 and the youngest was inconceivable (metaphorically, as it turns out). At the same time though, writing those numbers makes me aware of how small they still are. They're asleep at the moment. This may account for my feeling as though they are cute and lovely and not utterly exasperating and FAR TOO LOUD.<br />
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Workwise, I still don't know what I'm doing with my life. Because in the last fifteen months, precisely nothing has changed In fact I'm still doing exactly what I was doing when we moved here, 290 posts and five and a half years ago: a bit of lawyering and a lot of parenting, both with varying degrees of success. This wasn't the plan. The problem is there never has actually been a plan. Blogging was supposed to help, but I think that has moved on and not taken me with it. (And if you haven't already clicked through to Iota's post which got me here, do so now, because I think what she thinks. On this issue at least.)<br />
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I'm going to be 40 in 14 and a bit months time. I sort of want to have a party but I won't. The problem is that you can't invite everyone and I'm not brave enough to choose who gets left out. I'm not even brave enough not to invite people I don't actually like. I'm told that as you grow up you stop caring so much what people think of you. This is therefore official proof that 38 and three quarters is not grown up.<br />
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We've got chickens. Six of them. I love them but they're actually horrid. It turns out that "<i>hen pecked</i>" and "<i>the pecking order</i>" and "<i>feeling broody</i>" have the weight of nature behind the metaphor. <br />
<br />
And I rather fancy bees next.<br />
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But definitely no more babies. To bring this full circle, maybe that's also part of the blogging; or lack thereof. I was so much a "Mummy" blogger. I even won an award (of the actual award variety) for blethering on about being pregnant, for goodness' sake. And if I can no longer put together 500 lovingly crafted words about my stretch marks and my earth shattering nappy changing technique, then what can I write about?<br />
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Yet here I am. Will I be back? I don't know. But in the meantime here are some tags of people who've been around at least as long as me. It was supposed to be fifteen but I've just gone with some old "friends" (most of whom I wouldn't recognise if I bumped into them on the bus) who didn't seem already to have been tagged in this. Of course, along with not writing I haven't been reading so it's perfectly possible that some of them may not even be blogging any more. I'm going to hit post and then I'm off to find out.... <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.muddlingalongmummy.com/">Muddling along Mummy </a><br />
<a href="http://mumsgoneto.blogspot.co.uk/">Trish at Mum's gone to</a>.<br />
<a href="http://mwaonline.blogspot.co.uk/">Mwa</a><br />
<a href="http://www.aplaceofmyown.co.uk/">Kelly at A place of my own</a><br />
<a href="http://sandycalico.blogspot.co.uk/">Sandy Calico </a><br />
<a href="http://relentlesslaundry.blogspot.co.uk/">The relentless launderer</a> and<br />
<a href="http://www.saffiafarr.com/">Saffia at Motherhood and anarchy</a><br />
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And if anyone is reading this (is anyone reading this?) and I should have tagged you, don't take it personally - just do it anyway. I'm off to rediscover those old friends.... <br />
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<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-62495028228625332682014-06-15T21:48:00.004+01:002014-06-15T21:48:49.398+01:00Starting wellB left at 3 am this morning. He won't be back until after the end of term (only two weeks away up here) by which time I'll have survived (hopefully), three sets of sports days, one leavers' assembly (we're not leaving, but attendance is nonetheless expected), the summer disco, two birthday parties (none ours) and all the other paraphernalia and chaos that goes with small children and end-of-term-itis.<br />
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It has started well though. A looked up at me over her rice krispies this morning:<br />
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"<i>Mummy</i>," she said "<i>You deserve a medal</i>".<br />
"<i>That's a lovely thing to say, poppet. Why?</i>"<br />
"<i>Because you're so clever</i>".<br />
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Not sure what I'd done to deserve that, rice krispy (krispie? krispo?) pouring being one of my core skills, but the others obviously agreed, because S chipped in:<br />
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"<i>And you're lovely</i>"<br />
"<i>And you're the best Mummy in the world</i>" added L. <br />
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By this time I was beginning to wonder if B had bribed them, but M too was not to be left out.<br />
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"<i>And. And. And....</i>" he said. He's just turned three and was clearly searching his ever-growing vocabulary for the right superlative. <br />
"<i>And you're...</i><br />
<i>And you're my Mummy!</i>".<br />
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I just hope we're all still thinking that's a good thing in two weeks' time... <br />
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Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-79571603789596248592014-05-17T00:16:00.000+01:002014-05-17T00:18:03.909+01:00Mysteries of modern life. No 382When you get in at 12:26 (or whenever), drink having taken;<br />
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is there a good way to talk to the babysitter? Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-14174405922958151862014-04-24T15:03:00.000+01:002014-04-24T15:03:11.898+01:00Wonderfully weird weekend<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiINZcCZpRzjyVBpkKc8TYxjdoLuzzNwDVabvShwsxgI7lRuM9FshmP5GFIuY8fHqrkBsPkI7Vw0rou6Z8bcWOu0RNDV5ebmuFqMwLEaeuHI_FKPuGQQky0BmydolwRXs-DudHWKoXrwdZD/s1600/IMG_6333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiINZcCZpRzjyVBpkKc8TYxjdoLuzzNwDVabvShwsxgI7lRuM9FshmP5GFIuY8fHqrkBsPkI7Vw0rou6Z8bcWOu0RNDV5ebmuFqMwLEaeuHI_FKPuGQQky0BmydolwRXs-DudHWKoXrwdZD/s1600/IMG_6333.JPG" height="200" width="149" /></a>Mannequins, leopard print dressing-gowns (and slippers), chocolates in every room, pink radiators, purple carpets, flouncy dresses, stuffed animal heads, genuine Biba fabric, space invaders, shells, old violins and a tiger skin rug....<br />
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What more could you want from a weekend away?<br />
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I went, two weekends ago, for a few days with friends from university, to <a href="http://www.oliverstravels.com/britain-ireland/heart-of-england/priory-house/">Priory House</a> in Long Bennington.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizBGr2DI9xZeDMpvPRM8Rdbmi2EM5MwCvr9FVD4BVh3Br59R2zTGWw4tzvvsxKabQi89VC1jCQrFKIwLIaXdMyei5ct7y02dvQe6dsKvdFcsNoUuoeAcZVb6NnFqP0StG50f4RiVkBJ6oQ/s1600/IMG_6342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizBGr2DI9xZeDMpvPRM8Rdbmi2EM5MwCvr9FVD4BVh3Br59R2zTGWw4tzvvsxKabQi89VC1jCQrFKIwLIaXdMyei5ct7y02dvQe6dsKvdFcsNoUuoeAcZVb6NnFqP0StG50f4RiVkBJ6oQ/s1600/IMG_6342.JPG" height="200" width="149" /></a>You know, Long Bennington. Yes, well, it's just off the A1 in Nottinghamshire, between Newark (surprisingly nice) and Grantham (never got there, but <a href="http://mumsgoneto.blogspot.co.uk/">Trish</a> can recommend it highly I'm sure) and was chosen on the basis that it was equally inconvenient for everyone (including the one who came, unannounced, from Vancouver. There were tears), and that it looked, from the pictures on the <a href="http://www.oliverstravels.com/">Oliver's Travels website</a>, brilliantly, extraordinary, surreally, decadently weird. With added sequins.<br />
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We weren't wrong. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVipQfo5CYI__9DlsKQPYRslmxmwUs2vRAWCJwkZaUjkA1ghRAcs8dlctxxTwHIoqEAWU3cn0pZVlCjdwcHxCRaMhdduD9hS_XqOUfYFpJRJ2KQo5AOes57q2_z7g2Uxf446eKlw3nBmy/s1600/IMG_6345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVipQfo5CYI__9DlsKQPYRslmxmwUs2vRAWCJwkZaUjkA1ghRAcs8dlctxxTwHIoqEAWU3cn0pZVlCjdwcHxCRaMhdduD9hS_XqOUfYFpJRJ2KQo5AOes57q2_z7g2Uxf446eKlw3nBmy/s1600/IMG_6345.JPG" height="149" width="200" /></a>It was all of those things (except the sequins) and more. The pictures, taken on my phone, don't do it justice at all, but round every corner there was something else unusual, or scary, or interesting, or quirky or, yes, beautiful.<br />
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It's a Georgian house so the bones of it are beautiful too and the rooms spacious and very comfy, with ensuite bathrooms (more chocs and oddities) and the aforementioned dressing gowns (we failed to take a team photo, foolishly (though my co-conspirators are probably relieved)). It is also, quite astonishingly given the sheer amount of stuff, clean. We also had the run of the medieval brewhouse, with timbered ceiling, small but well-equipped kitchen (I was required to ring up in advance and check there was a cafetiere. There was), and big living room where we could blether into the wee smalls undisturbed.<br />
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It's owned by Roger and Carol, equally unusual and welcoming. She's the blue-haired designer of the dresses (no pictures, because they (the pictures) simply weren't good enough, but think frills and furbelows; taffeta and lace; pink and green and purple and the sort of thing L would design as her wedding dress if I told her money were no object and she could have anything she liked), and wears clothes (even to the supermarket, she told me) to match. She made one of our number (nameless, to protect the not-so-innocent) scream when she walked out from behind a mannequin unexpectedly. We ran away in giggles, like a bunch of teenagers, and had to come back to apologise later.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHEvnEWsfQbh8a6-BYMUv5ml-HCNI01d-NGUhEqyA3Ysii9EFqtwdrfI5ZlGXxDGcDN6m0sngXmsOQ9-fLkSm1Yv9Vtp9C6FrhozkIAH1rgTXKEJ-jZIiIHVUPUMj4OVe9Z9AWCGf3mrs/s1600/IMG_6355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHEvnEWsfQbh8a6-BYMUv5ml-HCNI01d-NGUhEqyA3Ysii9EFqtwdrfI5ZlGXxDGcDN6m0sngXmsOQ9-fLkSm1Yv9Vtp9C6FrhozkIAH1rgTXKEJ-jZIiIHVUPUMj4OVe9Z9AWCGf3mrs/s1600/IMG_6355.JPG" height="200" width="149" /></a><br />
They were lovely though, kind and friendly: chatty almost to a fault, full of information about the village (two good pubs and a coffee shop which we didn't try) and equally good at leaving us alone to get on with our drinking, eating and catching up. They even found several spare mattresses so we didn't have to share double beds if we didn't want to (there are four big double bedrooms, some of which they let on a B&B basis too).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgeBcDDi85RrocyeakVdXuW7E4qWeCZHB7N2QM0PQs7Jo3lKWGFe7Jdvh4K29xlhxugv_D8m7K8ysZrb6f_2Zu7oxzcxixRLv1-hz3tS-DmNybemWk5cVJddBIl7cRznd7yUP19rtoT-Pu/s1600/IMG_6357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgeBcDDi85RrocyeakVdXuW7E4qWeCZHB7N2QM0PQs7Jo3lKWGFe7Jdvh4K29xlhxugv_D8m7K8ysZrb6f_2Zu7oxzcxixRLv1-hz3tS-DmNybemWk5cVJddBIl7cRznd7yUP19rtoT-Pu/s1600/IMG_6357.JPG" height="149" width="200" /></a>I can't say much about what there is to do locally because we didn't do much of it. It's amazing how much talking eight women who haven't all been in the same room since the last one of us got married can do in the space of a weekend. But we did have a drink and a meal in the pub and a potter round Newark, and those of us that weren't watching <a href="http://isthereaplanb.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/the-gherkin-goes-viral.html">the Gherkin run the marathon</a> (he did it in 3:24:36, raised over £12,000 and made the 10 o'clock news!) went for a walk on the Sunday morning.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaLwA1egvWmaT56y0g_tJHBFx9-M1og_kqlzyVlweUvuosVqcrolYUHnRhQlXP37YSVdR3QrMxv0oZIZzwrzl4d-WdWINMs7nrft60p7MWyjDKipRu0BrUUgxWNMue45bbfOvza7d70Lc/s1600/IMG_6331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaLwA1egvWmaT56y0g_tJHBFx9-M1og_kqlzyVlweUvuosVqcrolYUHnRhQlXP37YSVdR3QrMxv0oZIZzwrzl4d-WdWINMs7nrft60p7MWyjDKipRu0BrUUgxWNMue45bbfOvza7d70Lc/s1600/IMG_6331.JPG" height="200" width="149" /></a>There are plenty of people who would hate Priory House. It's cluttered and crazy and has antlers and curios and bits of old toys on every surface, and what look like shrunken heads (I didn't inspect too closely) and a real tiger skin on the piano. The screamer among us (who is also, as an aside, afraid of peas), refused to go into the main house because she couldn't walk past the mannequins. We, however, with eight good friends, years to catch up on, the best possible online supermarket delivery, sunshine, no children and something interesting and quirky round every corner, loved it. C is already planning to take her mum...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPLx0rD_uvaxFvnWJYhTAfeIqivkvGhWWc78KiMd7i_TuPQa514kCj-wVGLUKwUzZub-bViFFVcNB2Mn51T473z2UyKLk8GzHbCRz1EkDxauyUSVjLPj0pJC9rysytxWhU4L-R5dL_5d1/s1600/IMG_6352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiPLx0rD_uvaxFvnWJYhTAfeIqivkvGhWWc78KiMd7i_TuPQa514kCj-wVGLUKwUzZub-bViFFVcNB2Mn51T473z2UyKLk8GzHbCRz1EkDxauyUSVjLPj0pJC9rysytxWhU4L-R5dL_5d1/s1600/IMG_6352.JPG" height="200" width="149" /></a>Disclosure - Friend L and I found the house online, booked it through <a href="http://www.oliverstravels.com/britain-ireland/">Oliver's Travels</a> and paid for it with our own money (and that of the other six people who came with us, we're not that nice). While there I found a piece of paper saying that Oliver's Travels would pay me for a blog post about our stay there. So I'm blogging about it, because you would, wouldn't you. But the pictures (taken in advance of realising I'd be using them on the blog - they'd be a bit better if I had) and the words are all mine and are all honestly what I think. Although really there aren't words to describe it....<br />
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<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-63774518683160495022014-04-23T08:08:00.000+01:002014-04-23T09:18:48.571+01:00An Easter Gallery<br />
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I was in at the <a href="http://isthereaplanb.blogspot.co.uk/2010/03/gallery-maybe-its-because-im-londoner.html">very first Gallery</a>, back in March 2010, so it feels only appropriate that after an absence of many weeks, I should be in at the 184th.<br />
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Or something.<br />
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Anyway Easter. And L's seventh (yikes) birthday, which was on Monday. A weekend of brilliance and sunshine and cake and eggs, and broomstick riding and feeling smug because it was raining down South.<br />
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Not one picture, but many. Choose your favourite and click <a href="http://www.thestickyfingersblog.com/2014/04/photo-gallery-183-easter.html">the link</a> to see more....
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<br />
Michelle is a Kiwi. She lives in Edinburgh but weekly commutes to London. She (doesn't look old enough but nonetheless) has a 27 year old son who is still in New Zealand, who she hasn't seen in six years when he came over here for his twenty-first birthday.<br />
<br />
She had the misfortune to be on a flight from Gatwick to Edinburgh about four weeks ago.<br />
<br />
We were there. We were tired. We had been going, at this point, for about twenty two hours. The end of a wonderful holiday but with the inevitable delays, missed connections and more delays. No one was crying, but quite a lot of us felt like it.<br />
<br />
Michelle started talking to the girls as we waited by the gate. They told her all about their holiday and their school and their family. She kept an eye on them while I nipped to the loo. (B was wrangling M, who was a little, shall we say, crotchety).<br />
<br />
We said goodbye at the door of the plane (actually I ran back to say thank you, as they shoved us and our unruly children on first) and thought never to see her again.<br />
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As we waited for our bags at Edinburgh, tired, and by this stage pukey children slumped into the uncomfy chairs by the carousel, I heard someone calling my name.<br />
<br />
It was Michelle, and a large carrier bag. <br />
<br />
<i>I bought these for the children, </i>she said. <i>They're not from New Zealand, but we'll pretend they are.</i><br />
<br />
Four teddy bears. One each. For no reason other than that she was kind.<br />
<i> </i><br />
I did cry then. And hugged her. And we really will now never see her again.<br />
<br />
But two of the bears are called Michelle, and one is Michael. The last is Thomas, but you can't have everything.Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-43360090352048161792014-03-18T11:13:00.001+00:002014-03-18T13:20:20.159+00:00The Gherkin goes viralWatch this (hopefully it's there now - sorry for anyone who clicked when it wasn't).<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/QQXIh7rJPxM" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
And <a href="http://www.justgiving.com/gogherkin">sponsor the gherkin</a> to run the London Marathon (probably in under 3 1/2 hours). He's going to be the fastest building you'll ever see.<br />
<br />
And if you can't sponsor, please share, whether by blogging, facebooking, tweeting or just telling your friends (or corporate donors). A viral gherkin's got to be worth supporting.<br />
<br />
It's for the <a href="http://www.cureparkinsons.org.uk/">Cure Parkinson's Trust</a>, and if you want to know why this matters to me, read <a href="http://isthereaplanb.blogspot.co.uk/2011/04/movers-and-shakers.html">this</a>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.gogherkin.com/">Go Gherkin!</a>Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-30709656939619981462014-03-15T21:04:00.000+00:002014-03-15T21:04:03.821+00:00Generous to a fault?We were on holiday with my in-laws recently. <br />
<br />
I know, lucky us. No really. It was Antigua. Lucky us.<br />
<br />
Anyway, my mother in law bought the children all a little token present. A souvenir sort of thing. S's was a necklace, made of shell, with a little dolphin pendant on it. It wasn't expensive, but it was rather lovely: pretty and delicate, and significantly more tasteful than the ones either A or L chose.<br />
<br />
Back in Blighty, Primary 1 are still working through their sounds, and this week's is <i>ph.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Dolphin's got a ph in it. </i>said S, proudly, to me on Tuesday. <i>That's why I took my dolphin necklace to school.</i><br />
<i> It has</i>, said I, encouragingly. <i>But where's your necklace now, S?</i><br />
<i>I gave it to my friend Molly. She liked it so I said she could have it.</i><br />
<br />
So I rang Molly's mother. Who found it and promised to give it back.<br />
<i> </i><br />
We had Molly to play today, and I remembered the dolphin necklace when her mother came to pick her up. <br />
<br />
She'd given it back, apparently. Or at least she'd given it to Molly to give back at school.<br />
<br />
<i>S, what did you do with your necklace?</i><br />
<i>I gave it to Annie. Everyone really liked it and so I said Molly could have it first and then Annie. Zoe's next.</i><br />
<br />
So I texted Annie's mother. Who rang back; Annie is very distressed. She has broken the necklace, and the dolphin has disappeared.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter really, it's not valuable, and I'm much more worried that Annie doesn't get into trouble for it, but what to say to S?<br />
<br />
Because my immediate reaction was to tell her off for taking precious things into school and giving them away. She can't do that, surely? <br />
<br />
But the more I think about it, the more proud I am of her. She has something she loves but when someone else loves it, what is her reaction? She gives it to them. That's more generous and less materialistic than I suspect I would be.<br />
<br />
Actually, forget "suspect". Than I know I would be. Because although I have told S it was very kind of her to give it to both Molly and Annie, I've also told her that she's not to do it with anything else.<br />
<br />
But I have a horrid feeling that was the wrong thing to say...Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-3720623089763022592014-01-21T21:25:00.002+00:002014-01-21T21:25:41.518+00:00Greener grassI've been thinking about five women, of whom I am one, today. We are all the same age. We were all at the same university at the same time. Different subjects, obviously, but broadly, you could say back then that we were similar, or at least had the same opportunities. All of us went straight into further education or jobs on graduating.<br />
<br />
Now, over fifteen years later, between us we have nine children and four husbands.<br />
<br />
Two of us are employed full time. One of us is a full time mother. One works part time, and one is trying to find a job where the interviewers will ask her about her skills (many) and experience (vast) rather than how she's going to manage picking her children up from school and cooking her husband's supper.<br />
One lives in a tiny village. Two in small towns. Two in cities. <br />
<br />
One of us was decorated in the New Year's Honours.<br />
<br />
One, the only one I don't know personally (although some of the others do), is a FTSE100 chief executive.<br />
<br />
Two of us have fish. One of us has a dog. <br />
<br />
One travels widely. One hasn't had a holiday in over 18 months. <br />
<br />
Some read, some knit. Some sing, some go to the gym. Three write blogs. None has as much time for herself as she would like.<br />
<br />
All of us, I suspect, have moments where we want some of what the others have. <br />
<br />
None of us has it all.<br />
<br />
Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-77644565395007890802013-12-22T11:13:00.000+00:002013-12-22T11:13:32.676+00:00Feeling sorry for myself on my birthday.It's my birthday.<br />
<br />
I'm 37 today.<br />
<br />
B is not here so I am single-parenting four children. He was working in Milton Keynes on Friday and then at a thing (the sort of thing you only get invited to twice in your life and that you don't, as a result, turn down, wife's birthday or no) in Oxford last night. He is, I am told, now on the motorway heading home. I expect him, with a delicious dinner he will have picked up at the motorway services*, probably around five-ish.<br />
I am very tired, having been up 'til gone midnight wrapping presents and making an ice-cream igloo for those who don't like Christmas pudding. <br />
<br />
The children are fractious and scrapping like small tigers, all teeth and claws and lots and lots of noise.<br />
<br />
It is, in fact, just a normal day. With the addition of a lovely new shirt, which I am wearing, and the promise of cake later when my sister and her boyfriend get here, the first of the Christmas arrivals.<br />
<br />
So better than a normal day really. And actually with four children under seven, an absent husband, and thirteen people for lunch in three days' time I probably shouldn't have expected anything else.<br />
<br />
But it's my birthday so I'll cry if I want to. <br />
<br />
Or laugh. Because it appears that the children have internalised some of what B must have told them; as I type the screaming next door is taking on a topical note:<br />
<br />
"<i>STOP IT! IT'S MUMMY'S BIRTHDAY! YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE DOING THAT! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!</i>"<br />
<br />
So near, but yet so far...<br />
<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*<a href="http://www.westmorland.com/tebay">Tebay</a>, so while that is strictly true, it is also much, much better than it sounds. </span><br />
<br />
<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-28355349706164639542013-12-17T20:03:00.000+00:002013-12-17T20:03:49.029+00:00Read with mother<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv61ObCOTuE4o7LxeEOFIgcCIHFGPH8ULYcsKnlNvxg2mIMNL9OMhzNW1PbQSCFAVbEx5EPpV2zMKtehFlQJ0ZJ-u0opv5O-L3cBKMBBCtqzGarJD4zory5i8JMcO53yR6Ex8ZOD-Y8V-a/s1600/photo+(20).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv61ObCOTuE4o7LxeEOFIgcCIHFGPH8ULYcsKnlNvxg2mIMNL9OMhzNW1PbQSCFAVbEx5EPpV2zMKtehFlQJ0ZJ-u0opv5O-L3cBKMBBCtqzGarJD4zory5i8JMcO53yR6Ex8ZOD-Y8V-a/s320/photo+(20).JPG" width="254" /></a>What's your favourite bit of the day?<br /><br />Clearly it's the five minutes after they're all in bed. Isn't it? </div>
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No. Scratch that, it's the five minutes after they're all in bed <i>and</i> have stopped coming downstairs with spurious excuses about imaginary spiders and empty stomachs.<br /><br />But apart from <i>that</i> bit, what's your favourite bit of the day?<br /><br />When I stop to think about it, and am not racing through in the hope of bringing the previously mentioned moment forward by forty-eight seconds, it's the one in the picture.</div>
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That moment, or something a little like it, because actually they each get individual stories (ish, S and A share, as they do a bedroom, but they do get two), happens in our house every day. It happened every day for me when I was little too; it's just part of our bedtime ritual. It would never occur to me not to do it, any more than it would occur to me not to clean their teeth.</div>
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But apparently that's not true of everyone any more. I hesitate to come out with a statistic, because if you google it, you get numbers varying from only one-fifth to a slightly better but still, to me, surprisingly low one-third, but whatever the true number, many, many parents don't read to their children every night, and many children are turning to screens rather than books to fill their leisure time.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjejnr8jfQCvRbVm-wrVcoGBz1y43fI2PgiZMD_H-YSJiKCNpT4mBx-vvyymlk-cClxrdEhqNFHycJ9FgBB-I35mZAau1pFJPXeEjvRMyTTPK6X8K3MmimVRFG_Ny7thhFvWSjq8HcEZqKH/s1600/012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjejnr8jfQCvRbVm-wrVcoGBz1y43fI2PgiZMD_H-YSJiKCNpT4mBx-vvyymlk-cClxrdEhqNFHycJ9FgBB-I35mZAau1pFJPXeEjvRMyTTPK6X8K3MmimVRFG_Ny7thhFvWSjq8HcEZqKH/s200/012.JPG" width="200" /></a>So, to help me read with our children at bedtime, and yes, this is a sponsored post, M&S sent me some new <a href="http://www.marksandspencer.com/Nightwear-Kids/b/70976031">pyjamas</a>, and some lovely <a href="http://www.marksandspencer.com/Kids-Books-Kids/b/55840031">books</a>. The asked, too, why reading to the children was important to me, and what I felt we all got out of it.</div>
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Now, clearly there's an element of preaching to the converted here: they're not getting me to do anything I wasn't already doing after all, but that's why I was happy to take their pjs. </div>
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As I say, though, M&S haven't brilliantly converted a non-reading parent to a reading one with the bribe of a pair of Thomas pyjamas and a book of fairy stories, but what they have done is made me sit and think about why I read to them and what I think it does for all of us. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKKY87mDy0uRMyUP2kKI4YDzkvrl1R93EG0uGU_nCLW9Yp9ozi8pYJBhdYxZMG0ccj05L5ytqHnKD0GkPjbIWyefp6i16ktYhHUYuDkWKYwvGXqIjGp1_hCfkGgZ-lbQ-jqspAb-a_RI9/s1600/photo+(21).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKKY87mDy0uRMyUP2kKI4YDzkvrl1R93EG0uGU_nCLW9Yp9ozi8pYJBhdYxZMG0ccj05L5ytqHnKD0GkPjbIWyefp6i16ktYhHUYuDkWKYwvGXqIjGp1_hCfkGgZ-lbQ-jqspAb-a_RI9/s200/photo+(21).JPG" width="132" /></a>And I think it varies as they get older. For S and A still, and certainly M (who was, if the truth be told, much more chuffed with the pjs than the stories), there is, I suspect, an element of the story serving mainly to stave off the hideous prospect of
having to go to bed, and it is their stories I more often race through unthinkingly, but it is also a calm time, a quiet time, a time which can redeem an awful half hour of whinging in the bath and help make the transition into bed just that little bit easier for all of us. </div>
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For L though, it's increasingly about the love of the book. At six and a half, she is beginning to understand that books can take her places she can never otherwise get to, and for me reading to her (and the fact that I won't let B do it is telling, I feel) is properly precious time. We cuddle up in bed together and share something as equals, often something I remember from my own childhood: we're reading <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3799.The_Dolls_House">The Dolls' House</a> at the moment, complete with my (approximately) seven year old handwriting in it, and last week I sobbed my way through the final chapter and a half of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlotte%27s_Web">Charlotte's Web</a>, while L looked utterly bemused (she's not got the whole loving books that make you cry thing yet, clearly). She honestly said to me today (and I realise this is going to sound insufferable, but she really did say it): "<i> I think reading is my favourite thing to do".</i></div>
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And there's the rub. Because reading is my (or one of my) favourite things to do too. And I couldn't be more delighted that she loves it. But she's beginning to love reading more than she loves being read to. She didn't get a story tonight because she said she'd rather read to herself instead. This may partly be because she's got a <a href="http://www.rainbowmagiconline.com/uk/books/books_rainbow.html">Rainbow Fairy</a> book (truly as hideous as it sounds) out of the library and I just can't bring myself to go anywhere near them (hence the library), but I think also she's just beginning to get the pleasure of losing herself in the book of her choice.</div>
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I don't think her time of being read to is coming to an end, but I do think, sadly, that it is time limited and I am not, as I had rather hoped to be, going to be the female version of t<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2011/sep/10/alice-ozma-dad-read-every-night">he father who read to his daughter every night until she turned 18</a>. I hope we'll get to 10, maybe a little longer, but there will come a time when I no longer read to any of them, and I will miss it.<br />
<br />
Still, at least I've got three more goes at <i>Charlotte's Web</i> before then. Who knows, I may not even need tissues when it's M's turn...<br />
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<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-50988888198434790222013-12-10T14:49:00.000+00:002013-12-10T14:49:00.562+00:00Giving good present.As I say, it's A and S's birthday tomorrow.<br />
<br />
It is also, today my Mum's birthday. And my sister's boyfriend's. On Sunday it was my cousin's. It's my brother's on Saturday.<br />
<br />
And eleven days later (with my own birthday in between, though fortunately I'm not responsible for buying the presents for that one) it's You Know What. For which, not including the ones from You Know Who, I have to buy 49 separate gifts.<br />
<br />
I'm doing a lot of shopping at the moment. Stashed away in my secret cupboard with my highly confidential client files I've got playmobil and lego, cashmere and silk, chopping boards and mixers, games and puzzles. Literally.<br />
<br />
But actually the present I'm most excited by is the one I've just bought.<br />
<br />
It's a <a href="http://www.deki.org.uk/">Deki</a> voucher. Or three Deki vouchers. £10 each for each of the girls.<br />
<br />
Deki contacted me to tell me about themselves and the vouchers, but they aren't giving me anything to write this post. I am genuinely, boringly (I've told everyone I've seen since) excited by this.<br />
<br />
Because Deki do micro-loans. A small sum loaned by my children to someone in a developing country to help them set up a business, and (hopefully) in due course repaid. And from my children's point of view, the best bit is that with Deki, you get to choose who the money goes to. Deki is, I think (from a cursory google search), the only UK-based charity through whom this is possible.<br />
<br />
So after Christmas and the consumption has died down, the girls and I can sit round the computer and decide. Do they want to give their money to <a href="http://www.deki.org.uk/success_stories/success_stories_lucy">Lucy's restaurant in Malawi</a> or do they think that <a href="http://www.deki.org.uk/success_stories/success_stories_heleine">Heleine's shop in Togo</a> is a better place for it? <br />
<br />
Once they've decided, they lend their money, all £10 of it, to the person they've chosen. And, hopefully, in due course, it comes back into their Deki account. Once it does, they can, if they wish, cash it in and spend it on sweets, or, I hope, invest it in someone else. <br />
<br />
They will receive no interest on the money, but they should (Deki has a 99% repayment rate) get it all back. Interest is charged on the loans but this is used by Deki's not-for-profit operating partners in the countries concerned to cover operating costs only. Deki itself is a charity and its costs are covered by donations.<br />
<br />
My children are still very young. They have very little understanding of money, other than that it has value to other people, so I don't think this is going to teach them much about money or finance or lending, but I do hope that, at the very least, it will encourage them to take an interest in people with very different lives, and I'd like to think that Deki, or micro-lending generally will become a habit. I certainly intend it to for me.<br />
<br />
I don't want to sound smug or sanctimonious, but I genuinely do think that this might be the present we all remember long after the playmobil has been packed back into its box. <br />
<br />
<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-19608231694807572982013-12-08T14:26:00.000+00:002013-12-08T14:26:34.018+00:00Party bags? Bah humbug!It's S and A's birthday on Wednesday. They'll be five. <br />
<br />
<i>Pause for disbelieving intake of breath and how did that happen and gosh aren't they big type thoughts...</i><br />
<br />
On Friday fifty-something children will be congregating in the village hall for a disco. That's both primary 1 classes and a few hangers on... I know, we're mad, but the theory is that at this stage they're still young enough (just about) to be controlled (and I've cunningly invited both teachers too), and we're never going to invite the entirety of both classes ever again. Ever.<br />
<br />
Anyway, there will be cake, and singing, and candles, and <i>gangnam style</i> (heaven help me) and musical bumps and probably a sausage or two.<br />
<br />
What there won't be though, <i>whisper it</i>, is <span style="font-size: xx-small;">any party bags</span>.<br />
<br />
No. Say it loud. I'm stingy and I'm proud:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">THERE WILL BE NO PARTY BAGS!!!</span><br />
<br />
<br />
But actually, it's not just my tight-fisted nature. Because there will instead be a book (£30 for fify books) and a small packet of haribo each.<br />
<br />
But no party bags.<br />
<br />
The girls went to Billy's party yesterday afternoon. They came back with this:<br />
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Now, I intend no disrespect to Billy's parents, who are hugely generous and put on a fabulous party for thirty children with magician (and real rabbit) and crisps and balloons and everything else you want if you're five. <br />
<br />
But then somehow they're also expected to provide this bunch of, quite frankly, tat. I have no idea what half that stuff is or does - the little plastic figures for instance, or the things that look like suppositories. They rattle incidentally, but don't open, rather to the girls' disappointment.<br />
<br />
The whole lot (chocolate coins, colouring books and the big blue hairbands excepted) went in the bin within ten minutes of bedtime last night. It has not been missed.<br />
<br />
And it's the waste that really gets me. There are intelligent, committed workers in China or Bangladesh who spend their days and their human energy making this stuff. It then gets shipped across the world, to get sold (because, as I say, I don't in any way fault Billy's parents' generosity) to people who mostly resent buying it, to get put into little plastic bags (also doubtless made overseas and shipped here in vast containers of more plastic rubbish), to get given to children who neither need it nor miss it when it's gone, only to get thrown away and then, almost certainly, shipped back to China to get shoved in landfill.<br />
<br />
How can any of that possibly be right? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-73109200884622801662013-12-06T13:25:00.001+00:002013-12-08T14:04:48.158+00:00Thought for the day...<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-30903569496652975302013-12-04T06:00:00.000+00:002013-12-04T06:00:01.074+00:00Big numbers for small peopleB was in London earlier on this week. He bumped into my sister on the tube. They rang me together at the children's supper time and it made me smile. <br />
<br />
<i>"Girls",</i> I said<i> </i>after they'd hung up<i>, "There are seven million people in London and guess who Daddy bumped into?"</i><br />
<br />
They couldn't. I told them. They looked underwhelmed by the coincidence (although that sort of thing happens unstatistically often, don't you think?). But it obviously got L thinking.<br />
<br />
<i>"Mummy?" </i>she said.<i> "How many people are there in London did you say?"</i><br />
<i>"Seven million."</i><br />
<i>"Is that counting Daddy or not?" </i>Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-17367901094456303932013-12-02T14:09:00.001+00:002013-12-02T14:09:13.019+00:00NaBloPoMo - how did I do(e)?I set myself a task for National Blog Posting Month (who came up with that one? They should be taken out and sho...).<br />
<br />
Read a new blog every day.<br />
Write a new post at least twice a week.<br />
<br />
So how did I do?<br />
<br />
Well, unlike my children (parents' evenings last week) it turns out I'm better at the writing than the reading. I've read a grand total of three new blogs, although I am choosing to blame at least some of that on the demise of google reader and the failure of feedly - which I joined only to have it die on me about three days later.<br />
<br />
Bad Harriet.<br />
<br />
I've done better on the writing - 12 posts in a month working out rather higher than my target rate - although I will have to admit to cheating. It's now 2nd December. I actually wrote this on 27th. (And clearly I should have published it yesterday but I didn't get round to actually clickin the button. Hey ho.) I've done that rather a lot, if the truth be told: written in stits and farts (apologies, can't remember who came up with that one either, but I rather like it, and <i>fits and starts</i> doesn't have the same authenticity at all) two or three posts here, none there, all carefully timed so that it looks like I'm writing twice a week, when actually I'm not. Or not always.<br />
<br />
But it's ok. I set the targets so I can change them.<br />
<br />
Which I suppose is rather the conclusion I've reached about blogging as a whole. It's my blog, and I'll cry/post/write/abandon it if I want to.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to (abandon it) though, although I thought I might at the beginning of the month. Not yet anyway. I've enjoyed putting fingers to keyboard, and I've realised that it's up to me how and when I do that. I'm nearly 37 and I'm only just working out that I can (within reason) mostly do what I like and that (within reason) what other people think about it really doesn't matter.<br />
<br />
So if you're still reading, thank you. And if you're not, you'll never see this anyway (but I hope you're enjoying reading whatever you are reading instead).<br />
<br />
And I'm all enthused about a Christmas present post I've got brewing so come back for that soon... Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-6694299752056621652013-11-29T08:00:00.000+00:002013-11-29T08:00:03.596+00:00How to save money on your passport application (or not).<i>If:</i><br />
<div>
You have identical twins.</div>
<div>
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/e/e1/Ukpassport-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/e/e1/Ukpassport-cover.jpg" width="141" /></a><i> </i><br />
<i>And if:</i></div>
<div>
They need new passports.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>And if:</i></div>
<div>
A passport application requires two photos.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>And if:</i></div>
<div>
Passport photos come in over-priced sets of four.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Do I really need to pay for two sets? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Just a thought.<br />
<br />
ps: <i>And if</i> anyone from the passport agency is reading this, I didn't. Honest.</div>
Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-31637198763100458422013-11-26T21:39:00.000+00:002013-11-26T21:39:00.045+00:00The tooth fairy problemWhile I'm on the subject of the mythical creatures that wander round my house in the dead of night (feels like Piccadilly Circus round here sometimes - I'm thinking of making sure I put my dressing gown on when I go to the loo, just in case), I've got a problem with the tooth fairy too.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to get philosophical here - although I am utterly bemused as to who originally came up with the idea of a fairy who gives you money when your teeth fall out (you can't blame <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Nicholas">4th century Greek Bishops</a> for that one, surely, and entertainingly the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tooth_fairy">wikipedia page on the tooth fairy</a> (yes there is one) says that the paragraph on her (his?) origins "needs expansion") - but that aside, the problem's much less complicated.<br />
<br />
Once you've cleaned your teeth, gone to bed, turned the light out, remembered the stupid tooth fairy, got up, tripped over the shoes someone's left beside the bed, turned the light back on, scrabbled around in the loose change to find something sufficiently generous but not excessive (there are children in L's class who get <i>notes</i>), crept in, felt for a tooth <i>under a pillow</i> <i>IN THE DARK</i> (and please say I'm not the only one surprised at how small the teeth are once they come out), got it out, dropped it on the floor, wriggled around under the bed, found it, realised you've left the cash in your own bedroom, retrieved it, tripped over the shoes again, gone back, put it under the pillow, got back into bed and acted surprised in the morning....<br />
<br />
....what are you supposed to do with the tooth?Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-61708509715273198442013-11-25T15:30:00.000+00:002013-11-25T15:30:00.040+00:00The trouble with Santa<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/42/MerryOldSanta.jpg/434px-MerryOldSanta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/42/MerryOldSanta.jpg/434px-MerryOldSanta.jpg" width="144" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From wikimedia commons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's still a month away, the C word. So I feel I can be mildly (another c-word coming up) cynical.<br />
<br />
But I've got a problem with Santa.<br />
<br />
Three stories:<br />
<br />
Last year, a friend of mine's husband was away for a few days in the middle of December. I saw her for a quick catch up during that time, and she pointed out that her sons had seen Santa more that week than they had Daddy. (Four times as it happens: two toddler groups and two different nursery parties).<br />
<br />
Also last year I was chatting to L about Christmas generally. She was asking about Jesus and we talked about the nativity story. <br />
<br />
<i>Mummy, </i>she asked me<i> is that true?</i><br />
<i>Well, Jesus was a real person, but we don't know how much of the Christmas story is true. Some people believe it all, but other people believe different things. </i><br />
<i>And what about Santa?</i><br />
<br />
You can't do comparative<i> </i>religion with Father Christmas, it turns out.<br />
<br />
And then there's the story, probably apocryphal, about the child who, when he found out the dreaded truth, burst into tears of betrayal: "<i>But Mummy, you lied to me".</i><br />
<br />
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not going to tell my children it's all a lie. I'm not that uncaring about every other child in their classes for a start, and even cynical old me likes seeing their little faces on Christmas morning; but I am increasingly thinking the whole thing is a bit, well, odd. <br />
<br />
Don't you think it's rather a weird thing to do? Where does it come from in the first place, this big conspiracy? What difference does it make if the presents come from people who they know and who love them rather than from a fat white man in an odd outfit?<i> </i>It's strange, too, that when we are increasingly advised to be honest with our children at all times (within the parameters of what they are capable of understanding) we all, or almost all, unthinkingly perpetuate this untruth. <br />
<br />
But, and despite the oddness, I won't tell them, and I will keep hedging my answers with "<i>What do you think?</i>" and "<i>Well, who fills the stockings then</i>?"; the same stockings that I will also keep hanging up by the fireplace. I will keep reading the <i>Night Before Christmas </i>and <i><a href="http://www.penguin.co.uk/nf/Book/BookDisplay/0,,9780141336251,00.html">The Empty Stocking</a> </i>(which I love, even with my cynical hat on). And I will keep hoping that, for the next month at least, they'll be slightly better behaved as a result...<br />
<br />
But at the same time, when they do find out, I'll be ok. I just hope they will be too.Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-12422489250018683102013-11-22T20:02:00.000+00:002013-11-22T20:02:00.121+00:00Rise of the machinesI got a tube the other day.<br />
<br />
Doesn't happen often, but I had to go to work.<br />
<br />
I got on at Liverpool Street, and got off at Holborn. Three stops. About 3 p.m. Full but not crowded.<br />
<br />
I've just googled how many people you get in a central line train (what the internet is for, clearly). There are 272 seats, and eight carriages, so there must have been 34 people sitting in my carriage. Plus another 20 or so standing.<br />
<br />
Only one of them was reading an actual book.Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-66557934505180973162013-11-18T21:00:00.000+00:002013-11-18T21:00:00.989+00:00Old fiddle, new tricksI've got a new hobby. <br />
<br />
I fiddle with Kirsty.<br />
<br />
No really, I do. We get out our instruments and...<br />
<br />
Ok, I'll stop being smutty, especially given you knew it was nothing that interesting anyway.<br />
<br />
It is interesting though, for me anyway, because I've done something I never thought I'd do. I've dusted off my violin, and every couple of weeks I go out and I play folk music.<br />
<br />
And it's both utterly bizarre and utterly brilliant.<br />
<br />
It's also both much, much easier than much of the music I've played before, and impossibly much harder.<br />
<br />
There's no written music. They don't even call it music. Instead, very scathingly, they call it <i>dots</i>. We sit there, in someone's front room, or upstairs in a pub, and someone plays a tune, and then everyone else picks up their violins (which I am having to learn to call a fiddle, but it is, as I had to explain to a friend the other day, exactly the same instrument) and plays the same tune, while I struggle to work out what note they started on and maybe work it out by the time they've finished.<br />
<br />
Eventually, someone says <i>Who wants the dots?</i> and I, sheepishly, stick up my hand and say <i>Me!</i> <br />
<br />
I just wasn't taught that way. If you learnt music in school, or with a teacher at home, or whatever, you'll almost certainly have learned as I did. I was taught to read
music, and the music, like the text in literature, is the thing from which all else flows. A friend was recently telling me that she asked her daughter's piano teacher to teach her (the daughter) to play some tunes she already knew because she thought she'd enjoy it. He explained that he doesn't give his pupils pieces they know because then they play by ear, and don't learn to read the music. <br />
<br />
This is the absolute opposite of how, I am discovering, folk music works. In classical, you play what you see; in folk, what you hear. So I find myself trying to
unlearn my years of training, and re-educate my ears so that I can reproduce what I hear
with my fingers. <br />
<br />
But while sometimes that feels virtually impossible, parts of the folk are easier too. If the truth be told, I wasn't much of a classical violinist (and anyway I actually abandoned it and played viola from aged 15 to 24) but even allowing for that, and in my rusty state, the folk music (when I do get to see it) is technically easily playable, at least at the level I am at (there is some fiendishly difficult folk music out there, don't get me wrong - check out <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPAxZYQ-tbg">this</a> from Fiddlers Bid at the Cambridge Folk Festival). That, though, isn't what makes it feel easy. That's the non-judgmentalism of it. Classical musicians are very snooty about folk, probably because the notes are, mostly, less technical, but for the rusty fiddler, the fact that if I get it right or I get it wrong no-one cares because we're all having too much fun just making the music is refreshing and welcoming and inspiring.<br />
<br />
I loved playing classical music. I loved singing classical music (it's how I met B), and I'd love to do either or both again, but it's the folk that's getting my toes tapping on a Monday night.Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-34241945987654494722013-11-15T20:33:00.000+00:002013-11-15T20:33:00.308+00:00Bring out the books.And sometimes, unlike in my last, things don't quite work out the way I meant them too.<br />
<br />
Not done so well on the reading a new blog every day front, if the truth be told. It's hard enough keeping up with the ones I know already.<br />
<br />
And I've done even worse on <a href="http://isthereaplanb.blogspot.co.uk/2010/01/book-at-blogtime.html">that promise</a> I made way back at the beginning of 2010 - to write about every book I read as I finish it.<br />
<br />
It's over six months since I last did so. And that's not because I haven't read anything. It just appears that once every six months is about my blogging about books rate. Rubbish.<br />
<br />
Anyway, here they are, all (or all the ones I could remember) stacked up on my lovely new floating shelves (nice aren't they - although the big one (on the left) annoyingly is clearly designed for American books and doesn't really fit British ones).<br />
<br />
So from left to right, bottom to top:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAYki3DkwuRU94NohU_lNnuIx4ovQ4YrFHRVqjo9Ku2SVpoP5T3huiDY-TIA3FEPQRo7cRYOQGvPabhDEyBIb6EejXT55ItIvBIgz_V_js3WxfK7qyhhZwjRi52lCB_QxqggLMMh0SqUC/s1600/photo+(18).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAYki3DkwuRU94NohU_lNnuIx4ovQ4YrFHRVqjo9Ku2SVpoP5T3huiDY-TIA3FEPQRo7cRYOQGvPabhDEyBIb6EejXT55ItIvBIgz_V_js3WxfK7qyhhZwjRi52lCB_QxqggLMMh0SqUC/s400/photo+(18).JPG" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<i>Afternoon Tea: </i>The only book I could find that would fit the annoying American shelf. Not something I've actually read as such.</div>
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<i>Bring out the Bodies:</i> I called this post after it. How could I not? And not just because I'm dragging skeletons out of the closet and imprisoned men from the tower. Better even than <i><a href="http://isthereaplanb.blogspot.co.uk/2010/05/sublime-to-ridiculous-books-at.html">Wolf Hall</a>.</i> Anne Boleyn made me cry.</div>
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<i>Nothing to Envy</i>: If you read one book out of this lot, make it this one. I don't read non-fiction, and I couldn't put this down. North Korea, in as far as we in the West can possibly know it (and before the recent <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/film/2013/sep/19/north-korea-prison-camp-14-documentary">escape of a prisoner from one of the labour camps</a>). Terrifying, amazing, made me want to get out there and do something. Though clearly I didn't.<i> </i> </div>
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<i>Instructions for a Heatwave</i>: I love Maggie O'Farrell, and if you want to read one of her books, make it <i>After You'd Gone, </i>or <i>The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox</i> both of which will stay with me in a way this one won't (and hasn't, though I only read it last month).</div>
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<i>Gone Girl: </i>I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I'm still not sure</div>
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<i>The House by the Sea:</i> Picked up off someone else's bookshelf on holiday because everything else was in Dutch. I'd have been better off with the Dutch.</div>
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<i>The Other Hand: </i>This has been sitting by my bed for about three years because the cover said it was so harrowing it would change my life, and I wasn't sure I wanted my life changed. It wasn't that bad. It wasn't that good either. </div>
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<i>The Group:</i> This was the first book this year and it's one I've wanted to write about ever since (why didn't I?). It was written in 1963, but set in 1933 about a group of women who have recently graduated from an exclusive American college (Vassar) by a woman (Mary McCarthy) who herself graduated from Vassar in 1933. I'll say 1933 again, because it still flabberghasts me. These women have sex, they worry about contraception, they agonise about whether to work, to breastfeed, how to raise their children, how to maintain their relationships (both straight and gay). It could have been written in 2003 and it makes me think of my grandmother in a whole new light. It inspired <i>Sex and the City</i>. Carrie Bradshaw of the 1930s.</div>
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<i>The Book of Barely Imagined Beings:</i> More non-fiction and utterly beautiful. An object of desirability in itself. I loved holding it, almost more than I loved reading it.</div>
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<i>In This House of Brede: </i>The antithesis of <i>The Group. </i>In '60s London a woman leaves her career and joins an enclosed Benedictine Order. The world it portrays (both inside and outside the monastery - not a convent, I learned) is a world away from mine. It made me cry too.</div>
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<i>Knackered Mother's Wine Club: </i>Wine education for the blogging classes. I got to meet <a href="http://knackeredmotherswineclub.blogspot.co.uk/">Helen</a>, the great and the good of Scottish letters (and Radio 4) and (sort of) Joanna Lumley. I can't promise that for everyone who buys it, but really, it's great even without it - B's been using it for wine buying tips too.</div>
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<i>Nicholas Nickleby: </i>I've not been doing very well with my Dickens this year either. I enjoyed this, but I couldn't tell you much about it now, although I think that says more about me than the book.</div>
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<i>Best Friends Forever: </i>Tosh. Sorry, but it was. She wrote one called <i>Good in Bed </i>which is still one of my favourite chick-lit type books, but this wasn't a patch on it.</div>
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<i>The Clerkenwell Tales: </i>Too clever by half. I kept stopping to admire how clever it was and never actually started to engage with it emotionally. Probably my failing again.</div>
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<i>Trains and Lovers: </i>I know lots of people love Alexander McCall Smith, but I just don't. I heard him speak at the Borders Book Festival and so I bought this because I liked him more than I thought I would, but I just didn't get into it. It seemed to skate over the characters rather than drawing them out, if that isn't to mix metaphors.</div>
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<i>The Shadow of Night:</i> I love nonsense like this. Vampires, witches, daemons and another book in the trilogy to come. Hooray.</div>
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<i>Noughts and Crosses: </i>Malorie Blackman is the new children's laureate and this, her first book, is a dystopian, star-crossed lovers fiction set in a world where the black crosses are in charge and the white noughts are the oppressed underdogs. I could see what she was trying to do and maybe I didn't get it because I'm not black, but I just thought this sort of thing had been done better elsewhere. I can't be bothered to read the others in the series, which doesn't say much. It has got me interested in black history though, so maybe she's succeeded better than I realised at the time.</div>
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I read <i>Zoo Time</i> by Howard Jacobson too. I don't think I was its intended audience. </div>
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Not sure what's next...</div>
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<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-56320078088494154762013-11-12T08:30:00.000+00:002013-11-12T08:30:00.968+00:00Plans and poems I love it when a plan comes together.<br />
<br />
Blog more (I have) read more (I have) find new blogs (I have) get new readers (I have). <br />
<br />
And one of the new readers (the only one, actually, but still) writes one of the new blogs (<a href="http://sevenhundredwordblog.blogspot.co.uk/">sevenhundredwords</a>), and she wrote recently about romance, and real life, and how the two don't often match up: and that happily ever after is often only the beginning.<br />
<br />
And it reminded me of this, which I like so much I have kept on my pinboard, buried under takeaway menus, and old permission slips: last year's school calendar and money off vouchers, where I can see it...<br />
<br />
It's by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liz_Lochhead">Liz Lochhead</a><i> </i>and it's called <i>A Night In:</i> <br />
<br />
<i>Darling, tonight I want to celebrate</i><br />
<i>not your birthday, no, nor mine.</i><br />
<i>It's not the anniversary of when we met,</i><br />
<i>first went to bed or got married, and the wine</i><br />
<i>is supermarket plonk. I'm just about to grate</i><br />
<i>rat-trap cheddar on the veggie bake that'll do us fine.</i><br />
<br />
<i>But it's far from the feast that - knowing you'll be soon</i><br />
<i>and suddenly so glad to just be me and here,</i><br />
<i>now, in our bright kitchen - I wish I'd stopped and gone</i><br />
<i>and shopped for, planned and savoured earlier.</i><br />
<i>Come home! It's been a long day. Now the perfect moon </i><br />
<i>through our high window rises round and clear. </i> <br />
<br />
<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3432382804917497650.post-20760492406816216432013-11-09T11:58:00.000+00:002013-11-09T11:58:00.267+00:00Irony in actionTwo years, one month and a couple of days ago, when M was still being breast fed, I <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoUaGc7lf0V2PjBhEVyThRwdc7fd6M_RQO-eRQJS53RHQ948JtJitgnTEcEYCk66dOlkOYeiCJ9DaucfprydRzwY0iqdQbgxlOYWVizq1DjZdPNMoSN95guOhOKor_5PrUo-g-4BOlFcVg/s320/Venn+Eating.jpg.png">posted</a> this Venn diagram of things my (other) children would eat. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoUaGc7lf0V2PjBhEVyThRwdc7fd6M_RQO-eRQJS53RHQ948JtJitgnTEcEYCk66dOlkOYeiCJ9DaucfprydRzwY0iqdQbgxlOYWVizq1DjZdPNMoSN95guOhOKor_5PrUo-g-4BOlFcVg/s320/Venn+Eating.jpg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoUaGc7lf0V2PjBhEVyThRwdc7fd6M_RQO-eRQJS53RHQ948JtJitgnTEcEYCk66dOlkOYeiCJ9DaucfprydRzwY0iqdQbgxlOYWVizq1DjZdPNMoSN95guOhOKor_5PrUo-g-4BOlFcVg/s320/Venn+Eating.jpg.png" /></a></div>
<br />
Now M is (nearly) two and a half. He'll eat many things: cornichons, olives and curried lentil soup included.<br />
<br />
What he will not eat, however, are fish fingers.<br />
<br />Harriethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11975259590293860488noreply@blogger.com13