Plans and poems

I love it when a plan comes together.

Blog more (I have) read more (I have) find new blogs (I have) get new readers (I have). 

And one of the new readers (the only one, actually, but still) writes one of the new blogs (sevenhundredwords), 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.

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...

It's by Liz Lochhead and it's called A Night In:

Darling, tonight I want to celebrate
not your birthday, no, nor mine.
It's not the anniversary of when we met,
first went to bed or got married, and the wine
is supermarket plonk.  I'm just about to grate
rat-trap cheddar on the veggie bake that'll do us fine.

But it's far from the feast that - knowing you'll be soon
and suddenly so glad to just be me and here,
now, in our bright kitchen - I wish I'd stopped and gone
and shopped for, planned and savoured earlier.
Come home! It's been a long day.  Now the perfect moon 
through our high window rises round and clear. 

I've started so I'll finish

Here's an astonishing thing. 

It's over four years since I started this blog.  Four years and seventeen days, to be precise.

I realised that last week, about the time I was wondering whether to stop it altogether.

Because it doesn't seem really to be working for me at the moment - I'm not even reading blogs, much less writing them (as an aside, since the demise of google reader how am I supposed to read blogs? I'm leaping from one blog roll recommendation to another at the moment, like some sort of demented frog (reddit, reddit), which isn't very efficient and means I can never remember the goodies....).  Suggestions on a postcard.

So I'm not reading, and hardly anyone's reading me.  Which  may be because I'm not writing.  Or tweeting, or pinteresting or facebooking or pinning up posters on to motorway bridges, or whatever the zeitgeisty thing to do is at the moment.

But I was feeling demoralised, and bored, and a bit meh, really.  So I went back to the beginning.  And remembered that in October 2009 I was blogging so that:

I can work out how I feel and get myself on the track to that elusive Plan B; a nirvana in which I am happy and fulfilled, still manage to bring some income into the house and have time to give my husband and children the attention and love they deserve

Now, clearly I'm not there.  Anyone who's ever seen me stressed and bedraggled, surrounded by wet, hungry children and with only two pairs of socks and five shoes in the swimming pool changing rooms on a Wednesday evening could tell you that "happy and fulfilled" isn't always an accurate description.  But I sort of am there, too. 

When I started this blog my life was in flux - I didn't know what I wanted and I didn't know how I was going to get there when I worked out where it was I wanted to go.  And now I do.  Maybe. At the very least I am, for the moment, sort of where I want to be, even if there is a constant niggle in my head about what happens when M goes to school?.   I am, mostly (touch wood) happy, and I do (mostly) have time for myself and my family, and I am (astonishingly) bringing in an income.

 So maybe I've done it.  Maybe I'm not blogging much because I don't need to.

But then I don't really want to stop.  I don't really want to write much at the moment either, but somehow stopping would seem like an admission of failure, even though I'm not sure I have failed.

Apparently November is NaBoPloMo.  National Blog Posting Month.  Which is, obviously, nearly as silly as Pizza month (October) or Camping month (June) or Talk like a pirate day (September - personally I happen to love that one), but which, silly or no, I'm going to try and get into. 

So for November, every day I'm going to read at least one new blog,  and twice a week (because I'm not going to get over-ambitious) I'm going to post (so this is the first one).  And if at the end of it, I want to stop, I will.

And I won't have failed, I'll have just made a choice.

Lies, damn lies and you know whats

Excuse a briefly self-indulgent, unnecessary, honestly I know it doesn't matter really sort of post, sort of about blogging.

Or look away now.  I've got another one brewing that I'll put up in a couple of hours so come back then.

But yes.  Statistics.

Now, I know they don't matter, and I know that my blog is, if not my baby (I've got four of those already, don't need another one), my own project; and if I'm proud of it - which mostly, sometimes, I am - and if it does what I need it to do (mostly lie there quietly and be ignored at the moment) then it's doing all it needs to do and being all it needs to be.

But really.

Two years ago I won a national blogging prize.  For most of the year before that, and all of the time from then until April this year, I was, according to the Tots100 (yes, it doesn't matter, I know, yadda yadda) I was between 100th and 50th "best" (?), "most popular" (?), "most statistically relevant" (?) (see, I don't even know what it means, so really, why do I care?) parenting blog in the country.

Since March (75th), I have dropped a grand total of 586 places.   Which is impressive in its own way really.

And while I honestly don't really care (or at least not enough actually to do anything about it), I am simultaneously reassured, cheered and utterly bemused by the fact that blogger tells me that last month 18,082 people visited my blog.

Hello, whoever you are...

Oh, and the impressive looking chap?  He's the Duke of Wellington.  He didn't care about statistics either.  And I found his picture (by Sir Thomas Lawrence, apparently) on wikipedia commons.

Turns out (I've just checked, 24 hours after posting this) that he cared so little for statistics that he didn't actually say it.  It may have been Mark Twain, it may have been Disraeli, it may have been someone else entirely.  But as no one knows and the good Duke is more handsome than either of the others (though Disraeli does share my birthday, and Mark Twain had an utterly brilliant 'tache) I'm leaving him up there.

The car, the cinema and the rainbow cake

Or the utterly flabbergasting power of social media.

And the birthday was saved!

I didn't think it would work, honestly I didn't.  I mean actually who reads this blog? Who tweets? Who's interested in what I put on my personal (I told them I blog! eek!) facebook page?

Do Citroen really care if L's birthday is ruined because their supply chain is rubbish?

Turns out they do.

On Wednesday afternoon I posted this (click the link if you have no idea what I'm talking about).   I also stuck it on my and B's and Citroen's facebook pages.  I also asked anyone who read it to tweet it.

B and I have, in total, we reckon, about 500 separate friends on facebook.  According to blogger about 350 people read the post (which I think means actually clicked on it).  I don't understand twitter, but I think about ten people tweeted it.

Citroen are a pretty big company.  They must spend millions on marketing.  As a result they must have a global reach to futher millions of people. They're not going to care about fewer than 1000 of my friends and relations, are they?

My phone rang at 8.45 on Thursday morning.  By Friday afternoon (took them time to find one big enough) we had this.

A Hyundai Hee-Owge (that may not actually be what it's called). All expenses (well not the petrol, obviously) paid.

By this morning the part was at the garage, and by mid-afternoon today, we had this, shiny and clean, riding high on its lovely new rear suspension:

Even better, on Sunday lunchtime, L had this:

And by Sunday afternoon she had a bucket of popcorn as big as her head on her lap, and a pair of 3D glasses attached to her nose.

I don't get it. I really don't.  What's a thousand people to the millions Citroen reach through advertising?  What was it about us that got us bumped up the queue (because we're far from being alone with this problem)?  Was it the human interest of poor little L, with her wobbly bottom lip and her tear-streaked face, missing her birthday treat?  Was it the blog? Was it the tweets? Was it the fact that though we were clearly fed up with the situation we didn't shout or swear?  Was it actually not us at all, but the garage (Dalgleish in Coldstream, who were also hassling on our behalf) that applied the vital pressure in our favour?

I don't know.  I probably never will.  I don't understand it, but I'm very grateful for whatever it was.

So thank you.  You, and the garage,and Citroen.

And apologies to the several hundred other Citroen owners who have, according to Citroen's facebook page, this forum and others, been waiting, mostly a lot longer than we have, and continue to wait.

Because while Citroen were great to us (why?)  they're still being rubbish.  They still haven't got the parts for other people, their supply chain is still non-existent (some people are being told it may be 8-10 weeks for the part) and they still won't admit that there's actually a fault with the thing in the first place.  So, again, please tweet this post, if you tweet. 

Because Citroen deserve to be praised for the way they treated us, but we're not alone, and there are other people, and probably other six year olds, who deserve to be treated as we were.  

If it worked for us, you never know...

Back to Basics

I've got a new look.  It's supposed to be less cluttered, more calming; less off-putting, more inspiring of a desire to spend time here (for me, mostly, but you too).

Is it all those things?

Or is it just dull to look at and slow to load?

Thoughts please.  And if anyone really hates it (and knows a web designer who fancies a play on blogger) do get in touch...

When good bloggers go...

I wasn't going to blog today - B will be cross with me for doing so.

I had a funny turn with my eyes at the weekend (about which more later if it turns out there is more to say), and so I'm supposed to be staying away from computers.  And televisions.  And books.

But obviously he's out, and there's very little you can do on your own without using your eyes, and I'm weak willed.  So I was floating around the interweb, as you do.

And pondering.

Where do the bloggers go?

You know. Those people you read, maybe even email.  The ones you bond with, or laugh with, or just think "if she/he lived in my street, we'd be good friends".  The ones you just get.

The ones who just vanish.

Mwa, Modern Dilemma, Geriatric Mummy, Deer Baby and many others....

Where do they go?

Chutney Dreams

I have a dream.

I have several dreams actually.

Chutney dreams.

I can't remember where I read about chutney dreams, and an intensive (five minute) google search has brought up lots of recipes of varying attractiveness, and a weird site allegedly telling you what it means if you dream about chutney (I didn't click), but nothing about the chutney dreams I remember.

But you know the ones anyway.  The dreams that sit on the shelf, gathering dust.  The ones you take out every now and then, look at and think "I should do something with that", before putting back and reaching for something more sensible and practical.

The dreams where you make vats of delicious chutney (or macarons, or fascinators) at your kitchen table, which is then, quite by chance, tasted by someone fabulously influential, and featured in the Sunday Times Style magazine (among other national media) and before you know it you're the chutney queen of the Scottish Borders, supervising a team of happy employees, making fabulous preserves from fairly traded, locally sourced ingredients in a socially meritorious way, which are shipped (obviously we wouldn't air freight anything) around the world, resulting in you becoming a household name, multi-millionairess, beacon of the community, and all round good egg.

Then you wake up.

Or, perhaps, you're awake already.

I have these dreams.  This blog is one of them, if the truth be told.   I'm still waiting for the book deal.

The millinery was a dream too.  And so were the t-shirts.

And the pudding restaurant (still think that's a genius idea). And the soft play centre (we got as far as a back of the envelope business plan on that one before realising that it wouldn't actually make us any money).  And the wine shop and café (that one's for when we win the lottery and don't mind that it wouldn't actually make us any money.  We've identified the premises and are enjoying researching the stock).  And the macarons, which you may notice are my current fantasy of choice (still rather proud of my Hallowe'en ones). 

 

I think it's the creativity that appeals: the idea of crafting something, of a life spent lovingly making beautiful things rather than shoving bits of paper around in between heating up fish fingers and tidying bedrooms, and of being recognised for it.    The ability to use the bits of my brain that aren't exercised by children, husbands or the Inland Revenue.

So I dream.  As I potter, and bake, and stitch, I dream.  It's a creative outlet in itself. 

But for the moment they remain just dreams.  However real they may look in the pictures.  They're just dreams.

When worlds collide

Did you have a brilliant long weekend?

We did.  We got sun, too! Lots of it.  Lots of fun as well, with lots of lovely friends staying - six adults and eight children in total.  It's what we wanted this house to be when we bought it, and it lived up to every expectation.

But now it's over.  Which means I'm looking at the next big social event in my calendar.

Which is, or is supposed to be BritMumsLive (spaces or no spaces, incidentally?). 

Only that's my virtual life. And in my real one that Friday is, I was told last week, L's last official day at nursery, with prize giving and presentation.  And I'm her mummy, and that will only happen once.

And it's not just that.  We've been invited to a lunch on the Sunday (with train times I can't be back here until mid-afternoon) and a big party on the Saturday. They'll be fun, undoubtedly, but it's more than that. We're still, slightly, two years in, finding our feet socially - sizing people up as potential friends, edging our way into circles and cliques, making our mark - and so turning down chances to meet more people and perhaps make new friends seems a mistake.

But that's my real life, and my real world.  What about the virtual one?  What about the fact that the agenda looks really interesting, and, more, that this is my chance to make other real friends, out of the virtual ones I already have?

What about the fact that I've bought a ticket, and am booked on a train?

What would you do?

Shall I go to BritMums Live?

Sorry, any non-bloggers out there who might read this. This is one of those navel-gazing, cliquey, oh? you don't have a blog? Ri-ight type of posts.

Because I'm wondering about BritMums Live.  The event (I think) formerly known as CyberMummy.  (Is that right? Or is it something totally different and I've hugely insulted everyone involved, and probably got their brand manager sacked into the bargain? )

This could have been so easy.  I could have gone the first year, when I was new and so was it, but we had a wedding.  And then the next year (last year) we had a new baby. And if I'd been before, twice, then it would have been natural to go again.

But instead now it's this year, and it could be my first year, but it feels as though I've missed the boat. As though everyone else will know everyone else and I'll veer between standing in the corner trying to look approachable while at the same time hoping that the earth will swallow me up and affixing a rictus grin before bouncing into other people's conversations like Tigger on an uninhibited day and frightening everyone within a ten yard radius.

But if I don't book now, not only will I have to pay more, but I bet I'll also regret it nearer the time...

Reader, I won!

I don't normally blog slightly tiddly.

But then this isn't a normal evening!

I am sitting in a bus stop on Oxford Street. It is the end of September. It is 10.45 pm. It is 20-something degrees.

I won the MAD blog awards!

I am officially the best pregnancy blogger of 2011!

I am so delighted. Not least because I won, but also because I met more than just a mother (who B thinks is funnier than me - he's right, incidentally) and Sandy from Baby Baby, and Jen from the Mad House, and Kelly, and Circus Queen and Melaina, and Sally, who organised the whole thing... and many others.... They were brilliant, all.

Thank you so much to everyone who voted for me.

You have made me very surprised. And very happy too,

* Can't link from the bus stop (and my phone), so if you're reading this and there are no links, come back next week...)

ps I should also mention two specific thanks that I was too over-excited (ahem) at the time to remember - thanks to Bounty, who sponsored my award, and to M&S who amazingly generously gave me an outfit.  I bought a beautiful dress (which I'm clearly not alone in appreciating as it seems to be sold out, so I can't show you a picture) as well as some magic knickers (I did have a baby four months ago so I think that's understandable) and some black tights which it was way too hot to wear.   Thank you both.

An off-line life

It's opener there in the wide open air.

said Dr Seuss.  And while I'm not normally a Dr Seuss fan (I think, like Bugsy Malone and pink biscuits, you have to have loved him as a child to appreciate him as an adult), there's something about The Places You'll Go that has resonated since I first read it, not that long ago, when I was a mother of a mere three.

Because that's where I've been. Off-line and out there.  Since I last posted, over six weeks ago, back in the distant country that was July, Summer, sunshine and short sleeves, I have been, well, nowhere very exciting.  But just out there, in the wide open air.  And not here. Not on the computer.  Not online. 

That's a lie, of course, because I suspect that you have to make a conscious effort really to be off-line, and I wasn't doing that. I just wasn't actively here.  I wasn't actually even passively here either.  I read comments on my blog, because I get emails with them in, and I get them on my phone, but that was it.  I didn't read other people's blogs, and I certainly didn't write my own.

So if anyone's done anything really exciting over the last six weeks, do please let me know.  I'm going to try and catch up, but I'm bound to miss something.

And I enjoyed it. Without realising it, somehow blogging had become a chore. Another job to be done, to be squeezed into the lack of hours in my day. This blog is my space, and I was starting to resent it.  I wanted to be doing something else: talking to my children, or my husband; reading a book; cuddling my baby; unpacking a box.

And I started to forget about this blog, and when I did find myself reminded, to think of it with a bit of a jolt, and a slight feeling of dread.  That dread you get when you know there's something you have to do but you can't quite make yourself do it.

So I pushed it to the back of my mind and turned the computer off, ignored my emails and let it, and my mind, gather dust.

But then, a little while ago, about last week, I found myself writing posts in my head, and wondering what was going on in here, online, and so I am back, blowing the dust off and flexing my knuckles.

Now I've just got to think of something to write about.

It's official. Blogging made me a bad mother.

I've read quite a bit recently about Jojo Moyes' article in the Telegraph saying that blogging and hands-on parenting are incompatible.  All parent bloggers are, according to Ms Moyes, plonking their children in front of CBeebies while they fritter their lives away online criticising people they've never met for the choices they've made for their children (who, of course, they've also never met).

Bloggers are bad parents.  Allegedly.

And I would have ranted about this. And pointed out that I am only blogging this evening because B has put Clash of the Titans on and there's a limit to my tolerance for really dreadful special effects.  And that in so doing, I am only ignoring him,  my children having been put to bed at a sensible hour after a home cooked (ish, it was fishfingers) meal with real vegetables (broccoli and peas, if you're interested).  Or how I never turn the computer on while they're awake (with good reason, sticky fingers can cause havoc on a keyboard). Or how television is only allowed for fifteen supervised minutes or so a day.  Or when they're ill.  As A was last Friday.

But unfortunately Ms Moyes is right.  Blogging has made me a bad parent. 

Cast your mind back to last Friday, when A was feeling poorly, and sitting wrapped up in a blanket in front of Toy Story.  Friday is officially a working day for me so the girls (when not ill) go to nursery and I get a break from the cooking of fish fingers and the breaking up of arguments; but as M is only seven weeks old, I'm giving myself Fridays off.  This means I could do the unthinkable - I invited to my house someone who I had met online.  Unprotected and unchaperoned, I met a real blogger. 

I was terribly nervous, but she, (am I allowed to name her?) was just as lovely in the flesh as in the word and we had a delightful hour or so in the sunshine, admiring my baby, eating chocolate digestives, and talking, oddly, about pretty much anything other than being a mum.

And I had such a nice time that I completely forgot to feed my daughter.  Until she had an enormous tantrum and I realised that it was 1 pm and neither of us had had lunch.

See. A bad mother.  Blogging did that.  Ms Moyes is right...

The Gallery - My blog

This is my blog.  It is a friend. Or maybe a cousin.  Or a sister.  But either way, a friend.  One of those friends or relations you have known from childhood, maybe all your life.

The sort of friend who you don't have to explain things to, because she has been there too, and she understands.  The sort of cousin who you can tell anything to, not because she won't judge, but because she will, and although you might hate what she says at the time, and get all defensive and grumpy,  and maybe even a bit teary, you will know she is right and is only telling you because she cares.  The sort of sister who is so much a part of your life and your furniture that your memories are her memories and you have both forgotten why or how she came to be there, but just that she is.

The sort of friend that sometimes you don't really like very much.  Sometimes she embarrasses you. Sometimes you think she doesn't really represent the person you'd like to be, although, in your heart of hearts, you admit, if only to yourself, she represents the person you actually are.   Sometimes you feel she makes you do, or say, things that you wish you hadn't done or said.   Sometimes you feel you hide behind her, letting her take the lead, when you should have the courage to come out and say things out loud instead.

Sometimes you wish you could just walk away. That you could take back the admissions you've made to her; admissions you've made because talking to her is like talking to yourself.  That you'd never met her in the first place. But you can't.

Because no matter how much she irritates, or embarrasses, or is not what you'd always want her to be, you'd miss her if she weren't there.  And your life would be immeasurably poorer without her.

**********************************************

This post is, as posts often are on a Wednesday, for Tara's Gallery.  Find out what everyone else thinks their blogs are like here.

Just not good enough.

Excuse me while I get a little grumpy and self-pitying.

Seriously. That's a warning.  If you're looking for uplifting, inspiring or happy, click away now.

There's nothing actually wrong at the moment, but at the same time nothing's actually quite right either.

I've worked solidly today, not stopping for lunch, or B, who's here working too and periodically wants distracting for five minutes: reading files, analyzing missing areas, emailing people who might have the information and getting to within half an hour of having to pick up the girls with nothing actually to show for it other than a table covered in pieces of paper which are no longer in their orderly piles and will probably take longer than the available half hour to clear up.

There's nothing wrong, we all have days like that, and it probably will actually turn out to have been quite productive, when these people get back to me, but for the moment, it feels not good enough.

Once I've got the girls I've got some lovely people coming round for kids' tea and adults' drinks.  The thing is, I really like these people.  In a really sad way, I want them to be our friends. We've been trying to arrange a meet up for months and this is the first time it's happened.  Only B arranged it. And he's arranged it for 5 pm on a Friday evening, when I'm tired, the girls are tired and our standard children's supper is eggy bread and baked beans.  And of course I can give the lovely people's children eggy bread and baked beans, but it's hardly impressive is it? It doesn't say: I really like you and I went to lots of effort for you.    It says, Well, that's fine and it'll do, but it's not really good enough.


There's no food in the house either.  It's been cheese sandwiches for lunch all week. Which is fine because B's working in the office while the builders are here, so it's only me, but it still hardly the mybodyisatempleandababygrowingtempleatthat regime that I'm apparently supposed to be following is it?  Plus there's only so inspirational I can be for supper with half a manky swede, two leeks and a bag of pasta...


I'm cross with the builders too. It's their fault. They were brilliant and superb for the first two months, but the pace has slowed and although what they're doing is still of fantastic quality and they're pleasant and smiley and tidy it just feels like things aren't happening as quickly as I'd like them to.  I can't help feeling that some of that's my fault too - they want me to make decisions, which I can't, because samples don't arrive, or B and I suddenly find we really care about the precise shade of floor tile and put off a decision because it's easier than arguing about it, or I find something I like but I can't rid myself of the feeling that if I just spent another ten minutes on the internet I'd find something I liked more, and cheaper  - and I'm just getting to the stage where I want it done.

I don't feel like a good mother at the moment either - I can't get through five minutes without asking the little ones if they need a wee; which is understandable, but doesn't make for fun parenting, and L's driving me mad.  I came down the stairs with a load of washing this morning to find her going up. I said "Downstairs please L, it's time to go to nursery" and, well, and she solemnly kept going up.  And I could have screamed and shouted, but instead I just felt utterly defeated.  If I can't get her to do something as innocent as go downstairs when I want her to, what hope have I got with the big stuff?

I'm a rubbish friend too. We were supposed to be down South this week, seeing people we love. We cancelled, for all sorts of very valid and understandable being utterly exhausted reasons. And I know they understand, but it doesn't stop me feeling bad. As does the 73 unanswered messages on my facebook, and the not quite so many, but just as important ones in my inbox.  Because these people matter to me, and I'm not treating them like they do.

Let's not get on to being a wife either.  Pants with Names made me laugh this week recounting that her son had told her that he wanted to marry someone just like her when he grew up. Only less grumpy.  The problem is I suspect B feels rather the same...

And I just feel rubbish.   My legs need waxing, my toenails need painting, my eyebrows need plucking and all my trousers are falling down.  And the girls don't care, and B doesn't care (is that a good thing or a bad thing, I never know?) but it still adds to the general disgruntledness.

In the grand scheme of things that matter, this blog is pretty low on the list, but I don't feel like I'm doing that well either.  I'm not proud of it at the moment, and given it's another one of my babies, even if not one that needs its bottom wiped, that bothers me too.

And my chair I'm re-covering isn't working, and I'm a year and a bit behind with the photographs, and the bins all need emptying, and I've got to work out what we're going to eat next week so that B can go to Tesco's at the weekend, and it's L's birthday next month and I have no idea what we're going to get her, and can't even begin to think about a party, and I've got a baby coming in two months and I don't know where all our baby stuff is, much less whether its still useable, and I still haven't filled in the paperwork for the person who's going to come and help us when the baby arrives, and I haven't got the washing out that I put in at 7 am this morning and, and, and...

..and, as previously discussed, it's ridiculous and selfish to feel like this when there's so much worse going on in the world. Shut up Harriet. Get over it.

Sorry about that.  Consider it my contribution to Muddling Along's Ranty Friday...

Water

I haven't blogged much recently. I've been too taken up with feeling sick and tired and overwhelmed. And worried about feeling more sick and tired and overwhelmed in the months and years to come.

But I've just read two things, here and here that have made me snap out of my self-indulgent lethargy.

Today is Blog Action Day and the topic this year is water.

And I read what Mrs W wrote, and what Mr W (and yes, they are a couple) and I took a sip of the glass of water I had sitting casually on the table beside me, and I remembered how lucky I am.  And I realised that access to clean water should be a universal right, as the UN declared in July, despite the absention of the UK.

So please.  As you bring a pan to the boil for pasta, or run the bath tonight, or get yet another load of washing out of the machine, think of those who don't have those luxuries.  And do what you can. Starting with signing the petition.



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I haven't picked a charity for this month either, despite us being nearly half way through, so inspired by this amazing video, I have sent 10% of what I earned in September to provide safe drinking water for the people of Pakistan.  If you can spare some money, please think about doing likewise.

CyberCinderella

This weekend everyone's going to the ball.

And even though my fairy godmother waved her magic wand and got me a ticket, I'm not*.

So I'm cross.  Not so much about the sessions, although I know I've got lots to learn, but because I won't be meeting all the wonderful people I've virtually got to know over the last six months.

So if you are going, have a wonderful time, and I'm so sorry not to meet you.   I really hope to be able to do so some other time.


*I'm going to a wedding instead, so the Cinderella metaphor's a bit laboured.  I won't be sitting by the fire sobbing, or talking to random small animals, I'll be drinking champagne, and wearing a glamorous hat.  Still wish the wedding had been on any other Saturday this year, though.

Picture presumably copyright Disney.  I found it at 2sugarsplease.wordpress.com  Thank you.

When the cat's away...

...the mice will spend all night blogging and have a fishfinger sandwich for supper.

B's in Brussels.  I am in bliss.

My 21-year-old self is cringing in horror.

Warning of witterings to come.

And breathe!

I have nearly caught up!  I have read and replied to all the comments left over the last three weeks, I have caught up with most (although by no means all) of what has been going on with my favourite bloggers, and I can now sit down and write, well, the next few posts...

First Post

Hello.

Be gentle with me.  This is my first post from my new life.

My name is Harriet. I'm a full-time mum.  I live in Scotland.

This time two weeks ago, only one of those things was true, and I didn't admit to it in internet-based-public.  But this is a new life.  Here I am.

I fear that like many (most) first posts, this one is going to be rubbish.   I'm here, in an internet cafe (still no broadband), looking at a blank screen, and with simultaneously nothing, and everything, to say.

Some thoughts:

It's blinking cold here.  I'm told it's cold everywhere.  But I'm also told by my mother-in-law that it took her five years to stop feeling cold when she moved to Scotland.  I'm a little scared by that.

The girls are loving it (mostly).  The new nursery (about which most definitely more later) is beyond our wildest expectations.  There is a trampoline (thank you to B's parents) in the garden. They have a playroom.  A is punishing us for leaving her for a week I think, but even she is adoring toddling from room to room and scattering a trail of toys behind her like a 21st Century Gretel.

My "no toys in the kitchen" rule may be doomed to failure.  But how lovely to have enough space that you can even attempt it.

The water really is nicer.  B's been whinging about London water since I've known him.  I was brought up on diluted limescale so I've been generally tuning him out (which is not to say I do that often, of course), but on this one he's right.  The water tastes lovely.  And I keep running my fingers through my hair because it feels so soft.   All that money spent on expensive shampoo searching for the elusive one that would make my hair touchy feely, like I just stepped out of a salon... and all it took was a move of 350 miles.

This feels right.  The town is lovely.   It has everything I need (internet cafe included) within a ten minute walk of my front door.  No one has yet lynched me for being English.  Indeed, and maybe it's part of being so close to the Border anyway, the variety of accents you hear in the 200 yards between our front door and the centre of town puts parts of London to shame.

Now I am here, I'm going to have to do the things I've been talking about. I'm going to have to be a consultant lawyer.  I'm going to have to set up a  millinery business.  I'm petrified.  What if I fail?

My father-in-law thinks I'm pregnant. 

There are still places in the UK where people park their pushchair (complete with child) outside the shop when they go into it.  Am amazed.  And very tempted.  Am I mad?

The girls are in nursery a day and a half a week.  It costs less a month than a week of nursery in London. This is the greatest luxury I could imagine.  I feel guilty beyond words.

We have made the right decision.  So far.  



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ps: The bloggy bits:

I have been enormously touched not to have been forgotten in the bloggy world.  Thank you for all the comments on my various moving house posts, especially given that they have been met with silence.  It means a lot and I will reply to all comments in due course.
 
I'm going to wimp out of the Gallery this week.  Feel a bit rubbish about that as I was very proud of having not missed a week.  And I think it's done wonders for my stats!  But it's Men this week, and they're sadly outnumbered in my family, and a view of my beloved from behind seems a little silly, much as I love him, and definitely not worth a trip back here tomorrow morning with all three in tow.

Finally, in answer to the emails etc about CyberMummy, was totally totally delighted to be the winner of the ticket in the Tots100 this month - and gutted that I still, nonetheless, despite everything in its favour, can't go.  Sadly, a wedding's a wedding, and we've already said yes.  So we will be in Lancaster.  But I will be thinking of you all.

M minus 6 days - Dear So and So

Dear House,

I love you. Sorry.

Soon-to-be-ex-owner

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Dear Removal men,

You know that sorting out I said I was going to do? 

Sorry.

Harrassed mum of three.

ps and no, I wasn't wasting my time blogging. Blogging is important.

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Dear Neighbours,

The new people are going to have a baby too.  Sorry.

The people formerly known as NextDoor.

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Dear New People,

The particulars might not have mentioned a few things:

Yes, you do have to turn the grill on with a pair of pliers.
And yes, that stuff that looks like dried snot on the wall by L's bed?  Well, that's, erm, dried snot.
And no.  I don't know precisely what that stain is on the carpet.  But I can guess.

Sorry.

Your predecessors.

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Dear Iggle Piggle,

Please come and see us.  You are her best friend.  She doesn't understand yet, but she's really going to miss you.

As am I.  Sorry.

Love Iggle Piggle's Mummy .

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Dear London,

Too much to say in a postcard.

Thank you.

Me

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Dear some Scottish people (you know who you are)

I'm coming to live with you, and there's something you should know:

I'm English. 

It's not my fault, I was born with it. It doesn't make me a horrid person.

So deal with it.

Happy St George's Day,

Englishgirl.

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Dear New House,

We are coming!

Hope you like us.

xxx

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More Dear So and So's here