Bah Humbug!

Yesterday my friend Babs dropped by on a whim. I was right in the middle of a very taxing game of Spider Solitaire (when I should have been working) and the house was a tip, so I was a little off my guard.

As we sat at my grubby table, surrounded by my books, nursing hastily-prepared cups of coffee, Babs told me that her family had all suffered from a flu bug that apparently " makes you think everyone hates you" (that's a virus??). I've been really grumpy ( I mean really grumpy) lately, but I'm not sure I can put it down to a virus.

Last Friday, I came away from my second supervision session with the biggest dark cloud over my head. My supervisor had been quite enthusiastic. He could see how I could rework my thesis and had even written out the bones of a structure. On the face of it, that's exactly what I had hoped he would do and I should have been excited. The problem is, my brain is simply not agile enough to cope with new things - like people dropping by unexpectedly or different perspectives being thrown into the mix. I couldn't for the life of me see where he was coming from and it threw me into a panicky state of confusion.

Then, I made the mistake of looking at some of the comments he'd made on the prehistoric draft I'd given him. Simple comments like "what do you mean by this?" or "what is the process of adoption?" sent me into a negative whirl of self-chastisement (why on earth didn't I find that out?) and unnecessary catastrophising ('It's hopeless! The fieldwork is useless, it'll never be good enough').

I've calmed down a little and am coming round to his point of view, but I'm still very crotchety.

The other thing which might account for my churlish gloom is the time of year. I really dislike the run-up to Christmas. For some reason I have a pathological resentment of not only the excessive consumerism, materialism and plain greed that surrounds the 'festive season', but the fact that everyone starts talking about it really really early.

Three weeks ago the checkout girl in Tescos asked me if I'd done all my Christmas shopping. I almost bit her head-off: 'Don't!' I spat 'I refuse to start even thinking about it until at least December and preferably the second week'.

I have a problem with efficiency, booking things early, getting organised in good time and I don't know why. It's something about planning in advance (my mum would always plan far too far in advance and make me commit to things I really didn't want to do) but also something about my particular brain getting easily overloaded.

Despite being a reasonable multi-tasker, my poor noggin cannot take too many things on at once. I do actually physically find it hard to turn my mind to Christmas when it is so far ahead. I like to focus on one immediate and relevant thing at a time. I find the task of picking out good presents and taking the time to trawl the shops really really difficult, so I prefer to dedicate a certain time to do it. - and I'm nearing it now, with dread.

Last night I wrote a scrappy list of possible presents for the ever- burgeoning family of mine including two new nephews and neices and two more birthdays before Christmas. Instead of feeling mildly in control I just sagged in a depressive heap - too little money and too much organising to do. Bah HUMBUG!

Growing up

I watched my son walk up the road to his school this morning, his stride brisk and confident, red rucksack bobbing on his back. I kept watching until he blended in with the crowds around the gate, before I turned away, inwardly infused with motherly pride and - quite frankly - relief.

It's been a bit of a breakthrough. It's not his first day at school or even his first day walking to school, but it is the first Monday for ages that he has gone to school without a fuss: no tears, no tirades, no point-blank refusals to go.

He's ten years old and has always had a bit of an issue about school. Every first day of term or half term we've had a battle with him. But just recently it got to the stage that every Monday was a struggle, if not every day.

We've tried to understand, but it didn't make much sense: he's a good pupil, he does well with his work, has strong friendships, appears to enjoy school while he is there and swears blind that no-one is being nasty to him (pupil or teacher). He simply says that he hates it and that's all.

Wrestling over the problem one night, I began to develop the seeds of a theory. He's a sensitive soul and has always found separation - goodbyes - difficult. He was a very clingy baby, had difficulty going to playgroup when he was two, and often hated being left at a friend's house or a party (so I had to stay) . On the other hand, up until recently, he seemed to adjust to school life quite well - even when we went to Abu Dhabi.

Following this line of thought further, I realised that it might all centre around the separation routine. At Infant school I dropped him right at the door of the class so his teacher could take him off. That was easy, because he was distracted and didn't tend to look back. At Junior school, up until recently, we had adapted into a different routine. I would stand at the gate with him until the whistle blew for them all to file in. Usually, his best friend would arrive after us and would stand with him. My son liked - and needed - this routine. If anything was changed, he became agitated and upset.

But a couple of months ago, his friend began to be dropped at school much earlier and was already running around with the others when we got there. This was when my son started to get upset. And I can understand it now: alone at the gate, with his mum, my son battled with the problem of keeping to a vital routine without the back-up of his friend. His need for me was now exposed and, in his own words he felt 'like a baby' .

We talked about it. I offered advice, techniques, alternate scenarios or possibilities - he didn't want to hear of any of them. But I had a plan. I thought it would help if I dropped him off and he went straight into school - just like he had done in Infants - rather than waiting, tremulously for the whistle to blow and building up to that moment he hated so much. In collusion with his teacher, we engineered it so he would have to go in early to help her set out the chairs.

The first day of chair monitoring was a disaster. He was more upset than ever and I had to walk him right into class with him in floods of tears.

That night, we had a rethink. He told me he hated the idea of seeing me walk away or even leaving me in the school grounds. And then I realised. He might find it easier to say goodbye, as long as the school was not in sight. So we agreed to try a new routine. I would walk him half way to school, over the busy roads and leave him by the corner. He could then walk up the road by himself. If he turned round he wouldn't be able to see me and he wouldn't be saying goodbye anywhere near the school.

The first day was a bit shaky and his bottom lip trembled, but he didn't cry and he didn't turn back. Today, a week or so into this new routine, I know we've cracked it. And even though it wouldn't be a big deal for some kids of his age, I'm so proud of my son.

Toooo busy

Stressy stressy stressy. If I had a swear box, it would be bulging with coins by now.

Nothing is going to plan and my brain has fragmented.

This morning there was 'signals failure' at some unspecified location and the trains were late. Delays on the Northern line meant taking the Bakerloo instead. A cancelled lecture due to staff illness meant an unexpected visit to the library. A broken rail in Wimbledon meant getting home late which meant a trip to the supermarket after school pick-up which meant no lunch until 4.40. A timely reminder from the only son that it's parents' evening tonight meant the rather rushed production of something resembling a children's supper.

Back home again, a quick look at the calendar revealed a forgotten and therefore shocking entry: ''alternative therapy workshop" for tomorrow, which means I'll have to cancel my pre-arranged Homestart volunteer visit at 10 and postpone a much-needed mega-shop at Tescos.... again. At which point, Chloe suddenly announces she has an Inset day on Friday when I have to go to London again to see my supervisor - which means I'll either have to rearrange that or find someone for her to perch with. Then, again prompted by my 'on top of it' son, I realise that the date on his 'movie night' ticket says 16th and not 26th as I had previously myopically surmised, which means that we will not be able to travel to the in-laws in Wiltshire as planned until the movie is over. This has been broken to the husband who is not best pleased.

I don't care what anyone says about middle-class drinking at home or about alcohol induced cancers - I'm going to pour myself a HUGE glass of wine.

Rolling back the years: the punk era

When I was 17 I had black spiky hair - sometimes it was orange, blonde, with a blue streak - but mostly it was black. I used to wear a motley of clothes, mostly from charity shops. My favourite was a pair of skin-tight, drainpipe, turquoise, satiny trousers with a leopard-spot pattern which I had spray-painted on with car paint. Every time they ripped I put in a zip or a multicoloured patch. How I loved those trousers. One day though, I couldn't find them. Years later my mum told me she had thrown them away because she couldn't stand the sight of them.

I loved my life back then. Though I was at school still, most nights I went with a friend to go to one of the London clubs and watch a band - usually with free tickets. Being part of the punk scene was fun, it gave a feeling of belonging - of membership in an exclusive club, and despite the occasional violence, there was a good sense of cameraderie.

At one point I had a boyfriend called Rockabilly Steve. He was cool, and knew it. He kept a machete on top of a cupboard in his room and had a belt with a huge Triumph Motorcycles sign on it. He used to speak to me about ghosts and evil spirits. I was scared, but tried not to show it. Older than me, with great charisma, he'd wait for me outside my school gate and I was so proud.

His ex-girlfriend (whom, I later found was actually still going out with him) was a lardy but scary punkette called Dee. She was best mates with another very scary punk called Tampax, who used to wear a used tampon in her ear (nice!). They spotted me one night in a club in Soho. Tampax kept bitching at me and Dee threatened to beat me up. Sigh, those were the days.

For some reason, I just remembered all of that as I was walking home from taking my son to school and was struck by the contrast. How much has changed.

Someone trying to tell me something?

Let me tell you about Monday last week.

My supervisor has advised me to attend some undergraduate lectures and I'm not complaining. I need all the help I can get.

Enrolment at college the previous week had been fairly disastrous. Inopportune power cuts, awkward registrars, a MASSIVE queue to get library cards and a supervisor running late meant I had to go into London twice. On both days I ended up having to pelt hell-for-leather to catch a train home to collect the kids, only to be late anyway - even more insulting, on one of the days, I actually made it to Waterloo on time, only to find the trains had been delayed due to a security scare. The odds seemed stacked against me.

This week I was determined to get all done in good time with no panicky rush. The lecture was at 10am so I left home early. I was well prepared. I'd set up my bike chain so it didn't keep falling off as it had done the previous week (meaning that I'd arrived at the train station covered in bike grease and sweating profusely). I got to station in good time to find a train waiting on my platform and trotted over the footbridge to catch it.

That's about as far as my luck went though. The train was packed and loads of passengers were still waiting out on the platform. The train seemed in no hurry to move off and I was just debating whether to squeeze on this one or wait for the next when the tannoy told me that a passenger had been taken ill and they were waiting for an ambulance. I scanned my timetable. I could still get there in time, as long as the train went in the next 20 minutes.

We finally left 30 minutes later and proceeded at an agonisingly slow pace. Every watch-check I made, meant I had to recalculate how long I had got before things became really strained time-wise. And it was increasingly close - down to the wire again - so I ended up having to run like a maniac up and down escalators, between underground platforms and on and off tube trains.

By the time I got to King's Cross it was 2 minutes to 10. So I ran up the hill to the building where the lecture was, burst into the room only 1 minute late, bright red in the face and severely out of breath.

Anti-climactically, the room was completely empty. There was no notice or explanation; I checked my handout and I was in the right room. I was just about to embark on an internal rant about wasted train fares and pointless stress, when a young girl arrived looking for the same lecture.

Unphased and unhurried, she checked her email on the nearest available computer and found out that the lecture had been moved to another room, in another building - at least 15 minutes walk away. Thank God she was there - not only did she know where to go, but I had someone else to walk in with when we joined the lecture 30 minutes later.

The room was packed and I slunk to the back. With no chair to speak of and not wishing to disrupt the proceedings any further (let alone pay any attention to myself) I kneeled on the floor while I wrote my notes, my knee resting awkwardly on a plug socket. It had to get better than this, I thought.

Lecture over, I decided to sort out stuff in the library. In an unusual rush of efficiency I found two decent books to take out and started to register for online access when the fire alarm went off. I had to leave my books inside and abandon all hopes of getting much done.

I stood on the street amid a chaotic melee of students, a mixture of fellow fire escapees and strident protesters shouting about soldiers in Iraq. I wanted to laugh. So far, every time I'd gone to London, my efforts had been thwarted by a chain of unforeseen and random incidents. It just seemed ridiculous.

"You'll never guess what.... " I said, catching my husband on his mobile. He suggested that 'someone' might be trying to tell me something. Well, if they are, I'm not listening. I prefer to see it all as just a test of my resolve.

Now very briefly to fulfil my tag from Belle

No. of books I own: masses and masses - too many, must take some to charity shop.

Last book I read (non-academic) Zoo Station (cannot remember author, will fill in later) Quite good, simply written. but a bit bland considering the subject matter of ww2 intrique and spying.

Last book I bought: Women at the Center: life in a modern matriarchy by Peggy Reeves Sanday (academic...but on the people I studied for my PhD)

5 meaningful books: Dune by Frank Herbert (blew my young mind), One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (first book I was really affected by), Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie (for the amazing prose which totally impressed me when I was writing up my PhD) and Northern Lights (which got me hooked on the trilogy).

Do I have to tag someone now? not sure whose done it already but at random: mother at large, omega mum and debio. Apologies if you've been tagged on this before.

Give us a tena

There's a jolly gaggle of 'older' ladies who frequent the ladies' gym club I go to. One of them obviously lives near me as I see her regularly in Sainsbury's and 'down the town'. She's easy enough to spot as she wears great big sunglasses whatever the weather and always has a smile on her face.

The other day she burst into the 'stretching area' just as I was working on my quads, charged up to one of her cronies and blustered: "Guess what! The incontinence lecture is on my birthday!"

'What a great line!' I chortled to myself immediately wanting to share it with others (well, my mum found it amusing) and wondering how I could work it into a blog.

Hat's off to that lady, I say. There's no way I could be so carefree and public about slack bladder control. In fact there's no way that I would pay the £2 to attend the incontinence lecture. That would be admitting that I have a problem with my pelvic floor.

OK, so I can't go on the trampoline, run or go to my gym without a little protection, but it's only at certain times of the month and that's normal isn't it after having two kids?

In my more sanguine moments I do realise that I should have been more diligent about doing my pelvic floor exercises. In ante-natal classes the midwife suggested that we put red dots all over the house and whenever we saw a red dot, we should give it a quick squeeze. "Red dots!" I mocked, joshing merrily with the other mums. "Imagine explaining all those dots in your house to a guest!" But if I hadn't larked about and quipped about silly routines and bossy midwives, perhaps I wouldn't be paying the price now.

Every now and then, I get a bit worried and embark on a pelvic strengthening campaign, but I can never keep it up. Friends in the same boat are full of helpful suggestions. One told me to squeeze it in whenever I run water, another to do it whenever I'm at a set of traffic lights. I've had a go at all of these - plus trying to 'hold it in' mid-flow - but after a day or so, I forget again.

One day I will probably really regret my feebleness (in both senses of the word) and unless I find some full-proof routine which doesn't leave me feeling a complete nana I'm going to have to take out shares in the feminine hygiene industry.

I've got the wobbles

I have that feeling in my stomach tonight - a gurgling, writhing, fluttering, slightly slippery feeling. It's one of those gut-turning sensations; the result of a mixture of conflicting emotions - excitement, worry and vague dread . The cause? In a few hours my life is going to change and I don't really know how I feel about it or what it's going to be like.

Tomorrow I'm going to London. I'm going to re-register at the University as a returning postgraduate, coming back after 20 long years to try, once and for all, to complete my PhD.

Up to now, I've been looking forward to it, but now I feel in an ever-so-slight panic. Am I really ready for the work? The commitment? The inevitable stress and the toll that will take on my family? Suddenly I'm not so sure.

I've just been checking last minute arrangements; train timetables, emails, paperwork, checkbooks..but even so I feel thoroughly underprepared. My new supervisor - almost half my age I'm sure - has already suggested a raft of books I should be reading. But I haven't had the time, nor the opportunity, nor the access to the library.

I am only just realising the enormity of the task ahead of me. I've no idea just how it will all work out or how well I will slot it into my life, but one thing's for sure: it's going to be hard hard graft from now on. No more coasting, slacking, relaxing, or indulging.

But I have to do it. It's my last chance to finish this thing , so wish me luck, because (dramatic emphasis) at the moment I don't know whether or when I'll have a chance to post again.