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.

Misinformation

It's been a strange morning.

I was woken by the sound of the wind moaning down our chimneys. In my sleep-befuzzled state, I initially thought it was someone with a very deep voice talking downstairs. The alarm hadn't gone off yet, but I got up anyway.

As I pulled up the blinds downstairs, I saw an unexpected vision outside our window: a perfectly formed frog, looking for all the world like a shiny chocolate, frozen still on our concrete path. My son Max had woken too and we gazed at this miniature marvel for a while.

The wind was picking up and blowing sheets of rain across the garden in heavy gusts: Chloe was going to push me to drive her to school.

And of course I did - soft touch that I am. Traffic was heavier than normal on the school run - I assumed it was because of the rain - and there was the usual mini-flood at the bottom of our street. But as I neared the school it was clear something was really wrong. The traffic had slowed to a standstill and didn't look like it was moving up ahead. I tapped the steering wheel and muttered to Chloe: "What on earth is going on up there?"

I noticed a woman in a car on the opposite side of the road speaking to people in my traffic queue and several cars subsequently doing U-turns in the road. Clearly something had happened up ahead.

"A tree has blown down up there," she said when she got to my car. "The road's closed."

Huffing and puffing a little I struggled to U-turn, only to end up in a queue going back the way I'd come. I swear that the new jam I was in was actually moving slower than the old one.

Having finally reached the roundabout at the end and screeched aggressively in front of a car, I confidently followed road B - an alternative way to Chloe's school, but the traffic was dreadful there too. " A knock-on effect of the tree I expect" I said airily.

But as time ticked on I began to lose my cool; the inertia of the van in front was starting to get to me.

"COME ON!!" I yelled pointlessly. This was serious. Chloe was going to be late and I still had to get home in time to take Max and his friend to their school. "Oh for God's sake!" I exploded as we inched on, "this is like pulling teeth!"

Chloe laughed. "I'm sorry Mum, but your exasperation is really quite funny." I saw her point but didn't feel amused. In my head I thought "Stupid traffic! Bloody ridiculous! MOOOOVE!".

In the end I suggested she walk, it would definitely be quicker. She wasn't convinced and none to happy about it, but she did get out and I'm sure got to school on time. Meanwhile I managed to do another U-turn and got home to find Max agitating about being late.

The boys were excited by the thought of a tree falling down. "Maybe it fell on our school," said Max hopefully. "Cooooool," they both chimed.

We had to go down the same road as before, only this time the traffic jam was moving a bit more and had gone down a little, but just in case I parked the car a little further down the road and walked them in the rest of the way. We were just in time.

Walking back to the car, I looked up the road expecting to see some enormous felled oak blocking the road ...or at least some orange lights flashing. Instead I saw a tiny digger and a red and white barrier on the side. Bumping into a friend who lives up that way, I asked her where the tree was. "No tree," she said cheerfully, "just some temporary traffic lights."

What the..?? why did that woman..?? Oh. I see.

GRRRRRRRRRRR!!


Thanks to debio for two kind awards.

I pass the Blogging Star onto: Mother at Large and Daniele in London

I pass the Awesome Blogger award to: Keir Royale and Diary of a Housewife.

Fighting for right

My thoughts have been troubled of late. The past week I have been haunted by something I heard from my friend Vicky.

It was Tuesday, and I was driving us both to Rock Choir. I asked casually after a mutual friend of ours, not quite expecting to hear that she was in a terrible state because her brother-in-law had been killed last month. According to Vicky, his son had been involved in a fight outside his house; the brother-in-law had gone out to try to stop it and had become involved in what the police called 'an altercation'. It all ended when one of the men involved got into his 4wd and 'ran' the brother-in-law over, reversing back over him again for good measure. The scene was witnessed by the whole street, including his wife and son. The culprit has been arrested of course, but the worst part of it is: the son has been charged with ABH.

This story struck a nerve - not only because of the tragic nature of the events and the seeming pointlessness of the man's death - but because it touched a theme that keeps cropping up in my life lately. We all know that we should intervene if someone is being beaten or picked on, we all know we should stick up for ourselves, our property and our family, we all know we should help someone in distress. But how many of us dare do it?

I know I don't - I didn't stand up to ASBO Ange (see previous post) because I thought I would get clobbered by her; I didn't comment when I saw a woman beating her toddler, because I had my own child with me, I was scared and thought that the woman would only take it out on her kid later. I'm a wimp, and I am ashamed of it. But I'm not alone: a friend of mine who is a nurse, says she has to think carefully before helping someone on the street. She passed by a man having a heart attack the other day and didn't go to help - partly because someone was already calling an ambulance, but also because she knew she could be sued if her resuscitation techniques did not work. It's just not right .

There was a time when 'have-a-go' heroes were celebrated, promoted and applauded in films or stories and highlighted in the media. Now I feel it's gone too far the other way. How many times do we hear or read of people standing up to muggers, burglars, gangs, bullies and getting injured, killed or arrested for their troubles? And how many times do we hear of the stories of those who succeed and the baddie getting their come-uppance?

It's giving us all the wrong message for if none of us dare to do what is right, then what does that mean for society?

Camping neighbours from hell

"I must admit," I said smugly, while slowly unpacking the food, "we've always been very lucky with the campsites we've found." This had been the fourth site we'd tried that day and not only was there loads and loads of space, but in our opinon, it was the best one of the lot. We had pitched our tent in an almost empty field, far enough away from other campers, within earshot of a charming brook bubbling happily beside us, in full view of the mountains and - to the delight of my son - a stone's throw from a series of rope swings which had been strung up in a nearby copse.

It couldn't have been much better. That evening we walked along the local beach - a massive sandbank stretching as far as the horizon - watching the sun set behind Cricciech Castle and after a reasonably restful night, spent the following day glorying in the architectural and natural delights of Portmeirion village.

Planning to have a barbeque on the beach that night we rolled up to our tent in good spirits, only to find an encampment of five tents pitched in a circle, slap bang in front of ours and blocking our view of the hills. The shock no doubt registered visibly on my face. "Great!" I muttered through gritted teeth. Moments later a car drew up and two women came out carrying crates of beer and shouting loudly to a group of corpulent men splayed out on some chairs placed in the middle of their tent corral. One of the women then turned on a child - the only child in the group - a sweet looking girl of about five with blonde curly locks: "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!" she shrieked in the girl's face. "GIVE ME BACK MY POTS!"

We sighed gently to ourselves in a polite middle-class way - rolling our eyes and silently wondering what the hell we were in for that night. And as expected, by the time we came back from our barbeque on the beach, the 'party' was in full swing. As if to compensate for the noise, we got ready for bed especially quietly, piously whispering to one another and hoping to God that the noise would not go on too late.

10.30 pm: time for quiet according to camp rules. Conversation at the corral was loud and relentless. We learnt that the loudest woman (the one who had screamed at the child) was called Ange and her long-suffering husband was Ian. Ian worked in a factory and Ange - inexplicably - was in customer relations. With almost every sentence punctuated by what my kids refer to as the 'f word', they engaged in the most mind numbingly boring exchanges with their friends, mainly on the subject of food. How to cook and eat f-ing eggs, how Ange and the others like their f-ing bacon, how much one of them loved cheese, but how another had a less favourable view of it: "Cheese is what killed my father!"

Midnight. My daughter had to put in earplugs and the rest of us lay there listening to more of the same lacklustre conversation. "I CAN F-ING SIT BY THE POOL ALL DAY, I CAN," came Ange's dulcet tones. "Oh I can't," contributed another, "I'd get f-ing bored." Then Ange started to complain about the chair she was sitting in and how uncomfortable it was. This threatened to develop into a full scale row as Ian pointed out that she hadn't complained last year - "If you had," he reasoned,"we could have got another one!!" Ange countered by taking a different tack; "AND THE TENT BETTER NOT BE F-ING COLD! THAT HEATER BETTER F-ING WORK!" And we all prayed hard that it would.

Though there were many other characters in the party - Ange was the life and soul. If anyone else on the campsite came out of their tent, Ange would yell out "HOW DO?" almost daring them to answer, and if they said nothing she started swearing at them. "WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?!" she'd yell in self-righteous fury. "Careful Ange," said a quieter male voice on one such occasion, "You'll get us kicked out again." That set her off. "YOU'D ALL BE BORED IF I WEREN'T HERE! I'M THE ONE THAT KEEPS THE PARTY GOING, YOU ALL LOVE ME! YOU'D ALL BE F-ING BORED!!!" Clever-dick sarcastic responses danced silently over my lips as I shifted position once again to try to drown out her voice. My husband developed a passable technique to mute her out, but I couldn't get it. Instead I just hoped and hoped that she'd just f-ing go to f-ing bed.

2.30 am. The noise of more cans being opened, more coffee being offered around and more brandy with the coffee. At one point, one of the party told Ange to keep the noise down as people were complaining. "WHO COMPLAINED??" Ange yelled so that the entire campsite could hear. "WHO THE F DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?? WHY F-ING GO CAMPING IF YOU CAN'T TAKE A BIT OF NOISE?!! TELL THEM TO COME OVER HERE! F-ING C-S!!" Thankfully the others admitted that no-one had complained and they were winding her up.

3.00 am Ange sounded as if she was going to bed. But that was by no means the last of it. The tent wasn't f-ing warm enough of course and the f-ing bed was flat. "IAN!!! GET OVER HERE - THE F-ING BED IS F-ING FLAT!!" Sounds of a foot pump ensued followed by Ian trying desperately to mollify the outraged Ange. Then: "WHERE'S MY F-ING TOOTHBRUSH?? I DON'T F-ING BELIEVE IT!.....Oh, here it is." We listened as ASBO Ange (as we'd later call her) brushed her teeth and had a wee by our tent - her bum lit up by the torch of a cheeky member of her party: "F OFF!! - NO-ONE WANTS TO SEE MY BUM!!"

Too right Ange.

More complaints about the bed followed, more calls for Ian, more re-pumping of the bed. As Ian slunk off to have yet another beer, dearest Ange took exception. "OOOH STOP PRESS!" she shouted, "IAN WANTS ANOTHER BEER! IAN WANTS ANOTHER F-ING BEER. WHATEVER! F OFF BACK TO F-ING WREXHAM!" Oh if only they would.

Having badgered Ian into complete submission, he finally came to bed - probably around 4.00 am. Silence. Then moaning from Ange. As we lay there listening to Ange and Ian having noisy sex followed by Ange graphically describing how she was wiping her 'doo-dah', I really thought it couldn't get much worse, but that was before Ian started snoring. He had one of those snores that I just cannot get my head around. Periodically he would make a whoop and a snuffle at which point it would be quiet for a second and then Ange would scream at him to shut up.

6.00.am. Unbelievably Ange was up, shouting at everyone in sight letting all of us know that she hardly had any sleep thanks to the f-ing bed. "I don't know about you," my husband whispered, "but I'm not staying here another night." We debated whether to move to another part of the site or move site altogether - it was Bank Holiday weekend and we'd be lucky to get a space anywhere else. Luckily, our mind was soon to be made up for us. While I slowly packed up, my husband had gone to the office once it was open, asking if we could move to another pitch because it had been noisy last night. Unfortunately, the campsite owner came and told Ange that someone had complained BEFORE we'd had a chance to move.

As the barrage of abuse poured out of Ange's mouth, we looked studiously at the ground, slowly packing everything up as if butter wouldn't melt. Then as quickly as we could, we put it into the car and drove out of that campsite for good.

Once we had driven a good distance away we shouted: "WHO THE F DOES SHE THINK SHE IS?"

Unpacking and packing up

Earlier this week, I was half-listening to an interview on Radio 4 as I dozed in bed, gearing myself up for a visit to my mum later that day. I can't remember who was being interviewed or why, but I was struck by the fact that the interviewee - a woman - was talking about her relationship with her mother. Though she found her mum trying and annoying at times she said, she had made a decision a few years ago to make a concerted effort to have some fun and enjoyment when she was with her, so that in later years she would have some good memories to look back on.

While appreciating the laudable altruism of this woman, even in my somnolent state I knew that I wouldn't be able to (or perhaps didn't want to) focus on the good times with my mum - though in truth, there are plenty to choose from. For, as my good friend Vicky so perceptively commented later that morning while discussing this very issue; perhaps I thrive on being annoyed with my mum.

Perhaps I do. The four days (three nights!) I spent with her, found me in an almost permanent state of wariness, irritation, resentment and teenage-style surliness as I deliberately evaded her usual attempts to elicit praise, admiration, appreciation and thanks. Just as I was due to pack up and come home after my stay, we had one of our 'chats' during which - instead of pandering to her emotions like I used to do - I criticised the 'poor little me' attitude that she carries with her wherever she goes and for the first time ever tried to make her see how - thanks to her own neediness - I had been saddled with the burden and pressure of being her only emotional prop when I was in my teens.

She was hurt and upset of course, but I didn't feel sorry, I was too angry at her for that. Stuck in traffic on the way home, I started to unpack some of my feelings about her. Like all mother-daughter relationships, ours is a complex one, the details of which I must leave until later; but the main thing I realised on that tiresome journey home, was that my mid-life anger had still not fully abated yet and most of it was now directed at my mum.

Once back home, I felt a little guilty, remembering how old she had looked and the effort she had made to try to treat me and the children. But as always, we made our apologies and we are 'friends' again for the moment.

Any more thoughts on this will have to wait as I will be off camping and therefore sans internet for a whole two weeks as of tomorrow. So for now, thankfully, my sole focus will have to be air-beds, foot pumps, portable kettles, tinned food and most importantly of all, wine boxes.