A change of status.

It's not often that I become something else. Changing what you are for the rest of your life makes you feel as if the world has shifted ever so slightly on its axis. And yet, that is exactly where I find myself. My capacity for loving my family had achieved the max ... or so I thought... And then along comes a new person who, despite only weighing 7 and a half pounds, not a walker or a talker yet - not even a smiler, in fact - and he changes everything.

When number 1 asked a few months ago if she and her husband could move into the barn (not a baby Jesus scenario - it is converted into a dwelling of sorts) so that their baby could be born in God's own country rather than in the smelly old metropolis, we could scarcely believe our luck. Not entirely true - I could scarcely believe my luck and my beloved agreed grudgingly to give up his man cave. Clearing, disposing and cleaning has been the order of the day for the last few months and since we have been, for more years than I care to think, a depository for other family members' - living and dead - clutter, this cathartic cleansing has been definitely a good thing.

On arrival, number 1's nesting instinct was at full throttle. Not only was the downstairs of the barn turned into a lovely sitting area as it had always been intended before my beloved's hoarding instinct and our fellow family members' desire to dump their 'I-might-need-it-one-day' stuff on us took over but she felt the need to clear out all sorts of cupboards in the house as well. And 'borrow' various bits of furniture that would 'go' in the barn. There was a sort of tidal swapping of furniture and general clobber between the barn and my office and the good stuff was definitely heading out of the front door and across the yard, whilst the other was heading into my office to be stored, sold, given away, taken to the tip and so on.

Meanwhile, arrangements for the birth of a very small person in Yorkshire rather than London involved registering with doctors, midwives, hospitals and so on. For the second time, I accompanied number 1 to see the midwife (I'd already done this in London) and sat aghast at how times had changed since numbers 3 and 4 had made their appearance. There were definitely moments when I wondered how my four survived their whole childhood and how different was the advice given to prospective parents now. No matter. My role is to do as I'm told and only proffer advice when actually asked for it. (Very difficult to achieve as it turns out).

We scarcely made it back from our holiday in Cyprus and Turkey before things started kicking off. Week 39 and the midwife told number 1 lots of encouraging things about her state of health and concurred that she could train it down to London the following day for an audition. I'm gobsmacked but there's no stopping her. Shall I come with you? No. I'll pay for an Uber so you don't have to get the tube. More no.

But when she didn't feel quite right on the return journey from London, it was straight to Harrogate Hospital for a few checks. Meanwhile, we went to the pub with Four Candles and Boadicea only to discover we'd picked a pub with no mobile phone signal. As we headed home several hours later, we were bombarded with messages to ring now, come home NOW etc etc. The drama had begun...

Well nature took its course in its own sweet time meaning that labour took Friday night, all day Saturday during which I made jars and jars of redcurrant jelly to distract myself from the thought of my child in pain and then Saturday night. Having the self control not to phone and text hourly whilst all this was going on was nearly too much for me. Sunday morning dawned and we'd heard nothing. I went to church to see if God could get things going any quicker to discover that whilst I had been out, my grandson had finally made an appearance.

I'm not going to cry when I go to hospital. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. I did. Multiple times. But I make no apology. If you're going to cry about something, isn't this absolutely the best reason in the world? I'm a granny!

Snakes, hostile crossings and a little knowledge is a dangerous thing!

This year's summer holiday for my beloved and me has taken the form of a two-centre (look at me! travel trade lingo!) event starting with a visit to lovely friends Nigel and Sarah in Cyprus. This is my second trip to their beautiful home but the first for my beloved. We were made very welcome by our lovely hosts and we enjoyed a few days of relaxing, catching up, eating, drinking, tennis with the Nomads and ...snakes. 

My children will confirm that I am not keen on reptiles generally. I can handle (though not literally) a small gekko, but anything bigger - and particularly one without actual feet - is a scary prospect. Indeed, when I used to take the children to Regents Park Zoo, I would wait outside while they went in the reptile house. No, reptiles are not for me. 

I know from my previous visits to Cyprus that there are snakes of the poisonous and non-poisonous varieties but until this occasion, I hadn't actually come nose to nose with one. On a walk through the forest, with two sturdy men with sticks, Sarah and I encountered my first black snake, whisking rapidly off the path and into the undergrowth before we got too near. We grabbed each other, shrieked, and looked for support but naturally the sturdy men with sticks were at least 50 yards behind and of no conceivable use. Unscathed but more nervous than before, my beloved and I were then told about the snakes in the pump room UNDER THE HOUSE!!! "We think they're breeding so we don't want to disturb them." Me: "How many babies do they have?" "Over a hundred." Eek! 

Then we actually saw the snaky couple - one about six foot, the daddy nearer eight, attempting to climb up the wall of the house! Now I'm checking under the bed, locking the bedroom door and going nowhere near the ssssnake - sorry - pump room. What may have saved my bacon was the arrival of a big digger in the garden bringing two huge ancient wine jars as garden ornaments. I can only assume that the vibration of the heavy machinery scared the snakes off because we didn't see them or any of their potentially huge family again - phew!  

Our other adventure was accidental gate-crashing. In the spirit of 'go large or go home!' we decided we would go for drinks at the beautiful 5*  Anassa Hotel which is seriously high-end (millionaire  Philip Green had his 50th birthday party there with a gang of supermodels and celebrities). We were warmly greeted by staff in the car park, taken by golf buggy to the front entrance and we made our way through the elegant marble foyer to the terrace. We were offered champagne cocktails which initially we refused but the waiting staff were so persistent that we felt it would be rude to say no. We sat admiring the view, drinking cocktails and politely refusing canapés when we became aware that we were receiving less than friendly glares from a smartly-dressed gentleman who appeared to be hosting a big group. Finishing our drinks, we got up to leave but were detained by a professional photographer who insisted on taking our picture and then kindly took some more on our phones. It was only when we made out way back into the hotel that we glanced behind us to see that we had joined in a private cocktail party. Oh dear! Fun though! 

Our few days with Nigel and Sarah came to an end but the bit of the holiday that I was nervous about (before I knew about the snakes, obviously)  was just beginning. Bit of background required here: Back in the 1970s there was a civil war in Cyprus between the Greek Cypriots (now living in the country we know as Cyprus) and the Turkish Cypriots, resulting in a division of the country which runs through the capital, Nicosia. The hostilities are still so keenly felt by both the Greek and Turkish Cypriots that the border was only opened to Cypriots in 2003, some thirty years after the war. Parts of Turkish Cyprus are still no-go areas, most notably Famagusta which had been regarded as one of the most beautiful beach resorts in the world. Travel between Cyprus and mainland Turkey for the most part does not exist and no airport in Cyprus flies to mainland Turkey. 

So how to get from Cyprus to Kalkan in Turkey? Our lovely hosts offered to drive us across the border in Nicosia to Ercan Airport in Turkish Cyprus from whence we could fly to Antalya in mainland Turkey and drive to Kalkan. We queued at the border in Nicosia watched over by gun-toting Greeks and then gun-toting Turks having driven through the UN peace-keeping zone between the two countries. I know some people do this every day, but for me, it was nerve-wracking. Particularly when they took our passports and Nigel had to go back and get them a few minutes later. 

Our impression of Turkish Cyprus? We were only on the (almost empty) main road to the airport but there is lots of new build, flash car showrooms, impressive university buildings, big statement Turkish flags but precious few people. Our hosts were going on to Kyrenia for the weekend so they will have a better understanding. 

Saying goodbye to our lovely friends, we headed into the airport and all went swimmingly until we went through passport control. I am one of those people who seldom has the appropriate riposte at the right moment and I often wake up in the middle of the night thinking of what I should have said but wasn't quick-witted enough at the time. For once, I managed to avoid dropping myself in it... "Which airport did you fly into?" the uniformed customs official asked, examining my passport. Clearly the answer to this question was not Paphos! "We're flying to Antalya," I answered guilelessly. He stared hard at me - we are so obviously tourists and this is not a tourist route. Eventually - long pause - he said "No matter," and handed me back my passport. Phew! 

So we flew from Ercan to Antalya in a packed plane of Turkish people and one cat, endured the usual car hire shenanigans and managed to get so spectacularly lost in Antalya that we finished up on the hairpin bends of the coast road at two o'clock in the morning. But we made it to number 2 and J Stocko's pad in Kalkan and perhaps we won't try that route again. 

And finally... A little knowledge is a dangerous thing... I have an app on my phone called Find My Friends. It should actually be renamed Find My Children. I use it to track offspring primarily so I know they're safe. I know, I know, I'm a mum, I can't help it. So I was checking whether number 4 was working a night shift at the hospital in London where she is a nurse the other evening about 10.20pm Turkey time. She was, and so whilst I was on the app I checked number 2 who was also still at work. Number 3 won't engage in this - he calls it stalking. Hmmm... But number 1 appeared to be at Harrogate Hospital. And she's 37 weeks pregnant!!!!!! Panic! I ring my son-in-law. "You're at the Hospital!!!! What's going on?????" "It's a secret" he says conspiratorially before telling me that it's only 8.20 in the UK and they are at ante-natal class. I could hear them giggling from 2,000 miles away. I am a fool.  

A change is as good as a ...?

I like change. And I like routine. And the combination of the two is what makes life interesting - the comfort and safety of a schedule of habits and familiar moves broken by unexpected bends in the road. But too much of either can be not necessarily a good thing. Too much routine and life becomes dull and uneventful and the appreciation of the small things in life fades with the tedium. Too much change and stress levels rise and I long for the peaceful repetition of remembered things.

And change has been the order of the day in spades recently - some very good and some definitely less so.

The intrepid granny, known for her adventurous holidays, sporting passions (playing and watching) and her love of gin, decided to move house ... after 52 years. Yes, 52 years ago, she bunked me off school - Lord knows what important skills I may have missed on that day - brain surgery perhaps? - and she and I moved from the great Victorian pile in Leamington Spa to a slightly smaller house with a big garden and a paddock for my pony just outside a village near Warwick. Scroll on through time and my brother and I grew up and left home, my father sadly passed away and the intrepid granny continued to live there alone for nearly thirty years. We encouraged her to move in vain - to God's own country or at least to somewhere in a town - but she was having none of it. And then last year, when we had long given up, she calmly bought a house off-plan in Warwick and put the family home up for sale. 

It's taken a year to build her super doopah new home and just as long to clear out 52 years of clutter. Yes, some of the clutter was lovely and full of memories but lots of it hadn't seen the light of day since I left home over 40 years ago. But finally moving week came and I headed to the Midlands to be Mr Shifter. https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=mr+shifter&&view=detail&mid=623F64BBD5B1FA4D0506623F64BBD5B1FA4D0506&&FORM=VRDGAR

Full of dread that she wouldn't like it (she'd been to look a few weeks prior to moving day and at that point, she definitely didn't!), that she'd hate moving out of her home of so many years, that all manner of moving elements would go wrong, and so on... so this had not been something to anticipate with pleasure. And then, blow me down, none of those things happened and it all went well and she loves her new home and every time we speak (every day!) her voice is so full of excitement for each new day in her new home. Result! 

And through it all, my little dog came too. And when we returned to Yorkshire on the Friday night, she was happy to be home for what turned out to be her last days. On our Sunday morning walk, she died sadly and unexpectedly and now she is buried in the garden with the other late family dogs, Henry and Mollie. Each morning I miss her wagging tail, her insistence on a walk (apart from when raining), her delight at her daily chew, her total refusal to ever get her feet wet, her greeting at the garden gate. RIP Bobbie. Top dog and friend. 

And the biggest change of all is the arrival of number one child, great with child as they say in Biblical circles, and her lovely husband. They have made a home in our barn conversion and are now nesting like mad prior to the arrival of the most important baby in my world since the twins arrived 22 years ago. Number one looks absolutely blooming and this baby will bring so much joy to us all. Happy change!