Game Girls go looking for Big Game

Tomorrow, child 4 and I set off to Kenya for a week's safari with my mother. This is one in a long line of grandmother/grandchild holidays which have been running in our family for the last ten years. It will be a great adventure and one which, I hope, the smallest one will always remember - not just because Kenya will be an amazing, mind-blowing experience, but because grannies are precious and one-to-one time with them on a trip like this is something really to be treasured.

These multi-generations holidays that we go on are always an adventure. It's clearly not enough for my 82 year old mother to sit on a beach for a week - no, we have to go up the Nile and visit the Valley of the Kings (very glad we're not doing this in the current climate in Egypt!), explore the souks of Marrakech, go on a lightning tour of New York City and so on. This will be our second safari in Kenya (for my mother and me) and last time we took number 2 daughter. I can still remember the realisation that, in our camp in the Masai Mara, we were the ones who were guarded and enclosed - not the animals. It was an incredible and memorable trip and when my mother suggested doing it again, I thought, nine years on, she might think better of it. It does, of course, involve a lot of hopping into and out of jeeps and getting up at 5.00am to go on game drives and is therefore physically quite demanding. But no, she is a game girl and off we go again!

We do get some interesting comments when we are on these trips. Other travellers seem amazed that we can go off to places and all get along well. Of course, we all have our moments, but generally we entertain each other pretty well - and everyone else along the way. Occasionally, mum will decide that she needs some down-time and leaves us to head off camel-riding, shopping, ice cream hunting etc on our own, and usually, by the time we get back, she has struck up a friendship with another group and we can hear their laughter as we walk back in.

While we are away, we are leaving the men of the household to fend for themselves. Both excellent cooks, child 3's major concern was that he might weigh 22 stone by the time we get back due to the enormous amounts of fattening foods which will be on offer next week. My major concerns are, in no particular order, no-one will feed/walk the dogs/cat, wash-up, wash clothes and remember to check my work emails. But I expect we'll all survive the experience and we'll all be better for it.

On a Journey to Tick the Boxes...

The twins are sitting an English module for GCSE next week on creative writing. One of the topics is 'Don't get me started on...' which is an invitation to a rant. One of my self-imposed blogging rules is never to rant. I suspect that most of my rants may be entirely peculiar to me and therefore not something that anyone else would interested in. My family get my rants (and have a fair few of their own) but this is not the place. 

However one of my micro-rants, if one was allowed such a thing, is the way that language seems to get hi-jacked by reality television. All through the autumn, X Factor and Strictly contestants harped on about their 'journey'. Do they even know they are using a metaphor? And, frankly, if they use that expression, I would like them to be on a journey  - home! So having admitted to my taste for low-brow television, I must admit to my guilty pleasure of watching Escape to the Country where the most frequently-used expression is 'tick the boxes'. 

What makes this programme the perfect accompaniment to doing the ironing is the strange ideas that people have about life in the country. It would appear that their chintzy ideas are based largely on regular doses of programmes like Heartbeat, The Archers (well, as an addict I can't argue with that) and possibly Lark Rise to Candleford (or as my son used to call it, the Post Office). This week we were treated to Aled Jones taking a couple of ladies round houses in North Yorkshire. First, Aled, dear boy thinks he's Peter Pan (all the charm of a twelve year old when his development may have been arrested, height-wise anyway), decided to conduct the entire programme with what he thought was a Yorkshire accent. Because obviously we all refer to women as 'lasses' and so on...! Then one of the ladies said she wanted to be involved with the village hall - in what capacity, letting it, hiring it, cleaning it - who knows? And so it goes on, people with rose-tinted glasses who think the countryside is all about views, cosy kitchens and growing your own veg. 

I've lived in the country nearly all my life as has my husband. Village life is something special and something we've learnt over time to appreciate. We live some way out of a village, down the most anti-socially pothole-ridden track, so we don't get many casual callers and, indeed, we like to batten down the hatches now and again and be on our own. But the four square corners of our village community are probably, in no particular order, the school, the pub, the cricket and the church. Involvement in one or more means that you get to know most people of a sociable nature and generally become a part of the community. And the community here really is something special. 

Occasionally people move to the village on roughly the same basis as the hapless punters on Escape to the Country. They fall for the house, like the idea of the village shop, love the views, fresh air etc and then... are quite surprised, and occasionally affronted, when people knock on their doors offering teenagers to babysit, invite them to church events, talk to them without introduction in the pub and so on.

If you think you're escaping to the country for a quiet life, think again. The countryside is not just about box-ticking or being on a journey (personal or otherwise), it's about knowing and looking out for your neighbours, doing your bit and joining in and as a quieter option - forget it!

Brave and Brilliant!

We have just returned from a really wonderful weekend in the Lake District - absolutely just the tonic for the January blues. 'Just the tonic' for all sorts of reasons but perhaps mostly because we have been to bear witness to our friends' brave and brilliant change of lifestyle.

David and Manda have been our friends for over 20 years. Living nearby and bringing up their family of three who are similar ages to our older girls, we have been close chums for a long time, so, imagine our surprise when they announced last year that they were heading up to the Lake District to run a B&B and change their lives. We worried for them that they would be lonely away from their busy social lives around here and that Manda, who was giving up her well-paid job, would miss her steady income. Oh, and we teased them relentlessly about being the new Basil and Sybil of Fawlty Towers.

We arrived at their new home/business on Friday night, twins in tow, in the dark and were immediately bowled over by the lovely welcoming atmosphere of Low Graythwaite Hall.  Manda is a terrific homemaker and her light touch was everywhere. I had forgotten how stunningly beautiful the Lake District is and the following morning when we woke up (me ridiculously early because I couldn't wait to see the lovely countryside) it was a clear, crisp, sunny day with frost dusting the topiary outside my bedroom window.

We walked (and climbed some very steep hills!) and talked all weekend, drank too much wine, ate too, too well and sadly watched Andy Murray bite the dust (or rather the tarmac) in sunny Melbourne. Even that didn't dampen my spirits - and I kept my usual level of shouting at the television at such times down to an acceptable level (because there were proper B&B guests in the room directly above). It was all brilliant.

It made me wonder... could we ever do something so brave? I don't know but it certainly gave me food for thought. It also reminded me of the wonderful writer, Derek Tangye who is sadly no longer with us. Derek was a Fleet Street journalist and his wife Jeannie was the public relations officer for the Savoy Hotel. They gave it all up to farm daffodils in Cornwall in the 1960s and Derek wrote some beautiful books about their experiences there. Though I haven't read them for many years, I still remember the wonderful sense of peace in a busy world that they gave me and I felt that same peace in the Lakes.

So, I've made it to the end of January (my worst month), I'm feeling better than I've felt for weeks, thanks to my Lake District jaunt and now all I have to face is ... oh, no, another birthday!

'I'll get by with a little help from my friends'

I am determined to beat the winter blues. Each year, I make it to Christmas in reasonably good fettle and then, come January I slip into the slough of despond. Reasons for this come in spades - lack of sunlight (yes, the whole SAD thing, I suspect, is real), post-Christmas blues, the shortly upcoming birthday (how can I be this old?!), and the long, long haul to spring. But this year, I will not be downcast - and if I keep saying this enough, maybe it will work!

So, to beat the blues, I am cleaning the house (ok that's a bit sad), taking the dogs for a walk/run whenever it isn't precipitating in some manner, buying and cultivating as many indoor bulbs as possible, planning some nice treats and really, really appreciating my friends.

After my Damascus moment, courtesy of my son, when I realised I had been an old bag for most of 2010, I had a phone call from one of my closest pals who recently moved to the Lake District. She told me that I was a useless friend because I never ring her. I hate the phone. I have never got the 'I love to chat to my friends on the phone in the evening' thing because, to me, the phone is work. My great chum, who uses the expression 'friend to friend, enemy to enemy' before she delivers the killer blow (probably so you know it is coming!) told me to get over myself and whilst I am still not about to adopt the phone as my favoured means of catching up with my chums, I am making a big effort to keep in touch with those I love but don't always see.

When you all have children of the same age, there's a lot of socialising at the school gate that goes on unplanned and, as your children get older, change schools, go on the bus, go to university and finally flit the nest, you lose touch and then it becomes an effort to keep the contact going. Having had two rounds of children (like sandwiches but less digestible), we have friends whose children are in their twenties - daughters one and two - and young friends (to us!) who have teenage children - twins numbered three and four. It's easy to catch up with the latter set because they are doing the same round of school, cricket, tennis, parties etc that we are. The harder part is organising time with the first ones who have probably moved on from all of that and can go on weekends away and midweek nights out without worrying whether homework is being done in their absence. Some of these were friends of the time and perhaps force of circumstances made us spend more time with them than affection and mutual interests would otherwise dictate. Others are real treasures and very important in our lives and I know that we must not let these friendships drift away from lack of communication. And it takes both sides to make it work.

So my plan for beating the annual slide into the dark slurry of January is to phone/text/email and best of all, call in to see my dearest friends because their friendship is what will sustain me till spring comes.

Christmas Rappings

Firstly, sorry about the pun above - this is a perennial joke in our house usually followed by me pulling my trousers down to an unseemly teenager level and doing some very bad impressions of the dads in Three Men and a Baby. However, on to the more serious stuff...

My son taught me a lesson the other day. He doesn't know this (and unless he reads this, is unlikely to find out) but on Saturday morning he was asked to play golf with his friends. He is a keen golfer and for Christmas, he is getting a new (well, new to him) set of Calloway irons. But on Saturday morning it was, surprise, surprise, very cold and he looked out of the window and said he didn't fancy it. There then followed a conversation between mother and son along the lines of how his friends weren't worried about freezing on the golf course and what was the point of large amounts of money being spent on new irons (which he can't use until after Christmas as they are wrapped) if he didn't go and practise. There was a shrug of the shoulders and he disappeared upstairs, re-appearing moments later in his check (a la Ian Poulter but not as loud) golf trousers and the rest of the ensemble, ready to go. I heard him leave the house, chatting to his friend's dad who picked him up, sounding full of excitement and looking forward to playing eighteen holes. He went with a good heart.

It strikes me that in 2010, I have done a lot of stuff but not always with a good heart. 'Doing it, not digging it.' It's been a really busy year in terms of work, and in terms of the charity I am involved with (and no, I still haven't updated the website but I'll get there). Added to that, I've had two/three children at home and a very exciting, though up and down year with the fourth, a lodger and a whole host of other stuff including school governorship etc. However, this is no excuse. I like being busy, it's part of what I am. So unless I re-prioritise what I want to do with my life (the twilight years that remain!) I need to consider not just what I do, but the manner in which I do it. I need to live my life with a good heart.

Yesterday I rang one of my dear friends who had definitely borne the brunt of the great grumpiness, particularly of the last few months, and apologised for being an old bag. She laughed, agreed that I had been grumpy and met me yesterday with a lovely poinsettia and a smile and a hug. I feel better already. I have also apologised to the one who really does get the worst of my moods but he wisely said I had not been any grumpier than usual! (I am still working out how to interpret that...)

So if you have been the unlucky recipient of some of my less endearing moments in 2010, please accept this as an apology and feel free to remind me in 2011 that I have decided not to be a rat bag in future.

Have a lovely Christmas, dear reader, and a wonderful, healthy and happy New Year.

PS I realise this sounds like a New Year's Resolution and I suppose it is, though of an early variety. I am hopeless at keeping New Year's Resolutions, but I made one in 2008 which I still keep (the only successful resolution amongst many over the years) and that is to give blood, which I do on a regular basis and did yesterday. This is not to sound smug but if you can, please do.

Winter Revisited!

Last January, my beloved went to Las Vegas on business...why am I already imagining the quizzically raised eyebrow of my reader?... anyway he did. He drove to Heathrow Airport with oldest child (on way to Dublin where she was working at the time) in the only 4x4 vehicle possessed by the family. That was the first day of what we describe as 'The Terrible Snow'. Obviously he couldn't get to Heathrow through the prevailing weather conditions without the 4x4 so he left me at home with my lovely mini and middle daughter's yaris.

Day two of TTS was spent with our delightful and hilarious next door neighbour (he of the enormous aircraft hanger-type barn construction, dear reader) who kindly towed the mini up our lane with his tractor so that I could drive it to our local and leave it in the car park there - thus confirming to the rest of the village that I am, indeed, continually in the pub and therefore have a drink problem. Practical and useful boyfriend of daughter 2 and I drove, pushed and generally cajoled the yaris to the pub as well - cue for more speculation about full scale drink problem chez moi.

Thereafter, children 3 and 4 were walked the mile through thick snow morning and evening to the school bus which stops on the village green together with trips to the supermarket by car which were followed by mile-long walks back down carrying heavy bags of essential grub (note to self: do not buy potatoes when you have to carry them a long way - pasta and rice are lighter!)

Finally, after some ten days of this activity during which the lane changed from snow to sheet ice, proving equally difficult to drive on, the weather conditions finally improved. This blessed event was, of course, neatly combined with the equally popular return of the man of the house. Words like: 'Well, it doesn't look too bad to me' and 'Are you sure you couldn't get the cars up the hill?' went down like, well, a lead balloon and resulted in major hostilities.

Imagine therefore, my joy yesterday when, having driven back from Twickenham (remind me to have a word with those boys about waiting for the word 'engage' after the words 'touch' and 'pause') and later collecting my man from a snowdrift where his van was stuck about 5 miles away, he announced he was driving to London today and needed the 4x4 for the whole week! As ever, he kindly managed to get my mini up the lane and lodge it in the pub car park. I could sense he felt he had done his vehicular duty and all that remained was for me to walk the mile to the pub through the snow every day as I had done last January until he returned.

However, I pointed out that I would be happy to help him dig the van out of the snowdrift (slight artistic licence here - it was only about eight inches deep) this morning, load a dozen or so tellies plus associated bits of kit into the van so he could take that to London. And yes, dear reader, I did!

So whilst the Stout One is driving to London in the slightly less luxurious van this afternoon, I can see the 4x4 from my office window and I WILL be driving it for the rest of the week - hurray!

Men in Hats - Yes Please!

When I am sitting at my desk, I have a photograph of my lovely late Dad in my eyeline. His presence often makes me consider what he would think of this strange world we live in now - when he died, computers were still the size of houses and mobile phones were larger than bricks! But it also makes me think of how life was when he was 'in his pomp' and, today, the significance of hats.

When I was a schoolgirl, my father regularly worked in London as well as in Coventry and Leamington where his offices were. I could always tell when he was going to London as he would be wearing a bowler hat. Indeed, my father had a range of hats - each of which had its own particular occasion for wearing. He wore a trilby (greeny-brown) for normal working days which he would take off immediately on entering any kind of building - home, office etc. He had the black bowler for London days - very smart. Recently Genevieve (oldest child) wore one in the television serial she appeared in and it so reminded me of Dad. 'Girls in bowlers - never!'

He also wore a flat cap for all sporting occasions: rugby - which we all went to with Dad, point-to-points, racing etc although, thinking about this, he might have put the trilby on for anything horsey. (Dad never actually went anywhere near any kind of horse, including my pony, ever. 'Kick at one end and bite at the other!') And, of course, he had his own top hat which we now have. This was for weddings, with morning suit, and Royal Ascot. Since finding a home with us, I fear that the top hat has made two appearances in Oliver on the head of the Artful Dodger - possibly not a suitable end to the career of a fine hat.

How sad that hats are not worn so frequently now. I love that JK in Jamiroquai - the Cat in the Hat - always wears one though what my dear Dad would have thought of him wearing it inside, I don't know. However, he probably would have liked the fact that my lovely husband is particularly fond of hats and purchased a turban only yesterday! He has a whole range of dressing up hats (the dressing up thing is one of his particular interests - and not in a pervy way, really) and is very fond of his Jamaican woolly hat complete with dreadlocks. In fact, when he was presented with it by the aforementioned daughter Number 1, he immediately suggested he wore it to the pub! Why not, he went to the pub dressed in a toga and laurel wreath the week before! (I pointed out that we were going to a Roman Orgy, not just the pub!)

Anyway, bring back hats for men I say! No fear of helmet head for them - always a problem for us girls. I love a man in a good hat - any takers?