The Rocky Road Rollercoaster

Guest blog from number 1 daughter which goes to prove two things: firstly, 
that she is a much better writer than me, and secondly, that I may not be 
having the best fun in the world but she certainly is! Love it! 

After six weeks of cetacean stranding in the sun, rubbing well-oiled and rotund 

bellies with Machiavellian glee whilst our brain cells dehydrated one by one, I 

woke up by the pool one day and could not remember my name. It was time to 

go.

(Our time in Phuket was not quite like this, more on this in the next blog).

Armed with a backpack and a rucksack (no points for figuring out who carried 

what), we flew domestic with Air Asia from Phuket to Chiang Mai, taking all 

aviation tips learnt during the Christmas break - resisting texting our families 

"Goodbye forever" or asking for a plate with our nuts.

Too soon? Sorry.

When we arrived in Chiang Mai, we flagged down a tuk-tuk for 200 baht. This 

was Alex's virgin ride with a tuk-tuk which required him to pull roller-coaster 

selfies and inspect the mechanics of our vehicle at length - largely in our mate 

Tully's honour. Surprisingly, this was the smoothest and best behaved ride I 

have taken on a tuk-tuk which leaves me feeling uneasy about our trip to India 

in the coming months.

Bypassing the centre of town we arrived on the outskirts of Chiang Mai at the 

Swiss-Lanna lodge - a wooden chalet building owned by yes, a Swedish-Thai 

couple. Our room consisted of two single beds, at opposite ends of a long room 

so we opted to communicate via buddy sign language developed during our 

Open Water diving course in Phuket. Mature.

Hiring a hot pink motorbike and wearing matching helmets (there was no 

alternative), we rode into the centre and lunched on enchiladas at the Cat Cafe, 

which had no feline decor, no pets and the chicken tasted decidedly of, well 

chicken. We then took a walk within the old walls of the city. It has been 7 years 

since I last stepped foot in Chiang Mai (with the previous boyfriend) and it feels 

larger and more modern than I remember. Whilst the green leafy streets (or 

sois) remain narrow and guesthouses and bookshops nestle together, small 

modern coffee shops and art galleries now pop up on each corner. Traffic has 

become much more four-wheeled and I got turned away for a second time from 

the largest Wat in the city - for wearing shorts. After a brief stop for some supper,

 we retired to bed early - the room thankfully too dark for us to resume our 

communication.

Saving much of Chiang Mai and its sights until our next visit, we got into a 

minibus provided by 'Travel Hub' the next day which was jam packed with 

Chinese tourists. They have an unfortunate reputation for being as loud as a 

foghorn and this was only proven right for our eight hour trip to Chiang Kong 

which rests on the Thai-Laos border. We stopped several times on this trip, 

once at the 'Full-House Guesthouse' which sat precisely half-way between 

Chiang Mai and Chiang Rai in the middle of nowhere. Here was an orange PVC 

swimming pool and shocking pink bungalows, surrounded by farmers working on 

paddy fields. Its name was somewhat inaccurate, given that we saw nobody else 

excepting the tourists that decamped from the minibus to buy snacks before we 

jumped back in to continue our journey.

Our next stop found us outside a glistening white palace, 'Wat Rong Khun', 

where one could walk over the 'Bridge of Rebirth' up to the 'Gates of Heaven' 

and a temple interior which has murals depicting the Terminator, Freddy Kruger,

 Michael Jackson enflamed in orange amongst other devil faces. Other images 

there were Harry Potter and Hello Kitty, which added to the whole confusion 

somewhat.

The border crossing was thankfully relatively pain free and we were happy to see 

the majority of tourists leave at this point, choosing to stay overnight in Chiang 

Kong before crossing the border in the morning. The reason for this is that the 

most popular route to Luang Prabang is a two day, one night slow boat, which we 

agonised over doing and eventually rejected - in part due to a horror story in a 

blog I found online. Once in Huay Xai in Laos, we climbed into a large VIP bus 

shared by only six Lao passengers and travelled to Luang Nam Tha - our first 

destination in Laos. Using a torch, I read my book whilst Alex muttered in Lao to 

the karaoke television under his breath.

The road winded through the Luang Nam Ha NPA (national park) smoothly and 

after four hours we arrived in dark in what looked like a deserted town. Only 

eight degrees and wearing shorts and t-shirts, we huddled into the nearest 

guesthouse and booked the last room available - the double VIP suite for 

100,000 kip (around 9 pounds). We then took our starved selves into the only 

open restaurant at this hour, a garish flashing fastfood diner and listened to, 

bizarrely, Eiffel 65 "I'm blue, da ba di, da ba die" on repeat whilst munching on 

noodles and pizza.

Luang Nam Tha is certainly what one would call "off the beaten path" as we 

discovered in the morning - a sleepy town with one main street surrounded by 

the mountainous forests of the national park. Mists swirl in the morning and 

evening and rise to a blazing heat and blue skies at around noon. Ramshackle 

corrugated iron garages sit next to cement block houses and wooden shacks 

with thin strips of bamboo covering the exterior walls. We hired mountain bikes 

and rode up the hills past a wat overlooking the town, nodding to orange-robed 

monks and passing tiny villages and construction sites before reaching another 

wat - and climbing 175 steps to the top. A narrow track to the left took us past 

the airport strip and to the Boat Landing Guesthouse where we feasted on 

Kaeng Sen Lon (soup) and a noodle dish Mee Haeng.

The afternoon found us on the tiniest and bumpiest of tracks I have had the 

fortune to ride on, past acres of fields with huts on stalks provided for shade. 

The few locals we passed stared unapologetically, but all with a smile and 

the greeting "Sa Ba Dee" - hello. I caused a traffic jam by refusing adamantly 

to ride over a precarious bridge crossing made of only nine thin rows of 

bamboo and where gaps showed a rushing river below. This was only made 

worse by two motorcycles following behind me making the bridge more 

concave than convex. By the time we reached the sadly unremarkable Bam 

Nam Dee waterfall, after over 30 kilometres of cycling, our buttocks were on 

fire which could be observed by the wider strides we took for several days 

after.

Tourists here are unmistakably older than usual, retired couples and nomadic 

gangs whom all - and I mean all - have dreadlocks and those disgusting baggy 

pants with elephants on them. We steered clear of them by taking a kayaking 

trip down the Nam Ha river the next day. Dining on a breakfast at our new 

guesthouse - Zuela, scrambled egg with tomato and onion and the lightest hot 

baguettes I have ever had the fortune to eat, we bundled up warm and walked 

along the main street to "Jungle Eco-Tour Adventures", paying 280, 000 kip for 

the day's experience.

Kong, our guide was like us - 29 years old, spoke pretty good English and bore 

no likeness to the famous primate. Around 5"3 tall, bundled up in a black puffa 

jacket, football shorts and a Liverpool FC baseball cap, him and Alex could have 

been brothers from another. He also has 9 siblings which apparently is 

unremarkable.

We jumped into an open backed truck and went to the morning market where 

Kong bought some dubious looking food that was mashed together in plastic 

bags. He also bought sticky rice and oranges, so I knew I wouldn't starve. 

Following this, we shivered our cacks off heading south past the airport strip to 

a derelict looking guesthouse where a kayak, an inflatable kayak, helmets and 

life jackets of a murky pooey brown/grey sick pallor were thrown in.

A few kilometres down and we vacated our handsome ride and bravely 

shed our warmest clothing in the chill and stood by our inflatable kayak 

whilst Kong gave us a 30 second instrumental talk on the use of paddles. 

I gave up with my broken lifejacket and we both climbed into our kayaks.

As you remember, Alex and I are not the best of kayaking partners and 

we had a considerable number of rapids and rocks to avoid with all the 

knowledge that Kong had imparted to us. The first part was relatively 

peaceful but the inflatable left little wriggle room and freezing water was 

splashing on bare legs leaving for hot bouts of temper and a consistent 

bellicose repartee back and forth.

Luckily, five kilometres down the sun came out and we stopped at a Lancen 

tribe village where we saw carpenters building wooden joints for a house, palm 

being knitted together for the roof and a well provided by a German funded 

water project. We also met the wife of the tribal chief who had ruled for over 

twenty years - unusual as a new one was usually voted in every three.

For dedicated birdwatcher and father, Sean O'Hara

Back in the kayak, we hit some steamy rapids where I did not steer the back 

of the kayak to Alex's satisfaction and left him soaked with water and the boat 

semi-submerged. It was glorious! Trees soared above us and Alex clicked away 

with the camera, documenting kingfishers and other sights. As the river curved 

around, we parked the kayaks on a sandy bank of stones whilst Kong climbed 

up a banana tree and hacked down some leaves which would serve for plates 

for our lunch. The dubious plastic bags were emptied onto the palm leaves 

alongside some river seaweed (dried and bought at the market of course) and 

sticky rice was dumped in front of us. I waited patiently for the chopsticks but 

apparently the Lao eat with their fingers and so we dug in. The questionable 

food in front of us turned out to be minced meat, some noodle vegetable 

mixture and this creamy green vomit which tasted better than it looked. Drinking 

water, eating satsumas in the sun - it was a gorgeous moment.

The final section of rapids done with rather full bellies would definitely be 

considered 'white-water' and Alex who has never done white-water rapids before 

sniffed his nose at the hungry river and sharp pointed rocks whilst having a 

complete paddy. At one point, we completely misangled the kayak and went 

plunging into the banks ducking branches and plants before the river finally 

subsided. Such an incident did not go corrected by Kong, rather he just waited 

patiently as we pulled twigs out of our hair and we were left praying that we 

would not make the same mistake.

The evening found us dining on BeerLao and more pizza (they seem to love their 

pizza here) before jumping in another truck to the bus station outside of town and 

climbing into a VIP bus with numerous Israeli (?) and Chinese tourists for the 

overnight trip to Luang Prabang. This was the hairiest ride either of us have ever 

taken in our lives, where the driver saw no cause to slow down for potholes or 

avoid any narrow crevice as we descended down the mountains. Getting any 

sleep, between the Israeli tourists playing musical chairs and the bus teetering 

on every curve was nigh impossible but I managed to catch a few nods before 

we all had a hair-raising moment with a jolt that left us suspended in mid-air for 

several seconds. Alex spent the whole night after this, with his back ramrod poker 

straight praying for our lives whilst I, hearing aids off, buried under my sarong and 

tried to pretend the whole thing wasn't happening.

So at 4am in the middle of no where, knock-kneed, we climbed out of the bus and 

entered Luang Prabang by tuk-tuk. Every place was closed and an unearthly 

silence greeted us as we walked down past closed guesthouses by the river 

under street lights. At 5.30am, we peered round the open door of a bakery, 

where the owner took pity on us and served us early with hot coffee and Pan Au 

Chocolat. We cried big hot salty tears over our breakfast, incredibly luxuriant and 

delicious whilst thanking the heavens that we were alive.

Next time, we may well have to choose the slowboat route. But all in the life of a 

backpacker!

Granny Gin

All my children refer to the intrepid granny as 'Granny Gin' - no need to ask why! When number 2 child was asked when very small what she thought Granny Gin's surname was, she thought for a moment and announced gravely: 'And-Tonic'. 

Since number 1 is away gapping, she wrote this for my mother for her birthday present. Enjoy! 

I remember walking at the house, tucked away on a pretty lane outside the village of Barford, Warwickshire. Stepping out of the white doors of the living room with the hand of my grandmother, past the smell and rows of lavender, down the endless beds of roses before reaching the greenhouse, climbing carefully over the precipices of paved stones. Tucked under a tree, I would be propped up onto the second fence in my wellies and there would be the donkeys, Phoebe and Clover. If I was lucky, they would come gamboling over to us, so I could almost reach my hand over and touch the rough tuft of hair that stood between their alert pointed ears. Sometimes, we even gave them a carrot or two. And I remember being plucked off the fence once more and with the safety of my grandmother’s hand, toddling back to the house.

A picture stands on the family’s notice board in the kitchen, well worn, of my grandparents standing next to me as a baby. I wear pale pink and two happy fresh young faces look straight down the eye of the camera, beaming and proud. Being the oldest, I have been lucky to have a vague memory or two of Little Grandpa when we were young, our favoured name for him, but this picture stirs something in me - of his gentleness and a twinkle in his eye. The hard grip he would clasp you with. He was the apple of everyone’s eye. I still remember my mother coming home, having held his hand before he died. She fiercely adored him and I remember how important it was to her, to make her parents proud. That is something I will always carry with me.

I remember when I put my face close to her, the feel of my Granny Gin’s skin, soft and velvety and the smell of talcum powder mixed with perfume hits my nose. Now I enjoy coming home at Christmas, seeing the tree stacked up, heaving with trinkets in a glowering cascade of colour; feeling the smack of Granny’s pursed lips on my cheek welcoming me home. As a teenager, I would work hard to be naughty - the stern look occasionally being replaced by her irrepressible rocking laughter. It shakes off any awkward atmosphere - and we often had those with the coming together of relatives on Christmas Day. 

At parties in Barford, Granny would make canapés of smoked salmon sandwiches served with swathes of butter on soft brown bread cut into squares with the crust kept on, sprinkled with black pepper and always, always served with a slice of lemon. This was the only fish I could enjoy for eighteen years, my despairing mother would disguise a fish pie with ketchup in the mashed potato and a mountain of peas. I would succumb to fish and chips easily, usually only eating the batter. And the chips. Now I’m an adult, I eat fish now and again. But I absolutely love smoked salmon.

She could sing sweetly - ‘Oh what a beautiful morning’ from Oklahoma and when I was little, learning to play the piano, I would open the top of the piano stool and lift heaps of papers down onto the carpet, exploring her sheets of music and matinee programmes from when Grandpa had directed, and she had performed. Whenever we visited Stratford upon Avon, she would take us to the RSC - Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, a Midsummer Night’s Dream. Later, when I would start acting professionally and read reams of Shakespeare with my speech therapist, I would remember sitting in the blacked out theatre:

“I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.” 

I fell in love with Shakespeare five years ago, but the root of that most certainly came from Granny.

The intrepid granny, as our family also call her, always used to go on these grand holidays, occasionally taking us along as well - but always separately. Egypt and the Nile, the heart of Africa and safaris with elephants. She took me to New York when I was coming into my rebellious streak as a teenager, and I remember standing in awe at buildings that you could not see the top of, the yellow taxis honking in deadlock traffic, the blurred faces of people walking past and the strange smell of rubbish, fast food, the foreignness of it all. Even though I had been to London a few times, I had yet to grasp the sense of a city - to stand in awe at a 360 panorama of vivacity and I will never forget those few days - seeing musicals, getting lost in FAO Schwartz, climbing to the top of Empire State Building and waiting for ages to come down again, the pleasure of meeting a most remarkable man - Edward Finch and his wife Polly. His building had a doorman standing outside. I still have the bright pink boots with heels that Granny let me buy. I could stride right down Fifth Avenue in these, but it didn’t have quite the same effect in Harrogate. I know I was difficult on that trip and probably didn’t show much appreciation, but it was an unforgettable experience.

Ibiza on summer holidays is another place inundated with memories of Granny Gin and Jack the Crack. Jack the Crack was the first bald man to come into our lives, a long-time friend of Granny’s. He had perhaps one or two hairs on his head, and my sister and I would make the most of this by putting our vast collection of hair bobbles on his head. Long before Ibiza became the hotspot for clubbing-fuelled adrenaline, we would sit in this restaurant above the sea, jumping off the cliffs and learning to play bridge with Granny Gin. We would also meet the infamous Auntie Jean - always greeted with one finger on the side of the nose and a low bow much like the Thai welcome. Auntie Jean was famous in my mother's youth for a television programme with two koalas - Tingha and Tucker. 

Nowadays, I don’t see my Granny Gin all that often, though she comes home to Yorkshire more than I do. When I try to imagine her, I picture her on the sofa watching cricket with my brother - this being one of her most favourite pastimes as the Warwickshire cricket club well know. Or I picture her with a gin and tonic, standing staunch and proud as the Queen, the same age as Granny, reads her speech on the television on Christmas Day. At first, this would make us giggle but it’s always a lovely moment when we, as a family, stand with my grandmother still and silently on this chaotic day. 

When I was little and Granny was sixty three, she was always thirty six when I asked her. Now at eighty six years of age, reversing the numbers is probably not quite so flattering but I can and will say she looks and acts remarkably younger than her age. All six of her grandchildren are counting on having her genes.  

Three days short of my own birthday, Granny’s birthday always brings about a reflection into the past - into my own achievements, memories and trepidation about the next year. If I have accomplished the things that she has, and continues to, then I will be a happy woman by the time I reach thirty six and sixty three. 

Happy Birthday Granny, from 6196.31 miles away, your loving and oldest granddaughter,

Genevieve

On the R Road

It is a strange thing to admit but when I am actively involved in treatment I am in a better mood. December was a long, hard haul and trying to at least appear jolly when I felt anything but was a tough call. It also felt like the lull before the storm as I knew I had three weeks of going to St James' (Jimmy's, as it is known hereabouts) in Leeds daily for radiotherapy. An hour's journey each way coupled with other stuff - bone density scan, herceptin injections, seeing the oncologist - all packed into 21 days. But weirdly, it is easier to deal with (so far, I may change my mind...) because I feel I am actively addressing the problem.

The Festive Season felt anything but and I am an absolute fan of Christmas in normal years. I looked back at my blogs from last year, knowing already that we started Christmas 2013 with my beloved's stepfather passing away on Christmas Eve (at midnight for added drama) and aside from all the other stuff, my beloved's stepmother passed away in mid-December this year, meaning that we started Christmas week with a funeral and a wake in the nearest village. So there has been a certain symmetry to our year. Both these sort-of in-laws were kind and supportive of me and in a family which has more than its fair share of steps, halves and exes, they were definitely the good guys. Other folks important to our lives left us too last year. Didi, who was my Yorkshire mother and from whose home I was married 30 and a bit years ago left us earlier this year. She played a big part in my Yorkshire life that I will never forget and her constant love and care for her family made her an impressive role model for me. And Kieran, fellow Acorn member with whom I spatted regularly until just a few months before the end. I think of her daily, remembering her feisty ways and her marvellous (and shared) sense of humour. These are losses not just to be sad about but to be grateful that they came into our lives. Never forgotten.

So not the best Christmas and by the time we reached New Year I was exhausted and, by 11.30pm, a bit tearful. Despite my beloved being dressed as the new James Bond (blacked up and complete with potato gun!) aka Idris Elba, he kindly took me home, making our most discreet exit yet whilst the rest of the guests (mostly dressed as members of Abba or the cast of The Sound of Music) sang along to Waterloo. I could say this was an early celebration of the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo later this year, but actually it was just more Abba.

Yesterday, surprisingly, was a really good day. Especially surprising because it included radiotherapy in Leeds and a blood test - what could be more fun!? But in the rota which I have organised with the cooperation of family and lovely, lovely friends to take me to Leeds, yesterday's team comprised one of my two singing dancing doctors (definitely the better singer of the two!) and Mrs O'Polo. Chauffeur-driven, lots of girly chat, a quick in and out at Jimmy's and then lunch at an Italian - excellent fun! Half way through lunch, the singing doctor decided that going for a blood test would be a good thing to see if my white blood tests were up to snuff so I could start going out a bit more. So appointment booked whilst I ate my salad, we headed straight to the surgery, did the blood test and yippee! the news this morning is that my white cells are in great form. Once the radiotherapy is over, I'm coming out!

So as I write this, nice nursey is sitting on my sofa having stabbed me in the thigh with herceptin and is here for two hours in case I have a fit (one look in number 3's bedroom and I might). Number 2 child is heading over to do her first radiotherapy stint and then... and this for me is beyond excitement ...we might go and look for wallpaper for our bedroom. Only 26 years since we last decorated in there - we don't like to rush into things!

So feeling more positive than I have for weeks (and better, actually) it's onwards and upwards. Look out, world, here I come!

The amazing skies earlier this week when I was walking the dog in the early morning. Hard not to feel optimistic when there is so much beauty in the world. 

Hanoi - je ne sais quoi

I am becoming accustomed to being 'outblogged' by my oldest child. At the moment, she is writing three to my one. Anyway this is the last of her travel blogs for now as she is relaxing in Phuket for a month - I wish! 

Climbing to the Northern buttes of Vietnam, I have wondered whether weighing Hanoi against Saigon would be of a similar outcome to my reflections of Barcelona and Madrid. However, Alex and I have visited both cities of Spain separately and reached entirely different conclusions.

                                                    

Not at all culture vultures in real life (i.e. when we are not travelling), Alex and I seem to reach a similar conclusion about cities - judging their merits on ambience, authenticity and adventure. So why he thought Madrid was a better spot than Barcelona, I have absolutely no idea.

For me, a city needs to be steeped in history - you should be able to walk the walls and simultaneously turn back the clock to a different age. Be graced by architecture which celebrates that passage of time. Enjoy the promise of hidden walkways where unexpected local pleasures can capture the eye. Eclectic cafes are a must - where one can watch the world go by at one's feet and lastly, there has to be a sleepy buzz about the place but with a compelling lilting hum rising above it. Hanoi scored full marks on all fronts, from both of us.

Hanoi means the 'city inside rivers', however its historic and formal name Thang Long, has a more bad-ass meaning 'ascending dragon'. One sees the two come together in the beautiful surroundings of Hoam Kiem Lake, striking in the centre of ancient Hanoi and where the Turtle Temple almost rises out of the lake in splendour.

Unlike Saigon, Hanoi is more of a phrontistery - a thinking place, though it is slightly harder to ponder when wading through its hazardous traffic, where bikes run amok. The Temple of Literature, built in honour of Confucius, celebrates this with a series of courtyards hosting porticos and pavilions with the usual dog and dragon statues standing at each entrance. The botanical gardens are splendid - serene beauty with water fountains; it was a bemusing contrast seeing soldiers practising their parade march through the middle.


               

The 'Hanoi Hilton' - as known by American soldiers or the Hoa Lo Prison (Hoa Lo roughly translates to 'Hell hole' - so you should appreciate the sarcasm here) was another highlight, in my opinion, saturated in the history of both the Indochina and Vietnam Wars. A French guillotine stared down on us in one room, the sewer drains that were the means of two successful escapes in another. A moving tribute stood in the walled gardens, with emaciated prisoners carved out of rock extending three metres high. On the upper levels, away from the doom and gloom, was an cockamamie exhibition displaying photos and placards detailing the excellent treatment of American POWs whilst away from home. Beautifully ironed pyjamas hung and a bed with a soft mattress, duvet and pillow - (nicer than some of the beds we have slept in) helped hammer the point home. Interestingly, the senator John McCain was a POW here.

                       

                                   


The Old Quarter, where we stayed, remains true to the architecture of Hanoi from the early 20th century. Storekeepers in the Old Quarter were taxed according to the width of their shopfronts, the long and narrow buildings often called 'tube houses'. Typical measurements are 3 metres wide by 60 metres long. The Old Quarter is made up of 36 streets, each dedicated to a different skill or trade, and so we wandered down Hang Giay (stationary), Hang Quat (coffins), Hang Ma (decorations), Hang Be (bamboo), Hang Ga (chicken) and Gia Ngu Street (underwear). We also renamed these, for our own entertainment - Jotter Junction, Dead Man's Drive, Tinsel Town, Bamboo Boulevard, Chicken Run and the Bra Bazaar. I think we might have done better. I claim all proprietary rights to the 'Bra Bazaar'.

                                                           
                                 

Every alley, path and street corner has cafes where one can pull up a plastic chair and dine on whatever the daily special is. Particular lautitious feasts were enjoyed at the Tasty Restaurant, where we ate Bun Cha Ha Noi - a dish of grilled pork burgers and noodles, served with greens and a bowl of light dipping sauce. Nem (spring rolls) are also served with it, and the meal should be savoured alongside a large Tiger beer. At the Green Lizard, we got barbecued spare ribs, fried rice and greens served in a plastic tray all for 40,000 dong (£1). Pho fans out there, nothing is better than sitting out in the open with locals, any place will do, served alongside the cheapest beer in the world - Bia Hoi (25p per litre).

 

 

For those in favour of adventure, walking down the train tracks, you will come to Ray Quan - a restaurant where the trains pass so close, you can almost chink your beer against its metal carriages. One of our favourite images of Vietnam which was given to us by the lovely Deb Bakker, who supports Deaf Craft - an organisation run by deaf orphans in Hanoi and who we met on the train up to Sapa. Deb also brought us to meet the people who work at Deaf Craft and we spent a wonderful afternoon seeing them work and attempting rudimentary sign language with them.

A special place found down one back alley was the Shot Cafe, one of the most comfortable and architecturally pleasing buildings I have ever been in. Spread over two floors and made nearly entirely out of wood, with an entresol level garden, a piano to play and beanbags and rocking chairs to lounge in under the high ceilings. If you come in the early evening, musicians come to borrow the guitars and piano, taking it in turns to perform local Vietnamese songs. As a pastime, for simple enjoyment - not for performance. It's difficult to describe it to justice. Alex spent hours drawing townhouses that could reflect the design of it.

Vietnam, in its beauty and meandering pace, has enchanted us for a month. A month into our year of travelling and we are refreshed,  feeling creative in abundance, able to absorb and appreciate the smaller things in life in the midst of looking at the bigger picture. The frugality of our budget means we have cherished every penny spent. One could go on, endlessly soaking, Vietnam up - the vitality of Saigon, the charm of Hoi An, the ancient Citadel in Hue, the coruscating hills of Sapa, the soaring karsts of Lan Ha Bay and the seductive bustle of the streets of Hanoi. A special adventure to be remembered, as we go on to places new.

"It's Christmas, Jim, but not as we know it..."

There's one for the Trekkies, with a few liberties taken! And it perfectly sums up the random nature of Christmas here this year. It will be happening... after a fashion ... mostly through the means of internet shopping, shipping and the kindness of family and friends.

I wrote my Christmas cards a few weeks ago, working on the theory that I felt reasonably ok and I wasn't sure when I would feel as well again. Then, final chemo over, I posted and delivered them by hand and paw (involving some perilous dives across cattle grids for the dog who has something of an aversion to them). Piles of gifts are hidden under a rug in my office ready to be wrapped but, for the first time, number 1 child will not be with us - rightly staying in Thailand where she is currently gapping with her lovely partner.

Lots of bits of Christmas will be as they have always been. No school carol service this year, listening to the boy play the trumpet in Ripon Cathedral but there will be a carol service somewhere to attend (if I can avoid the sniffy, snotty tinies who carry a myriad of germs and few handkerchiefs). On Christmas Eve we will read together A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas. This tradition started as a special treat read in bed to the elder two when they were little. Now we all sit round the fire and read a few pages each about Jim and the cats, Mrs Prothero and the fireman and the skating postman. It's a perfect respite from the television, the Christmas songs and the clanking of pans and pots. A special few moments of peace.

And then my favourite part... on Christmas morning when the children unwrap their stockings (when they were little, all four clambering on our bed) exclaiming at Santa's extraordinary talent for knowing exactly what they wanted - even when they didn't know themselves! And my beloved and I joining in their surprise and delighting that Santa even remembers to give them thank you cards. Some things in the stockings never change - chocolate mice and medals from Bettys and most important of all, a Christmas decoration which goes on the tree for each child, giving me a treasured memory of Christmases past when I put the tree up each December. I can trace the origin of nearly every decoration.

Talking of which, this year's Christmas tree erection proved particularly hazardous. The trees (one with roots, one without) were purchased on Saturday and carefully positioned. Solo for the first time in the decoration process, I trimmed two trees, cleared up the mess and admired. The following morning, the big tree fell down (yes, this happened last year and yes, I meant to buy a new stand...). The tree is now back in place and secured to the ceiling at a jaunty - or drunk, whichever - angle. With regard to the roots aspect, our garden has many Christmas trees - some now taller than the house - from Christmases past. Not exactly landscaping but rather marvellous none the less.

Which brings me to Christmases past. It's funny how the bitter and the sweet memories get muddled up together. The year the postmistress came for Christmas dinner and drove back across the field, rather befuddled, and got stuck in the mud. She returned twenty minutes after she left - minus her car and one shoe - we found both, eventually. The year my beloved welcomed his mother and stepfather into the house and whilst trying to break some ice in the kitchen sink for their drinks, broke the sink completely meaning we had to wash up in a bucket for a couple of weeks until we could get a new one. And the year we made sprout jelly. Charades and games and folks that aren't with us anymore - all mashed together like bubble and squeak.

This year I won't be the ringmaster, the cracker of the whip (though there will be crackers if we ever get round to buying any). I will be a spectator, probably trying to curb my frustration at not being able to do all the things which make up our Christmas and hoping, please, to have got my taste buds back (though I will still not be eating sprouts - the vegetable of the devil).

And my Christmas wish list? Firstly and essentially, to be well. I'd take that above everything. For my children, husband and family to be happy (and healthy, because, as it turns out, everything else is bosh). And because I freely admit that I am vain, I'd like my hair to grow back, but that comes a very poor third.

Happy Christmas!

Genevieve being a bridesmaid with Annabel

Antonia and her lovely fiance Jonathan

Robbie and Sabrina

My Last Day at 28

My oldest daughter is out-blogging me by some distance now but this is particularly moving (for me 

anyway) so I hope you enjoy this. Happy Christmas! 

"When I was one, I was just begun.

When I was two, I was nearly new.

When I was three, I was hardly me.

When I was four, I was not much more.

When I was five, I was just alive.

But now I'm six, I'm as clever as clever,

So I think I'll be six now forever and ever."

By A.A Milne, 'Now We Are Six'

As age always seems to go up and never stays still, it was with a little irony that I recalled A.A Milne's poem which 

was at the back of the hardback poetry book about Winnie the Pooh that I had been given for winning the Maths 

Prize in Primary School. (Not so good at maths now.)

Tomorrow I turn 29 and, if you read the earlier blog, you will know that I get nostalgic, melancholic, (even 

tenebrific - what a great word) around my birthdays. A little bit disquieted. Part of this is the fear of growing old 

or wanting to stay young forever. Peter Pan was for a long time my hero, at least before I studied the darker 

meanings behind J.M. Barrie's words at university, the boy who never grew up. 

It is a bit of a nuisance that your birthdays creep up on you so quietly. As Dickens said "Old Time, that greatest 

and longest established spinner of all!...his factory is a secrety place, his work is noiseless, and his hands are 

mutes." What a con artist.

Suddenly you're scratching your head, having no idea of what you have been doing for the past year. Pondering. 

To be realistic, my memory is still remarkably intact and I am young enough still to get away with an immature 

sense of humour. I am still tickled by this old Pashtun song I came across last week - 

"There is a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach,

  But, alas, I cannot swim!"

This blog is starting to sound very melodramatic.

But, 28 years old holds some precious memories - some concrete, others stirring repetitions of daily life - the 

renovations of Alex's new house; seeing the new skylights in the loft, sanding wooden stairs so they brighten 

anew, sloshing acres of white paint over the hated magnolia, black slates on the bathroom floors. Bacon 

sandwiches with Annabel, every week, in cafes around Holborn, Covent Garden, Crouch End or beers in local 

pubs that brew Yorkshire Ale - sitting on sunny steps on an empty afternoon. Parties after the rugby, every 

Saturday, at the Big Brother House that some of the boys rented living in Great Gatsby style. Watching a young 

blind man play the piano in Nottingham, in his own solitude, at the end of a course I ran for students with 

disabilities. Similarly, the captivation in a single moment when a young African man stood up and read a poem 

thanking us for sponsoring another programme in London. 

Sitting with Sophie, in the humidity of Mumbai, at a bar devoid of people with the exception of a group of 

Indians celebrating their drivers' birthday - the driver aforementioned, eating a sandwich in the car and waiting 

for them outside. At home with the family, watching Mrs Doubtfire, after Robin Williams passed away. Walking 

down the aisle as a bridesmaid, behind my beautiful Vicky - behaving immaculately then climbing trees with 

Annabel behind the marquee. The accomplishment of doing a single chin-up unaided, after months of punishing 

gym workouts with my personal trainer and friend, Matt. Skyping my sister in Turkey, to only see her hand pop 

up with a sapphire engagement ring, blinking at when she had become a grown up. Packing up to travel, then 

delayed by a wonderful part in 'Call the Midwife' - a tremulous moment after months of no acting work. Dinner 

with my girlfriends, at Broadway Market, then sitting in a heap on the bed with red wine and overcome with 

laughter. Going on this adventure with Alex, seeing Vietnam - so many memories with this boy to mention. 

A singular lowlight in my life this year, was my mum getting cancer. When I woke up this morning, on this pre-

birthday, it took me a while to lift all good memories out of the box when there is this dull haze of pain 

around six months of seeing my mum so sick and fragile, feeling so helpless. The 25th of June will stand alone 

as a marked shift in my life forever - a thumping sense of how precious my family is. Skyping my mum from 

Thailand last week, she bravely announced "I am now as bald as a coot. Just like Yul Brynner," sharing how she 

had asked my father to shave the rest of her head and how he practised on his own armpits before fulfilling her 

wish. It's a grin with the shaking of a head - right there - as I write this recent memory, but one that requires 

me to blink back tears too. 

Moving past that, it has given me some of the most precious memories of my family this year, because of the 

weight of their meaning. Pain mingles in a cocktail with Joy - the chemathon episode with the hedgehog, the 

Freda wig - "Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match", making Hugh Grant lorgnettes to read over your 

cold cap, performing 'When Harry met Sally' - the infamous episode which I was to reproduce with Channel 4, 

cooing over pictures in the bridal magazines (even though Mum would say even now, "I never coo"), Antonia 

saying no to every single one of them. As the hundreds of well-wishers that Mum is fortunate to call friends 

rally around us, we too as a family have weaved a tighter knot together with Mum standing, sitting or lying 

in the middle. 

So 29, what beckons for me? The great adventure, backpacking around Asia - Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, India, 

Burma, Malaysia, Indonesia, the Phillippines and New Zealand all waiting for us alongside many others. I will 

be strong as the cancer treatment goes on, so far away. That book, that has been waiting beyond my grasp for 

so many years, I now will write. A film job or two, throwing myself into the rigours of transformation and 

emotional turmoil that is required. Coming home to see my beautiful red-headed sibling walk down the aisle. 

Figuring and facing destiny, or the future, hand in hand, with Alex. Come what may.

As I grow one year older, much more yet to come, I will remind myself of this saying, which I came across 

whilst bemoaning growing old.

"It's important to have a twinkle in your wrinkle" 

Unknown

A wry grin that makes of me now, as I go on to face a new day.