Olivers Army

The boy was away this weekend at his first cadet camp. Excitement had been high in the week running up to it, but that didn't mean that he thought to make sure that we had everything that was on his kit list. The net result was a last minute Friday night dash to Waitrose on the way to meet the prodigal uncle for a a celebratory meal at Buckhurst Hil's finest (and actually one of the UK's) Indian restaurants.

This gave me a free weekend. Personal space and time. Hurrah. So what wild things did I get up to? A salacious time at Brighton's seediest night clubs? The chance to catch up with much missed friends, or even family? A gorgeous meal at a great restaurant?

Erm, well no. I headed to Ikea (oh no, not again) to pick up a couple of things (actually, is it possible to ever get out of Ikea with a bill of less than £200...I've never ever achieved that, often picking up stuff that's really not really not needed). After that I headed down to the flat by the sea, achieving precisely nothing all weekend...at least it was a warm and sunny time to do nothing very much on the coast.

I've been planning for when at some stage the boy would fly the nest...university was my target date (and as I've mentioned to him on one or two or several dozen occasions, when he leaves for higher education that is the time that I stop the real job, climb on the, as yet phantom motorcycle, and spread my own wings). And I've also known that as he heads through his teenage years, my role would increasingly be reduced to taxi driver and funds provider. But I hadn't really realised that at the tender age of 13, he would not be around all the time. So this is an unexpected bonus...but I need to change my mindset slightly, open up that little black book of mine and renew old friendships...as well as gallop into a whole set of new ones. Hurrah!

After all I have no intention of spending my middle years watching endless repeats on TV, wearing a hole in the carpet in front of the sofa!

Watching the detectives

I've come to the conclusion that now is the time to be rid of film ratings. I've been wondering for a while...in fact since finding out that when the boy was still at primary school, certain of his friends were allowed by their very well educated parents to watch Quentin Tarantino films...the boy himself was given the opportunity one sleepover to watch a film that gave him nightmares for weeks afterwards.

Mind you these were at the same parents that thought it fine to give the boys bangers to put into bags of flour to see the mess they could make when the went off with a bang. The boy returned home from that little venture with half a dozen bangers in his pocket. He never returned for their hospitality again. So the point being, that if the parents ignore the certficate, then there's not much point having them in the first place.

This year we went to see the latest Batman film...rated a twelve, but in places so menacing, that I think more appropriate for a fifteen/sixteen year old. And just recently I watched Sweeney Todd, which achieved an 18 rating, although the violence was so surreal, that I doubt it could seriously impact on a younger viewer; by contrast, No Country for Old Men is just a 15, yet the violence is menacing and graphic and the emotion behind deeply impactful.

More confusingly is that I've taken the boy to films at the cinema perfectly legally, yet when we've gone to buy the DVD a few months later, it's jumped up a rating, so technically he shouldn't watch it, nor the Playstation game that seeems to accompany every movie masterpiece these days.

Monster Mash

It's just about tthe middle of October, and for the first time not a word has been mentioned about Halloween. And that's a surprise. Usually we have two months of trick or treat planning, with me living in dread of having to be the escort the boy and his friends to make sure that only the right sort of mischief happens. The rot set in I think when we moved to the Forest, where the trick or treat culture was not widely accepted amongst the coiffured Essex parents ( presumably fake blood and rubber masks interfere with golden tans and bleached locks), so it was always a struggle to find accompanying children to terrorise (sorry I mean entertain) the neighbourhood and in any case, knocking on doors could be quite unrewarding in all senses.

Back in deepest, darkest Finsbury Park, it was an annual highlight with every house stuffed full to the gills with sweets and other delights so that a continuous trail of hideously made-up children could be satiated. In fact it was so busy that you could end up queuing at the best houses...it was easy to know which ones to go to as they always had a halloween lamp in the window...I suppose that's much the same as the red lights in the windows of certain houses in Amsterdam (I'm told).

Hopefully though we will still get to carve a pumpkin lamp which is always messy fun...several years ago, we bought a kit from Sainsbury's which had fantastically elaborate templates, and it's been used every year since to create weird and wonderful illuminations which take pride of place in the living room window until eventually they go soft and a little bit smelly.

On the other hand though, perhaps as the boy is now a teen, child like activities should be consigned to the memory bank just like the Disney movies which I no longer get to see (why wouldn't he come with me to see Wall E?). At least there's the DVDs to watch.

Bring me sunshine

In just over a week we're off to the wonderful warm, sunny eastern mediterranean to visit Grandma in Cyprus (hello grandma). It's exciting for a number of reasons including - sunshine and warmth have been badly missed this year and we need to recharge our batteries - I'm very fed up with nodding off at 9.00 in the middle of some repeat on Dave; also Grandma was lucky enough to win a day out on a luxury power boat complete with lucnh and sea scooter...and as it is for four people, the boy and I get to share in the win...providing the water's not too choppy (evidently); not fogetting that it will be nice to catch up; grandma has bought a scooter so we can zap around as we like

However, there will be some downsides. Firstly, I'm sure I'll get it in the neck for failing to settle down (again)...I want to ask what it is about our family that everyone seems to discourage keeping in touch....it's a strange anomaly....and, well, that's it really.

The excitment mounts....!

money, money, money

Timing is everything. It seems that inspite of renaming my diary only at the weekend, now is in fact the time to panic...certainly in the city there is nothing but blind panic and there is no manual to read. Just a year or so ago I remember reading a survey that showed we had more trust in our banks than we do in our local councils or national politicians...and that trust in our national institutions had declined at an alarming rate over the last decade. But now it seems that the bedrock of UK plc is in tatters and there is no one left to trust.

The current financial shannanigans, has caused a mild sweat to break out...my father's will has still not been sorted out (why do the authorities take so long when you really need these things sorted out with military precision so you can move on emotionally) and the tidy sum that constitutes my inheritance is tied up in HBOS. Reassurances from the IFA that the government won't let the Halifax go down, have been said whilst he has his fingers firmly crossed I'm sure. Hopefully today's action by the government will help, but I foresee many months of uncertainty ahead. And I'm certainly better off than my colleague who has some thousands of pounds in Icesave and even as I write is probably running round wondering whether she will ever see her money again. Thank heavens her impressively grounded husband will be a calming influence!

The inheritance is important because for almost my entire life Dad only ever gave cash, albeit generous amounts, as Christmas and birthday presents, and it seems that his parting gift will be only cash...not even a token of something that was truly him. So I'd like to get it out of the way, just to give me a space to reflect on our relationship. It's for this reason that I strain myself creatively when it comes to buying presents for the boy - last Christmas days were spent trying to track down a tent...not easy to do in mid-winter evidently, and hopefully all my presents are thoughtful, relevant and surprising. That's the aim any way....just please don't mention it's only 79 days to Christmas...time for me to don my thinking cap.

In the WAGS triangle that we inhabit it is custom amongst the boy's contemporaries to give money when they go to each other's parties. I've imposed my own rules on the boy, and he, amongst the few, always roles up with a present...sometimes this may be an iTunes gift card, sometimes a book, or something else....but never, ever money. It seems all wrong.

What's it all about Alfie?

Evidently the problem with the the House of Representatives failing to pass the bill to pump $700bn into the US financial system was an issue of 'branding'. By referring to it as a 'bailout' it appeared as though typical US taxpayers were stumping up some 2000 McDonalds doughnuts each to keep the wealthy bankers in the lifestyle to which they had become accustomed. Evidently it should have been positioned as a 'financial rescue package for the global economy'. And not withstanding it was the media who continued to refer to it as a bailout, they may have a point. But as someone who earns their crust in the world of branding, it distresses me immeasurably, that my offspring's future can be threatened by a few mis-spoken words. I would have hoped, naively, that the lawmakers of the largest mostly-democratic country could see beyond words and rise to the challenge in hand...I'm glad to see they have second time round.

Now whilst we're on the subject of branding, it has become time to rebrand this diary. Before I started writing I spent weeks trying to think of a decent title, and failed miserably...clutching on to Man and Boy for the lack of anything better. And I've had enough of it. So I've decided to rename as 'Don't panic, RTFM' which refers firstly to the state of panic I found myself in for the first four years of my new found role as both mother and father to the boy, and secondly to a phrase which has been used regularly at home for the last fourteen and a half years. And to go with the new name is a new look still designed by someone who bears the same surname as me, but hopefully it's a little easier on the eye.

I was asked just recently 'Why?', 'What's it for?' Which seemed a fair question to me especially as I am very clear 'why'. Firstly, it's entirely self-indulgent...a record of many of the things that would otherwise get lost in the mists of time as the boy grows up and I grow old; secondly it's therapeutic helping resolve many things that have caused grief in recent years; and lastly I spend my life writing for other people who demand word-perfect, grammar-perfect text which once supplied, they proceed to ruin...so this is my chance to leave typos in and write just what I want when I want. I'm slowly learning the rules...if someone comments I should respond (often I don't because I don't have anything to add..just enjoy their jottings)...I follow the blogs that I really like either because they're well-written, or because they're funny, or because they strike a chord...or any combination of the above. And suspect I would enjoy a glass of wine or a bottle of beer with the authors - but only comment if there's real reason to (too often I see no need). I avoid the professional or semi-professional ones which I suspect are penned by people who having finished typing sit back with an air of smugness. So please indulge me.

Can't read, won't read

Coming home one day this week I was greeted with "I'm dyslexic", "I'm sorry I chortled expecting some hilarious punchline to follow." But no, in all seriousness the boy said, "No, it's true I might be dyslexic". Realising I'd stumbled into quicksand on a B movie set, I sat down and asked him what he was talking about. He patiently explained that his French work was very poor, and his teacher had checked with his French teacher from last year and his House mistress, and there was a evidently a problem. Thinking quickly, I realised that being top of the class in English and History and with nothing other than good to very good grades in any of his literacy subjects, dyslexia was unlikely to be the problem. In my usual gentle fashion, better known as 'bull in a china shop' syndrome, I flushed and told him in no uncertain terms that there was no question, if there was a problem, it was certainly not dyslexia...and then backed it up with the evidence above...and just to put the genie back in the bottle, I said that the school should not under any circumstances say anything like that without tests and without speaking with me first. I said I would speak with the school in the morning.

I finally reached the headmistress ten minutes before she headed off to a meeting...and the gravity of my concerns were made clear to her when I said that I didn't want "that woman" near my child until the matter was resolved. A panicked French teacher called within minutes, and numerous telephone conversations later, it is clear that not much is clear...the teacher denies ever mentioning the 'd' word, but for certain the boy's basic work is in fact very good, although his concentration can wander and mistakes creep in...and equally, the teacher's assertion that the boy was distressed by his mistakes is not borne out by anything...at all.

So probably a hurricane in a teacup and everything is back to normal...but of note:

• the teacher had just been on a 'special needs awereness course' and so was probably oversensitised
• under the confident exterior of a handsome young man lies the uncertainties of a boy going through puberty
• like any mother who feels their offspring being threatened, I will lash out protectively
  

So looks like parents evening in a month's time should be fun....

On the skids

Toilet training is one of those joys of young parenting...or do I mean parenting the young? I'm glad to claim I've never been to a dinner party and had to suffer the joys of listening to new parents talking about their new-born's toilet habits. Fortunately, the boy was an early starter.

Of course, when you get older the question, as mocked by many, is whether the seat should be left up or down. You can imagine that in our all-male household "up" is the way it goes...and you'd be partially right...in the flat by the sea, our new bathroom features a hydraulically damped lid, so there is much joy to be had in it gradually closing all by itself.

But there are other toileting issues. Drips on the rim...a long battle is fought trying to ensure that should there be a drip, it is properly cleaned up at the time. I can almost feel the women throwing their arms up and declaring "Men!", but I have to declare from experience, that women are just as guilty as us boys. And worse still, is checking whether the bowl has been fully flushed after number twos. I don't want to look at other people's skid marks or floaters, in the same way I hope they don't want to inspect mine. In the flat by the sea, this is a particular issue because a) the water pressure is low and b) if it's not flushed properly and we're then away for a fortnight the consequences on return can mean psychological counselling for years afterwards. But it's not just at home...we have a shared toilet in the office and just too often I have to adopt the role of janitor. Pooey

School disco

I had a sad e-mail at the end of last week from an old school friend: "In process of joining the massed ranks of the divorced - keen to hear how to date in London without catching anything!!!"My reply, I hoped was suitably supportive, but elicited the following response, which I found quite shocking, "Yes a shame, no real reason, just end of!!! Now back to the best places to meet younger women in central London (without looking like an old git out of water)". And this from a mid-Forties man, married for nigh-on two decades with three children. Recognising there's a degree of bravado here, it still seems wrong that a marriage could be dismissed so easily.

I remember being shocked about marriage twice before... a sixty something next door neighbour split up from her now-revealed alcoholic husband. It occured to me that at that age, you really should be able to relax with your partner, and not have to go through the trauma of break-up. The second was a friend who lived with her American boyfriend and was pressurised into tieing the knot. Which she duly did at a glorious ceremony in the south of France. A few weeks later, she had changed job and met the man of her dreams. Clearly the decision of a lifetime commitment had been taken for the wrong reasons - I'm glad to say she is still with THE ONE and they have two terrific if somewhat boisterous young lads.

In both cases, it caused me to re-evaluate the concept of marriage...not that either one stopped me doing what I still regard as extraordinarily romantic...I met and married in 99 days. We were divorced five years and five days later. Some sort of perfect symmetry.

So for the boy, I hope he meets and chooses the right person, and when they get to know each other properly, they live happily ever after. As they do in all the best fairy tales.

Equally I despair of my schoolfriend who thinks that dating in mid-life is the same as going to the school disco and grabbing the best-looking girl for a sweaty-clinch for the slow dance at the end of the night. Oh those were the days!

White van man

This weekend we are mostly driving a rented Transit. Trannies are a favourite mode of transport because you look down on people, they come off the traffic lights faster than a Porsche and they're big enough that people move out of the way. No, actually they are fun...you do sit up higher than a Chelsea Tractor, so you get to see things that you'd normally miss (there's a great view into London along the Thames when you go over the bridge), they're surprisingly comfortable and come with a fine sounding stereo...on the way to Brighton we played the new King of Leons album which went down exceptionally well. The only downsides are having to be careful when manouvering round tight corners...the previous driver and caused a random indentation along both sides where he had forgotten the can was twice the length of his usual car...and also having to do without a rearview mirror - blind spots in the wing mirrors mean it's easy to cut someone up no matter how attentive you're being.

We're shifting furniture around - one of the flats needs furniture for the new tenants...so we've taken the beds and dining table out of the garage which will be mixed with a wardrobe currently residing by the seaside and the final touch will be some drawers from Ikea. The boy, initially a reluctant helper, soon became much enthused when chemsitry homework became somewhat tedious. We should have packed the van to the dulcet tones of Bernard Cribbins singing Right Said Fred which would have amused the passing neighbours who gave us curious glances, not quite daring to ask if we were moving. We'll leave them in suspense for a day or so.

So far only one disaster...in his enthusiasm, the boy decided to show me he could make the van bounce up and down by jumping on the rear step. This caused a piece of the bed that was propped up on the side to topple over, smashing an indicator lamp on the Vespa. I saw tears...but how could I possibly be annoyed...after all he was doing what children do best - making something fun out something quite dreary. Have you ever noticed children never walk down a street...they run,they skip, they go round in circles..so much better than putting one foot in front of the other in a monotonous routine. Heart in the right place, head somewhat distant was how I describe it. I'm so glad he hasn't yet grown into grown up ways.

Do as I say

"If you can't be responsible to look after these things, then you will have to go without" I thundered having discovered the boy's bank card in the garage, and when it then took him half an hour to find the Oyster Card that lets him travel on buses gratis. of course, no bank card meant no pocket money, which meant no tuckshop treats at school this week. He was less than impressed...after all he had known exactly where the bank card was, he just didn't see that there was a problem keeping it on the shelf in the garage. The Oyster Card had, he said, been put in a drawer for safe keeping so was never lost. He's always been good at putting things away safely - as a two year old, he kindly took my house keys and put them in a compartment of a little plastic tricycle for safe keeping one morning. I searched high and low, but it was only when I thought to (gently) ask him if he knew where they were that he instantly trotted off to the sitting room and pulled them out for me.

By comparison, last night I took my Vespa Scooter into Soho and parked it up so I could go along to a glamorous media luvvy event. When I returned a couple of hours later, there in the lock of the top box were the keys for all to see and anyone to take.

Love is a many splendored thing

Yesterday, evidently, it was exactly a year ago that the boy 'asked out' the girlfriend. I'm not really sure what going out with someone means these days at the age of thirteen. It certainly doesn't mean the back row of the cinema every Saturday, as I think you can count the number of times they've been out on one hand. It may mean a fumble behind the bike shed...but I hope not and in my naivity, I think not. It does for certain mean hundreds of texts at all hours of the day and into the night. So the adage that you can only understand a relationship if you are part of it, and then it's not guaranteed, is true for sure.

I can't say that I think dating at thirteen is a good thing...after all he's got a lifetime of trying to figure out the opposite sex. But in the smoky haze of romance, I think a childhood sweetheart is a great thing...even if at some stage a heart will be broken.

The boy definitely needs a female in his life...four and a half years ago he lost his mother, four years ago he effectively lost touch with his sister and eighteen months ago when we moved to the Forest he stopped seeing so much of doting Irish Nanny. He still sees the nanny when he can fit her into his busy schedule...and she is wise to the thoughts of teenage boys, not to press him too much, inspite of the fact that she I am sure misses him almost as much as her own son who died of Aids a decade or so ago.

I can't say too much about the sister as it breaks my heart that she moved to live with her father and has never once made the effort to keep in touch with her little brother. In the early months of the separation I tried my hardest (perhaps too hard) to keep them close...it was so, so touching to see them together (when the boy's mother and I separated, I never really got to see them both)...but her indifference encouraged I strongly suspect by her father, has meant that a day or so ago he threw away the comment that he didn't really have a sister.

On the romance stakes I am a poor teacher (aren't all parents?). In the last few years he's seen a few girlfriends of mine..that is the semi-permanent ones that have lasted a year or more. But as I've not been truly, madly, deeply in love, they have all eventually been added to the list of ones that got away. Usually when they do go, I'm in deep trouble with the boy as another potential mother-figure has been lost, but I do sit down with him and explain...the last one was terrific but wanted children and that is not on my agenda. So on the long list of things that I am not competent to guide him on, girls and romance is right up there with trigonomics...

Me, me , me

Monday 8.30 a.m. at school: "Hey, how was your weekend?" "Brilliant party Saturday night eh? Loved the music, great cake an' all...shame it finished at 10.00. Good to chill with the lads all Saturday afternoon too....I know I said I'd only be an hour, but hey ho. In the morning I knocked around a football, spent time on MSN. It was cool. Sunday was a bit of a bummer Dad was really grumpy. Don't know why. We were planning to go to the Boat Show, but when I got home from the party I said I had too much homework. He said something about waiting around for me all Saturday and now he'd have a wasted Sunday too. Don't know what he was talking about."

Monday 9.00 in the office "Hi, how was your weekend?" "Complete rubbish" "How come, thought you were going to the boat show?" "Sore point, I spent Saturday doing the housework and ironing, giving the boy a lift to his friend's party, and even washing the car to give us the day free on Sunday. The boy, arsed around Friday pm and all Saturday and then announced that he was too busy with homework on Sunday to go to the boatshow. That left me bereft of things to do other than more tidying up. I was not happy. He never thinks of anyone but himself, and expects me just to run around after him...he never considers me at all." "He's thirteen, what do you expect?" "Let's talk about the clients".

Men at Arms

The boy announced this week that he is going to joining the school army cadet force much to my horror. I practice utter respect for the professionalism of our armed forces, but cannot understand why anyone would (potentially) lay their life down for a dusty corner of a godforesaken corner of the globe fighting poeple who will never have the ability to launch attacks with just 40 minutes warning.

Young boys all seem to have a fascination with weapons of any sort and the boy is no different. I've never really known how to deal with this...when he was younger I let him play with cheap and nasty toys of war in the hope that if they broke quickly (which they did) he would lose interest (which he didn't). No doubt his enthusiasm is fuelled by any number of Playstation games that involve death and violence to an unnecessary degree.

Of course, there is a large degree of hypocrisy on my part, as I too was in the Cadets, albeit air focused rather than ground focused. My argument that in those days we were never at war with anyone, doesn't wash with me let alone him. I could simply say no, but that seems equally unreasonable...but any thoughts of a career in her majesty's forces would be severely frowned on. I think I'm over-reacting...after all, most of what they do seems to be little more than an extended outward-bound course...in fact the outdoor skills, the discipline that they teach are pretty useful...and (selfishly) the camps will occasionally give me a nice little break.

So into uniform he will go, hopefully playing nothing more than toy soldiers as boys (and indeed girls) do. But woe be tide if he takes it too seriously.