Parallel lines

We've been on holiday this week and I'm typing this when I should be snoozing or perhaps getting a massage to remove all my aches and pains. The boy and I have been skiing in the fairytale village of Megeve. I'm told the mountain is owned by the Rothschild family. When I grow up I'd like to own a mountain. It would be a nice addition to the back garden. Along with the gnomes.

The trouble with going away is that all the things I meant to write down I simply forget...even though I did take a little computer with me...it's just that the holiday got in the way.

We travelled by train from the newly discovered Ebbsfleet. I know it's newly discovered on two counts. The SatNav thought it was about an hour further away than the big station in the Kent countryside tended to indicate. And when we got there we discovered mammoths. Yes a quite extensive natural history display dedicated to proving that Ebbsfleet had been around a lot longer than the British Museum.



We arrived late in Paris, necessitating a costly ride in a less than official mini-cab. The jolly driver (if you read the personal ads, you'll know what that means) turned his CD up full blast...fortunately we both appreciate a bit of Youssou N'Dour. This was clearly a part time job...although he told us he'd been doing it for a decade; his other full time job was stunt driver for films such as French Connection or perhaps the french series of films Taxi! (I can lend you the DVDs if you like). The boy grinned, I cringed, and the police frowned when they spoke to the driver...on a couple of occasions.

On the train, the boy and I travelled in separate compartments. Just like royalty. Nothing to do with a somewhat late booking. We kept in touch by text. His first one read "im with a nice family they helped me with my bag =) im worried my feet smell =S"

Over the course of the week, we had some highlights....



Our glass runeth over...one too many drinking games

Drinking unusually featured heavily in our holiday. Me not the boy! (yet). One afternoon, we did a runner from a bar after downing vin chaud. When I say runner, I mean saunter having tried to no avail to pay. Really. Yes really. Not done that since I was a teenager.


Our friends dining on the mountain

We managed to let a waiter throw a glass of water over himself...a very serious waiter indeed who picked up a wine glass not realising it was half full of water, he spun it in his hand soaking himself, And then spent the next minute looking variously at the glass, the ceiling and the window trying to work out what happened. We collapsed.


The boy posing with friend on top of a house roof

Some years ago, I had promised the boy a pair of skis, and of his own choice he's waited until he'd grown enough. As we came out of the shop where we bought them, our friend decided to take a picture from the other side of the road. The continuous line of traffic seemd to put paid to the idea. Until a car screeched to a halt. The driver grinned, his wife looked less than pleased. Our friend took the the picture, the traffic started moving again. Who says the French are all bad?!!



Whilst we were away, we had the builders round. We moved into this little victorian cottage (properly translated as end of terrace workers house) a couple of years ago. It was well decorated and meant that we didn't need to do anything. But the observant will have spotted the York stone fireplace, some may have previously seen the swirly patterns on bothe curtains and the carpets. Yes it was ideal for the retired couple who lived here before us. In our absence, the artex walls of the staircase and upper corrider were being replastered. I should perhaps thought it through a littel more. Half way through the week, the builder admitted missing an important delivery. He didn't hear the door bell because "It was very noisy". At that point I realised my first port of call on our return would be the neighbours. And indeed it was. They were charming as ever, but not sure we'll still be on their Christmas card list.

Oh and I must mention the boy (again), who's been working hard for the last eight years, and achieved a 9* award for his skiing. That's the best you can get...ski instructor standard I'm told. Not bad for a 13 year old. And I feel my chest swell with pride.

Suitably rewarded/nothing like a bit of crumpet

I've won an award and I'm very pleased.

I have to say I can't post it here, and nor was it quite given directly.
But an award is an award. I'm sure.

At school, the muggles chatted amongst themselves and the important quote is "Well Charlie, apart from The Boy's Dad you've got the coolest mum."

Now I'm think that means that I'm cool. That's cool. But it also makes me a mum. So not sure if I should start wearing a frock?

Unfortunately the boy doesn't exactly know how I'm a cool Mum. But he's happy that I am. And me too.

And on a different note altogether:

"The Boy, where are the crumpets I bought"

"I've eaten them"

"But you don't like them, you said so. I bought them for me"

"I know I don't like them. I was hungry.

"But if you don't like them why didn't you eat the fruit, the cheese or the biscuits in the fridge. Or have toast."

"I was hungry"

I'll just go an chew my arm off then.

And then there's:

"Can you turn the music down, I can't hear myself think."

"But I can barely hear it"

"But Dad, you're disturbing the neighbours"

"Oh right, sorry. Oops."

Crash bang wallop

We were woken up at eight minutes past six on Friday by an enormous thunder clap. The house shook and from down the corridor I heard a slightly shaky and questioning voice, "What's happening Dad?" In proper parental fashion I said in 'I am master of the situation' tone, "Don't worry, it's just thunder." I said this looking out of the window as it snowed heavily. In truth I've never experienced a snow thunderstorm. It was very exciting, and it set me thinking about how as we get older we get fewer and fewer new experiences, and how lucky the young are because there is so much that is new and exciting for them. And often as you get older, new experiences are not to be welcomed either because they are bad, or because they are not welcome and challenge our life view. So I'm very pleased to have been woken up at 6.08 on Friday and look forward to my next exciting new thing; meanwhile the boy will continue to take these things in his stride.

Two of a kind

Not to be outdone by the boy doing his homework (actually I think he's just chatting on line to his friends) in his new helmet (see my last entry), I have decided to type this update whilst wearing my new helmet. It's carbon fibre...and dead sexy, and has a thing inside to cover my nose so it doesn't steam up when I have the visor down. Most importantly though it has a five star rating, which is (evidently) two more than my previous 'lid'. So on the off chance I fall off the sofa this evening (and because I've got man flu, I could collapse at any moment) I am twice as likely to survive.



Boys. They never grow up.

Danger, danger!

Homework has become a hazardous undertaking in our house, hence the boy decided on appropriate wear to finish off the maths on Sunday night. Nothing whatsoever to do with either the snow gently falling outside, or that this was a Sunday morning purchase, ready for our trip in ten days time!

And of course going out on Monday morning was equally hazardous. At least in a fashion sense. So the designer coat was entirely appropriate for spending all day romping in the snow with a dozen friends. Only marginal contrition upon his return swathed in a soggy lump of wool. But thank heavens he wore his ski goggles...the happy police would be pleased.



I wish I had the same sense of excitement that a thirteen year old has!

Petards'n'pants

"Son, can you get my washing out of my washing basket, bring it down and we'll pop it in the machine with yours"

"Sure Dad, no problem"

Wow...haven't I done well to train him up to domestic bliss, I think.

"Dad, I don't mean to be critical or anything, but there are six pairs of my underpants in YOUR washing basket. You told me not to wear your pants, aren't you being a bit hypocritical?"

"Those are the pants that you leave crumpled up on the floor beside the shower every morning, and never pick up. Even when I tell you to. Even when I leave them in a pile outside your bedroom door."

"Oh, right"

Five years along

Today (29th January) is our fifth anniversay..when it became certain, no turning back, that the boy was going to live with me permenantly...or at least until he grows up enough to venture out into the big world. So I thought I would take this opportunity to post some pictures from the last half decade (sorry utterly self-indulgent)...every day has been an amazing experience...and I'm not sure who's learnt more...



Xmas in Megeve...just a month before everything changed

On Newport Transporter Bridge the day after his mum's funeral. If you've never been on a transporter bridge do try it



With his sister in Portsmouth...one of the few times I managed to get them together



First time on a motorbike...monkey bike



And with Charlie Boorman



That sinking feeling - nearly learning to sail



Under the arches - living in Borough



Winning the javelin sports day



erm Madonna, outside our office



Camel riding in Egypt



Three generations



At the Natural History Museum...can you see the second face?



Better than a bike any day



Rugby...his great love as a half-welshman



Another great love...in Megeve



Giants Causeway...man and boy



Portmeiron this summer



And that's enough!

Full circle

This is a Singer Chamois - the posh version of the Hillman Imp.



It was a rather natty little car produced by the Rootes Group, and is a less well remembered competitor to the Mini. Whilst the Mini won the affections of the buying public, the Singer Chamois, never came close to achieving the same fame. It did, however, help bankrupt the company that made it - much like the Mini helped bankrupt British Leyland.

We had a Singer Chamois when I was a boy and I loved it. It was a rather elegant Bournville chocolate brown with a sporty white stripe along the side. It was Grandma in Cyprus' first car after she passed her test and was bought by my father after he failed to persuade her of the virtues of a Triumph Herald Convertible. Far too racy I think. The Singer was fab, and as far as I remember let us down only the once - the accelerator cable broke. So Grandma in Cyprus was sternly instructed how to drive the car to the garage without an accelerator. At 5mph. I don't think the other cars on the road appreciated it very much. It used to regularly take us down from Hertfordshire to sunny Eastbourne to GinC's mother. So that'll be Great Grandma by the sea. And it was long before the M25 was even a glimmer in some road planner's eye. Our Singer Chamois' registration number was MYH 583D.

And this is a KTM Super Duke.



A 990cc piece of unsurpassed Austrian engineering. It's very noisy. And when I pluck up the courage will be very quick. Indeed. The boy loves it. And soon it will take me long distances. It too has been bought by my father. Or at least with some of the money he left in his still to be resolved will. The registration number is GX 58 MYH.

And how fitting is that?

Muddle Aged (2)

Well I've been goaded into this, so I take no responsibility whatsoever....

You know you're (a) middle-aged (woman) when:

You wear your daughter's mini-skirts and think you look like her

Your make-up bag is twice the size it used to be, but it gets used twice as quickly

You drive a beige car called Penny, but tell everyone how sporty it is

You want to mother the boys in the latest boy band

You think the boys in the latest boy band will fancy you

You stop waiting for 'the one'

You wear a one piece swimsuit because you think you should, not because it's the height of fashion

You can look at a middle-aged man and know that you're better than him, but know you shouldn't tell him

Middle age

I know I shall be in trouble for this, but...

...I was having a conversation the other day, and the topic of 'middle age' came up. I can't think why. After all,I'm 37, and have been that age for some long time now. So no prospect or intention of ever reaching middle age.

Any way, SHE said:You know you are a middle aged man when...
You buy a motorbike
You wear a stripy scarf looped around your neck
You wear vertically striped shirts
When young women in bars talk to you, you think you still have it
You think trying to hold in your tummy fools anyone

Now, I think she's wrong, because men NEVER know when they're middle-aged. Unless they were born middle aged, in which case they have been wearing beige cardigans for a very long time indeed and are proud of it.

As the boy reminded me this evening, Bill Oddie once said, "You know you are middle-aged when your daughter's best friend looks at you. And all she's thinking is, 'You're my best friend's Dad'.

Some indications of the progression of middle-age must be, when you try and do something you could do 20 years ago and it comes as a surprise that you can't do it now. I wonder what that could be. When you come home from work, and you're asleep on the sofa by 8.30...every night. When you can't understand the texts you get from anyone more than five years your junior...let alone from The Boy When the video recorder is beyond you. When you still enjoy repeats of the New Avengers, Minder and The Persuaders.

The reason this conversation took place will become all too apparent soon enough.

But the killer end to the conversation was when I was asked, "So, how do you know if you're a middle-aged woman?" Probably best not to answer methinks.

Three buildings and a picture

I've been somewhat inspired by Not Enough Mud's recent blog about returning home from distant shores, and enjoying the sights of London town.

Borough and Bermondsey are my favourite places in London...I've probably said that before. But they are really lovely - still retaining the village character of old. Plus you can scrump figs off the tree in the graveyard at the bottom of Bermondsey St. Olde Worlde buildings continue to provide character, but even some of the new ones are interesting in their own way. I like the contrast between the old and the new.

So here are some of the ones that I most like:

This one looks like an over-sized garden shed stuck on the top of a genteel Edwardian(?) building. I just love it, but can't see it passing current building regulations:






And this is a new arrival...still being built, it's been plated with copper. Beautifully reflecting the sun light today, I think it'll look just as gorgeous when it has oxidised



This one is a puzzle for me - newly built, this end wall has these curious 'balconies' - but you can't get to them (the windows are sealed units I think) and even if you could, the 'floor is just eighteen inches wide. And no one's come up with a reasonable answer.




Finally, this is a trompe l'oeil...and if you look really closely you might see a cat in the window...but he does seem to come and go a bit

The Omen

I'm not superstitious in any way.

Although I don't walk under ladders, if I spill the salt, I throw a few grains over my shoulder, panic if I break a mirror, don't cross the path of a black cat, nor pass anyone on the stairs. And generally avoid doing anything on Friday 13th.

However, I've decided to take as a good omen being given an American Dime in my change this morning.

I shall also celebrate with a glass of something tonight in the hope that the 44th President of the United States will live up to the promise.

I am a Goldfish

We all have senior moments..and one of the pleasures of the last thirteen years, is to see that we have them from the day we're born. Well almost, but it's certainly true that the boy does forget things, and gets in a panic about it.

And possibly they come a bit thick and faster as the years begin to take their toll. Generally I don't worry about it as there is always so much to think about that it's inevitable that some things just get lost in the brain cells.

This weekend though, has not been a good one on the memory front.

Last night, I made myself a cup of coffee...I really fancied it. Once made, I sat on the sofa, putting the coffee on the shelf within easy reach. An hour later remembered it. It was cold, so I heated it up in the microwave (sorry, bloke thing to do). I put it on the shelf by the sofa again. I found it this morning, completely untouched.

This evening, I thought I would check my work e-mails using something called 'gotomypc.com'. It's a clever piece of software that let's you actually look at your computer from anywhere...they've got a dreadful ad running on the TV at the moment. Anyway, when I logged on, it told me my work computer wasn't on. Panic immediately set in, because I knew I'd checked them on Friday night. I had no choiice but to drive to the office to see whether or not we'd been burgled (again) or perhaps the place had burnt down. The office is about three-quarters of an hour away. So off I set at 9.30. I got within a mile of my destination, when it suddenly dawned on me, that I had turned my work computer off when I left on Friday, and had been able to check my e-mails by directly logging on to the mail account from the laptop at home. Doh! Double doh!

I haven't yet fessed up to the boy as such things tend to damage my hero status.

Clearly the daily dose of Ginko Biloba is not doing its job.

Anyway, just going to make a cup of coffee now.

Overheard telephone conversation

In a very rough,run down industrial estate, just next to where the 2012 stadium is being built. In heavy East-End accent

"Hi Simon. Got a mate doing some property developing in Romania with a bloke called John (deleted for fear of legal or other retribution). You know - the cigarette family. Anyway, he's gone off with £5.7 million of my mate's money. Can't get hold of him anywhere. We think he's got a place in Monte Carlo. Do you have anyone down there that could sort it out. You do? Great. Let me know."

I must stop going to these places.