Hello!
Does the term micro-blogging exist?
It's Day Four of Freddie's new life at Pre-School. And his Pre-School t-shirt, of which he is immensely proud, has been eaten in, slept in, had ice lollies dripped down it, and been used as a handkerchief. We had to prize it off him on Sunday afternoon for a brief period so my mum could wash and dry it, ready for re-wearing by 6pm that night.
This morning, however, saw the arrival of two, new, bluer-than-blue school shirts, clearly visible in Freddie's (also new) see-through school bag. The manager had put them in there for our collection, and mightily glad we were to collect them too!
It is also Day Two of ... wait for it... Me Working. As in, for money. Yes, money - that thing that comes out of machines when you put your plastic card in them! So I feel like a proper person now. I can afford my own copy of 'Grazia' now. Well, almost. I've only just started, and won't be paid for some time. But the 'Grazia' is on the shopping list, waiting eagerly for the trip to the newsagent.
And Tom is continuing to work, ploughing through MSC student scripts and poking himself awake with his marker pens. Or missing himself and splodging his t-shirt. The very same t-shirt that will join that other garment of Pre-School fame sitting atop my teetering pile of washing waiting to be done...
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Who is She?
Who is she, walking down the street, buggy ahead of her, arms outstretched?
Who is she, passing the semis and the front lawns, here a burst of Spring yellow, there a smart sports car, sunning itself?
Do you see her go, glancing at the trees laden with blossom? She likes the contrast of pink petals with the lush green grass below.
There is the local shop, complete with affable owner.
There is the bus stop. It's not far to town, really.
Here are the little cafes and a couple of delis. She smiles hello at a familiar mother and child. Gym group, she thinks.
They find a spot, and order their usual: a pot of tea for her, an 'apple' juice for him, though really it's orange but he insists on calling it by the wrong name. A tantrum might ensue if she corrects him, so she lets it go.
He wants the Spider Man magazine they bought at the newsagent. She gets it out and shushes the high-pitched excitement issuing from his small mouth.
She reaches for a newspaper on the next table. There's that pain again. In the stomach. Like a knot, tightening.
A jangling buzzing sound breaks through the cafe hum. 'Mummy!' he shrieks. His eyes are huge. She fumbles in her bag and pulls out the shiny black offender. 'It's a text,' she says.
'Who is it, who is it?' he says. He reminds her of the irritating man from Big Cook, Little Cook.
'It's from Sarah,' she says. 'The one we met at the Monday group. She's inviting us for a play date. That's nice of her.' She wants to feel pleased. It's a step forward. She stares into space a bit.
'Mummy! Mummy!'
'Sorry – what?'
'Why are you crying?'
'I don't know. I'm just sad.'
'Don't be sad, Mummy. Be happy.' He does the 'cheese' grin that she asks him to do when she takes snaps of him.
This woman, panini in hand, small child slurping from a straw on her lap, she has taken a pin and pricked it on the central-most point of her map of Britain. And here she is.
Who is she?
Who is she, passing the semis and the front lawns, here a burst of Spring yellow, there a smart sports car, sunning itself?
Do you see her go, glancing at the trees laden with blossom? She likes the contrast of pink petals with the lush green grass below.
There is the local shop, complete with affable owner.
There is the bus stop. It's not far to town, really.
Here are the little cafes and a couple of delis. She smiles hello at a familiar mother and child. Gym group, she thinks.
They find a spot, and order their usual: a pot of tea for her, an 'apple' juice for him, though really it's orange but he insists on calling it by the wrong name. A tantrum might ensue if she corrects him, so she lets it go.
He wants the Spider Man magazine they bought at the newsagent. She gets it out and shushes the high-pitched excitement issuing from his small mouth.
She reaches for a newspaper on the next table. There's that pain again. In the stomach. Like a knot, tightening.
A jangling buzzing sound breaks through the cafe hum. 'Mummy!' he shrieks. His eyes are huge. She fumbles in her bag and pulls out the shiny black offender. 'It's a text,' she says.
'Who is it, who is it?' he says. He reminds her of the irritating man from Big Cook, Little Cook.
'It's from Sarah,' she says. 'The one we met at the Monday group. She's inviting us for a play date. That's nice of her.' She wants to feel pleased. It's a step forward. She stares into space a bit.
'Mummy! Mummy!'
'Sorry – what?'
'Why are you crying?'
'I don't know. I'm just sad.'
'Don't be sad, Mummy. Be happy.' He does the 'cheese' grin that she asks him to do when she takes snaps of him.
This woman, panini in hand, small child slurping from a straw on her lap, she has taken a pin and pricked it on the central-most point of her map of Britain. And here she is.
Who is she?
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Leicester Life
So here I am in Leicester, feeling so rusty at writing I'm going to need a bucket of oil to fix me.
Where to start? Crumbs, it's late. Can I delete this thing or do I have to post it now even though I'm numb from the efforts of moving city and introducing myself again and again with a false grin on my face, wanting to wail inside about missing my home in Cambridge with it's terrible carpet and mould up the walls.
The new house is great. Big, grown-up, and full of vocabulary I'm simply not used to, like 'utility room', 'conservatory', 'cupboard under the stairs'. The garden is equally daunting. It's actually long enough that I could do my running right here, at number 23, without fear of passers-by staring at me, dogs nipping my feet etc. Although we are in view of the church we now go to, so plenty of potential for midweek teenage groups to have a good old laugh at the red-faced slummy mummy trying to get fit in her back garden.
The man two doors down is very chatty and has lent me his book on cycling, with diagrams to help you negotiate roundabouts and scary traffic etc. So far I haven't had the nerve all the same to get on my bike. The cars go so much faster here, it's a job just staying alive as a pedestrian. Or so it can feel.
In the absence of friends to share my Freddie-filled days with, I have become acquainted with the odd cafe in and out of town just to break up the hikes up and down hills pushing a yabbering three-year-old to swimming, gym group, Nippers etc. We like Fingerprints Cafe, Dominoes (complete with giant toy shop next door featuring a wooden train tickety-ticking round the ceiling), the posh deli on Queen's Road, the Loros bookshop and cafe, John Lewis, the Cradock pub... Freddie now cannot scoot past on his Mini Micro without shouting 'I wanna go in THERE!' to all of the above venues. Gone are the days of whooshing by, leg cocked up like an ice-skater, a jubilant 'Wheeee!' emitting from his chocolate-stained lips. Sweeties and crisps are the foodstuff of choice these days, in my efforts to entice the small but mighty Ridge out on escapades across the streets of Leicester in search of The Library, The Leisure Centre, A Cashpoint that Actually Works...
And I am muddling through it all, getting a lot of fresh air, making a lot of mistakes, uttering many a bad-tempered gripe and just trying to remember that I'm not on planet Mars but just in Leicester, a mere hour and twenty minutes from Cambridge and not much further from London. I have the internet now (after three weeks of living in a weird phone-less, internet-less, friend-less bubble) and can at least start to write about how it's all going - the good and the bad. And God still loves me, despite my grumblings.
So Leicester life is not so bad really. It'll just take time to feel like home.
Good night, all.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Where to start? Crumbs, it's late. Can I delete this thing or do I have to post it now even though I'm numb from the efforts of moving city and introducing myself again and again with a false grin on my face, wanting to wail inside about missing my home in Cambridge with it's terrible carpet and mould up the walls.
The new house is great. Big, grown-up, and full of vocabulary I'm simply not used to, like 'utility room', 'conservatory', 'cupboard under the stairs'. The garden is equally daunting. It's actually long enough that I could do my running right here, at number 23, without fear of passers-by staring at me, dogs nipping my feet etc. Although we are in view of the church we now go to, so plenty of potential for midweek teenage groups to have a good old laugh at the red-faced slummy mummy trying to get fit in her back garden.
The man two doors down is very chatty and has lent me his book on cycling, with diagrams to help you negotiate roundabouts and scary traffic etc. So far I haven't had the nerve all the same to get on my bike. The cars go so much faster here, it's a job just staying alive as a pedestrian. Or so it can feel.
In the absence of friends to share my Freddie-filled days with, I have become acquainted with the odd cafe in and out of town just to break up the hikes up and down hills pushing a yabbering three-year-old to swimming, gym group, Nippers etc. We like Fingerprints Cafe, Dominoes (complete with giant toy shop next door featuring a wooden train tickety-ticking round the ceiling), the posh deli on Queen's Road, the Loros bookshop and cafe, John Lewis, the Cradock pub... Freddie now cannot scoot past on his Mini Micro without shouting 'I wanna go in THERE!' to all of the above venues. Gone are the days of whooshing by, leg cocked up like an ice-skater, a jubilant 'Wheeee!' emitting from his chocolate-stained lips. Sweeties and crisps are the foodstuff of choice these days, in my efforts to entice the small but mighty Ridge out on escapades across the streets of Leicester in search of The Library, The Leisure Centre, A Cashpoint that Actually Works...
And I am muddling through it all, getting a lot of fresh air, making a lot of mistakes, uttering many a bad-tempered gripe and just trying to remember that I'm not on planet Mars but just in Leicester, a mere hour and twenty minutes from Cambridge and not much further from London. I have the internet now (after three weeks of living in a weird phone-less, internet-less, friend-less bubble) and can at least start to write about how it's all going - the good and the bad. And God still loves me, despite my grumblings.
So Leicester life is not so bad really. It'll just take time to feel like home.
Good night, all.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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