Pussycat, pussycat where've you been?

If Hubby had thought that making a hole in the trampoline was the ultimate sin, then our son had other plans. Not deliberately perhaps but nevertheless, consequential.
Minding my own business a few days ago, the house empty of all children, I was, for an hour, able to concentrate for a more than a few seconds at a time. I checked my emails, checked my blog and was about to get the 5 year old from school when the telephone rang.
“Mrs Band? This is the Boys Senior School here. Is your son unwell today?”
My throat constricted impulsively. I couldn’t get any sound out.
“It’s just that he hasn’t been in school today”. A weird strangulated sound was emitted from the core of my body but I think I said something like,
“Oh-my-god-where-is-he-where-can-he-be-he-must-be-dead-internet-peadophiles-accident-out-of-character”. A Kerouac, stream of consciousness babble tumbled out of my mouth. The poor secretary on the other end of the line must have heard this kind of thing before or had braced herself for my reaction, either way, she was very calm.
“I’m so sorry Mrs Band”. I looked at my watch it was 2.40pm. Where had they been all day? Why hadn’t they called earlier?
“We don’t normally call parents for three days. We assume the boy is sick. We only rang you now because a rumour has reached us that he and another boy have gone to Exeter”. I was demented. How could I not have read the signs that he was unhappy at school? How did I not know that he had something like this planned? The last time I had seen him was on the doorstep, I had zipped up his raincoat to the usual protests of “Mu-um” but he hadn’t stopped me. I’d checked his bag for his P.E kit and lunch bag. All was as normal, and like normal, he leant down, kissed the top of my head, said “Love you mum” and gone. There was nothing to indicate that he had planned this.
I rang Hubby. “You’ve got to come home. You must come home. Oh my God. What am I going to do? Where is he?” Hubby attempted to remain clam but even he was shaken. Neither of us could get our son on his mobile phone. It was agonizing.
Of course the time was slipping by and I had to go and get a car full of small children from infant school.
Sobbing in the queue as I waited for them to run out, I again racked my brains for signs that my son was unhappy. Suddenly, on trying his mobile phone again it rang and he answered. “Hi mum”, he said, nonchalantly, “Don’t worry I’m alright”.
The expression ‘spitting feathers’ was coined for such an occasion and, what with crying and swearing and scolding and relief, my son couldn’t quite catch what I said but was under no doubt of the general content.
“Where the hell are you?” I said, finally.
“Er, Taunton”.
“Well bloody well come home. Just come home.” I then rang Hubby, who minutes later rang me back.
“Ok”, he said slowly, “He got to school this morning. His buddy had had a catastrophic falling out with one his family. He wanted to run away and our son and heir, in his infinite wisdom, thought it best to keep him company.”
“Oh thank God. So he didn’t go just to get out of Physics then?”
“No”.
“It is an errand of mercy?”
“Well, he’ll be begging for mercy when I get hold of him”.
“He mentioned Taunton. They should be home within a couple of hours”.
“Alice”. There was a pause as Hubby obviously garnered his thoughts.
“They may have passed Taunton a while ago but they are on a National Express coach heading for London and his phone is out of battery”.
Five children were now rampaging around the back of my car. In a daze I got out, strapped them all in and drove away.
It was unbelievable. My 14 year old son, in a school uniform was headed for London. It was this knowledge that gave me some comfort. It must have been a spontaneous decision as there is no way he would have gone to London without his attire having been closely scrutinised and his Dolce and Gabana belt wrapped around his waist. Within hours though he could be picked up by God knows whom and be working as a rent boy before you could say Pet Shop Boys. I felt sick. There was no way to contact him. I pulled the car over in a lay-by and called National Express. Trust my luck to find the only suicidal member of staff. I explained what had happened and could she inform the driver so that he could keep an eye on them until my husband arrived in Victoria.
“Oh that’s really good of your son. How sweet. No-one would do that for me.” I really didn’t have the time to counsel a depressed tele-sales girl who ultimately advised me to ring the police.
A good friend of ours is a sergeant and seconds after me calling him, he had it all sorted. The Metropolitan Police were going to meet the boys off the coach and wait with them. In the meantime I spoke to the other boy’s mother who was also demented and to her son, who had now also turned on his phone.
Hubby meanwhile was negotiating the A3 and attempting to unearth the entrance to Victoria coach station. His mood was not one of high spirits and, on receiving them from the Met, drove my son and his friend home in frosty silence. It goes without saying that he is penitent and shamefaced yet, regardless, all extra curricular activities have been suspended. His computer has been confiscated and his social life curtailed.His friend is happier. Sometimes, however ill-conceived, a grand gesture is the only way.

Pressure.

I’ve been feeling mightily cheesed off of late. It seems however hard I work, however much I cook, clean and bleach I am fighting against a tide of too many children with too many possessions. I am the mother screaming in the garden as small children rampage through my newly planted shrubs, I am she who cried last Sunday on entering the toy room to find every single board game and every single jigsaw puzzle in one big pot mess on the carpet. It was a daunting task to have to get on the floor and laboriously pick through each and every piece and return to its rightful box. It took hours.
My son and his great gazumping teenage friends, arsing about on the trampoline, have made a hole in it – directly in the centre rendering it null and void. Subsequently that just about finished off the weekend as it was Hubby who found the hole and went ballistic. Said son is apparently grounded. All very well for Hubby to dole out these punishments when he doesn’t have to work as the jailer, “You’re i/c of grounding Alice”. Now, as I have a son who never even leaves his room, being made to stay there with his guitar and MSN buddies is hardly punitive, so instead, he has been made to come downstairs of an evening and make charming conversation with his mother and sister.
The sister in question, who likes nothing better than to see her brother in the cack, has taken a great delight in making him watch That’s So Raven, Friends and various other American girl TV shows. But believe me there is only so much American TV mingled with sibling provocation that I can cope with.
Consequently, I have sat night after night tearing my hair out, knackered and stressed, fed up with the incessant round of domestic toil that saps me of my joy and ability to laugh when yet another cup of juice in spilt onto Hubby’s newly sanded floors or more felt tip is scribbled with Picasso-esque creativity on walls and doors. How in fact did the Red-Head get hold of the after sun gel that has dyed her bedroom carpet blue? How did three DVD’s get posted under the cupboard in the sitting room? A fixed, immovable cupboard at that. They are now there for ever. Happy Feet, The Little Mermaid and Shrek 2: waiting to be excavated and puzzled over by a future Tony Robinson.
Clutching a glass of wine as the terrible two jumped on their beds upstairs and the detritus of dinner glistened on the table cloth, chairs and floor I pondered the meaning of (family) life.
I thought of my new friend who is 76. When I took her Cardiff recently she gave me her life story. It would be impossible to not live to be 76 without a story to tell but hers is quite exceptional. I could only listen in awe as she described how life had been for her as a young navy wife.
For starters, her husband was away for years not months or, as in my case, Monday to Friday and, each time he came home he very generously gave her another baby. For a woman who has only known safe family planning and free contraception, it is hard to imagine that every time one got amorous with one’s husband yet another pregnancy was a real probability. Consequently my friend ended up with eight.
I struggle with four children with, at my disposal: a microwave oven, a gas self-cleaning cooker, a Dyson, anti-bacterial sprays in every hue and scent, a washing machine, a tumble dryer, a powerful steam iron, every electrical kitchen gadget ever invented, a dishwasher, a TV/DVD and Sky, a computer, electric lighting, central heating, free prescriptions and palatable, safe, over the counter drugs for my children, a CD player in almost every room, phone and mobile phone and a seven seater car. Not only did my friend have none of those things, neither did she have modern fabrics and textiles that are easy to wash, dry and iron. Even more significantly, and something that I take for granted, her schedule never left her a moment of freedom. Socialising with a friend was unthinkable, not only was it deemed morally reprehensible but when was there time in the day? When her husband was at home, so did she have to be. Dinner on the table and all that jazz, with a family of ten to cook a roast for on a Sunday, even church was off limits.
It got me thinking, not, how did she cope, but why is it that we modern women find it so difficult to? Many of my friends and acquaintances are regularly taking anti-depressants. But the pressure for perfection is intolerable. Made so by women, to women. From the moment of conception other women tell their ‘sisters’ what is expected of us. No drinking, smoking; breast feed, give up work, don’t give up work. Sleep with your child, put child in pram at bottom of garden. Not out of nappies yet? Not talking yet? It goes on and on and on until we are confused and confidence in our most natural instincts has deserted us. Men don’t give this advice. Angst and guilt is a woman’s domain.
Men have often made me feel boring, glazing over when they know ‘I’m just a mother’, but only other women have judged and condemned me. Only this week I met a woman with one child who asked if I had any children.
“Four”, I said.
“Wow! That’s not even hobby children”. Most definitely not, but when I did have only one I don’t remember it being a walk in the park. Are those who only have one or two meant find it all so easy? With such unreal expectations no wonder Prozac is a wonder drug.

En France

Leaving Hubby to go into ferocious battle with a floor sander – it has been known to reduce him to tears, I packed my girls into our Espace for our 11pm crossing from Plymouth to Roscoff. The wind blew, the rain lashed down and even the Torpoint Ferry laboured across a swollen river. I started to pray.
“Do you think we should have taken those Sea Legs tablets earlier mum?” asked the 11 year old.
My stomach was already feeling dodgy but I put that down to anxiety. My house was in disarray – dust and books, ornaments and old carpet were littered everywhere in preparation of Hubby’s floor sanding. Also, we were not the only ones going on hols, my son too was packed up and ready to go to Rome with his granddad. I had left him with strict instructions of what to take, how to behave, what to eat and where to keep his money before he lost his patience with me, “Alice dear, you may consider me a deaf old codger but I think I am capable of looking after myself and a teenage boy for a few days”.
Now in front of me was a horrific cross channel crossing, driving in France and the happiness and safety of my daughters and. No wonder my insides were playing up.
Having joined the queue in Millbay Docks a tannoy system informed us that the ship had been delayed, a collective groan emanated and I thought we may as well go and have a coffee inside the terminal.
Unfortunately there was a man in there only too happy to share horror voyage stories with me.
“You going on this ship tonight love?” he asked. I nodded. He sucked his teeth.
“Crikey, hope you’re a good sailor. I’ve just received a phone call from my wife. She’s on the ferry you’re waiting for. In the sick bay actually. Quite an apt name as she said she’d never seen so much sick in her life. Everywhere it is. Swilling down the passageways”. By now the five year old was all ears.
“Aw mummy I don’t want to go” and she started to wail. This started the Red-Head off, who joined in the refrain with, “Me no go France, me see Daddy” over and over. The eleven year old was fishing in my handbag.
“What are you after?” I asked
“This” and she poured half a vial of Bach’s Rescue Remedy down her throat. Wind lashed and damp we returned nervous and edgy to the car. The ship finally docked and in fairness to the crew they must have been a dab hand with the Dettol because there was no evidence of any vomit on board. We bothered not with any on board amenities or entertainment. I just wanted these girls asleep before the ship sailed into a perfect storm. Lying down on my pillow, pleasant thoughts of George Clooney filled my mind and I drifted off to sleep. A few hours later we arrived in Roscoff to a sunny, if breezy day.
I consulted the map and set off for Perros Guirec and in just over an hour we pulled into the campsite. We weren’t to enter our accommodation until 3pm and I wondered what we would do with a car full of stuff but the Keycamp rep had already prepared our mobile home and within half an hour the kids were playing and I was playing little house in my new kitchen, putting everything in its place.
The biggest draw back of this holiday, apart from the weather and absence of spouse, was the position of the mobile home i.e. directly opposite the kids clubs. Rather frustratingly, Key Camp don’t start theirs until July although other holiday companies had and you try telling a two year old that she is not allowed to join the other little children because mummy didn’t book with Canvas Holidays. Every five minutes I had to remove my daughters from irresistible craft activities.
Fortuitously the British Chav fraternity were also on holiday and alive and well on our camp site. No sooner had I gone to bed than a commotion made me sit up and draw my curtain back. A gang of young teenagers swinging vodka bottles and fags were entering the kids’ club tent. Up I jumped, slippers on, fleece zipped and running across I undid the zip of the kids club tent – immediately seven teenagers scarpered, leaving me to find the courier. She was a lovely girl and had been very apologetic that my daughters couldn’t join in her fun and games. Having found her, we rushed back only to find that the yobs had trashed her club; little plastic chairs had been broken, paint spilt, glue splattered. We cleaned it up the best we could but from then on we had an unspoken agreement that my children would go and quietly join in.
A couple of days later, the weather peeing down as much as it was peeing me off, I found a local indoor pool and after a good few hours we emerged happy, wrinkly and hungry. As I removed my rucksack from the locker my mobile beeped. A text message from my son read: ‘Lost granddad for 5 hrs. Contact me ASAP’. On the verge of texting the Pope, I shakily rang my son first, “Don’t worry mum, just found him!”Apparently whilst waiting for an underground train to the Vatican, a sea of people had pushed my dad on the train, the doors had shut leaving my 14 year old boy on the platform. He had kept his wits and navigated himself back to the hotel, leaving my dad demented. Not as much as me, by the time I put the phone down the bottle of Bach’s Rescue Remedy was drained. Other than leaving my wallet in the mobile home and it being delivered to me on the return crossing – no other dramas ensued but oh my it’s good to be home..

Day Trip

I had no time to bask in the reflective glory of Hubby’s recent promotion excitement. Well a couple of hours on Friday evening and that was it. No sooner had he returned home for the weekend than Dad was over, proud as punch, offering him a very firm handshake; a huge hug followed from his son, complemented by the droolings of various other children.
Later, I took him, Dad, my brother and two friends out for dinner to a lovely restaurant overlooking Whitsand Bay. As ever, neither of us being fiscally accountable, we left it to the last minute to sort out the bill and as ever, Hubby quipped “You going to put this on your card then Alice?”.
This was not the time and place for a scene and so I just added, “Well, I think it works out at forty quid a head”. Cash and cards were thrown into the plate and with blushing cheeks I took it to the till. Luckily Mag’s husband followed.
“God, I’m so sorry,” I said, “I had no idea it was going to cost so much and I’m so ashamed that, having asked you to join us, you now have to pay for yourselves.” He was extremely good about it but it left me seething, so that night as Hubby came to bed, instead of being greeted by an appreciative, amorous wife – he found one of the opposite kind – my pyjamas were buttoned up but my mouth was not, and after a few minutes ranting and accusing him of being “ungallant”, we fell asleep, an icy chasm between us.
An hour later and I felt the familiar presence of a child next to me; opening my eyes I was surprised to find my son. “Wassup?”, I mumbled into my pillow.
“I fear death”. It was much easier years ago when they feared spiders. All it took was a swipe of a newspaper, a kiss and one was asleep again in minutes. This grievance was a little more profound. I sat up and held open my arms. Little was said and after a few moments he extricated himself and went back to bed. But I just lay there, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. Fretting. What could be wrong? Why was he anxious? Was there trouble at school? Was he heartbroken again? I got up and walked into his room. His bedside light was on.
“Budge up”, I instructed. He moved over and I got under the duvet. A mother’s unconditional love really is something inexplicable for, not only was it the middle of the night where I was awake and making soothing conversation but I was also sharing a duvet with a fungal foot infection which elicits a smell that is as noxious as it is undefined.
“Gee whiz, that foot cream hasn’t started to work its magic just yet then?” He shook his head. Soon he was fast asleep. Breathing a sigh of relief, I crept out of his room and into mine and pulling the pillow over my head was a little aggrieved when a few minutes later one corner of it was lifted. This time it was the 5 year old, “Will you take me to the toilet?”
“But you had to walk past it just to come here”. She shrugged her shoulders and once more I got out of bed. Leaning against the bathroom door until she’d finished I thought of the journey ahead of me, I looked at my watch, in just two hours I had to gather up my old ladies and drive to Cardiff. Mercifully neither spouse nor offspring bothered me again that night and just before six, my alarm trilled.
Within forty minutes I had gathered my ladies, bought enough boiled sweets to keep them happy and we were on our way. We should have been travelling in the comfort of an air conditioned coach, one that I had organised in my vice-chair capacity of the PTA as a shopping trip but no bloody bugger wanted to come. When I rang my old ladies to inform them that the trip had been cancelled they were most distressed.
“Oh that is such a disappointment”, said one. “The idea of a nice day out has kept me going for months. I’ve been ever so poorly this winter”. Ever the sucker for a sob story I suggested that, as I was going to go anyway, why didn’t they come with me, my car was big enough and it would be jolly to have the company?
By the time we reached Sedgemoor services however, my midnight vigil was taking its toll and I was concerned that I would stay this side of the crash barrier. “Do you sell anything to keep one awake?” “Try these”. ‘These were Pro-Plus. Within minutes my state of mind had been transformed from ‘Find me a Travel Lodge’ to ‘Kerching’ and Cardiff was reached safely and in record time.
Depositing them by the castle with strict instructions on when to meet me and how to find me I went in search of my own friend. Said friend is made of the mettle my mother admired, “There is a lot of despatch about her”, as mum put it. Cruelly she also as cancer but if I thought I was going to spend the afternoon swilling out her nighties which I was more than prepared to do, then I was much mistaken. We spent hours over lunch where we ate far too much and where our conversation was indecently irreverent; afterwards she was doing fine but I was suffering from indigestion. Scurrying around in her handbag looking to see if any of her cancer medication would be suitable for my dyspepsia is an image that will stay with me forever. Parting is such sweet sorrow and was it ever thus…My ladies however needed a lift home. Popping Pro-Plus in one hand and Gaviscon in the other, I went to retrieve them.

Master and Commander

I like to think that giving Camilla that fudge last week clinched the deal. That someone mixing in Royal circles saw us and thought, “I say! That’s the wife of Lieutenant Commander Band. Jolly good show”. He told the Queen of our selflessness to duty, she thought, ‘Hmm, that’s the type we need’ called for her equerry, who informed the MOD, who in turn promoted my dear husband to Commander.
Hubby wasn’t quite so sure, “Nice theory Alice love but I think there may be more to it than that?”
“Oh, you mean all your hard work and devotion to the Crown?”
“Yeah something like that”, he laughed.
“Will you call me ma’am now and wear your brass hat in bed?”
“Dear God Alice I’m at work” he whispered loudly down the phone, “Will you please conduct yourself in a manner becoming of a commander’s wife”.
“Yes Master and Commander!” I giggled.
This news has made me reflective. Once I was a pretty, young officer’s wife, all apple cheeks and pink satin ball gowns, an ingénue when it came to matters Naval. When I met my husband, I fell for his height and handsomeness and the fact that he was a dab hand in the kitchen. We tolerated long separations due to global deployments and lost ourselves in each other when I flew to some far off distant land for a reconciliation that rarely saw us leave our hotel room.
It being an age before emails, the letters we wrote each other were long and loving and both he and I lived for the mail drop. Due to the nature of the mail and the fact that he could only post and receive letters in a bundle we would both have to number the envelopes so that we could read them chronologically. This was a must, due the number of couples who would spill their emotional guts to one another in one letter only to be dumped in another. If these were read out of sequence the effects were often quite traumatic. If however I thought that these long separations might have prepared me stoically for the time when, after having had my first baby, his ship sailed once again, then I was much mistaken. Nothing prepares you for that. Add subsequent children and living apart and eventually it is a real struggle to keep hold of what you once had. The demands of his career, the travelling, the children, the domestic over load, the little time to hold hands and really talk to each other may have wounded our relationship, though thankfully not mortally like many military marriages.
This recent news is yet another stage in our marriage not just to each other, but of Hubby’s to the Navy. His gag that I should not conduct myself in a manner unbecoming is not really a joke. If this were a sit-com now, I could show flashbacks of incidents that happened in years gone by that I will, most certainly, never get away with again. For instance, like the time when the police came on board Hubby’s ship to escort me off as I had entered the dockyard one evening without the all important Fleet Form 3 – having instead used my temporary pass as I was ‘temping’ there, or the time I removed my strapless bra at a Valentine dinner as it was digging into me and I couldn’t enjoy my food. The bra was very discreetly secreted into a waiting napkin then handed to tactful steward who removed it for safekeeping; or maybe the time when, after a few too many cocktails I threw up over a wall onto the parade ground at HMS Drake. Hubby, breathless with anxiety lest anyone should find out ordered the Dettol forthwith and bundled me, an ice bucket and Mags into a taxi and didn’t speak to me again for days. Or the infinite number of times when I have made social gaffes and Hubby has kicked me under the table. Getting up from dinner when one is bursting for a wee, is, as anyone who is intimate with naval dinners would know, almost a hanging offence. The only excuse to excuse oneself is being pregnant, only then will senior officer’s capitulate that a woman’s bladder is not what it once was and is prone to recklessness. Knowing this I once exploited this pardon for all its worth and, leaning over and whispering into the Mess president’s ear declared, “Hubby and I are expecting our third!” Undoubtedly he was so shocked that the woman sitting to his left had been knocking back the booze all night whilst a little foetus was inside her shouting “Cut it out will you?” that he was only too eager to let me leave the table. There was trouble later when Hubby came looking for me - on the warpath, “What bloody baby?”, “Sorry” I said sheepishly, “but I was desperate”. I should have known that was tempting fate and within a matter of weeks, I really was up the duff.
I wonder now, if, when at naval functions I will be regarded by young WAGS with the same guarded reverence I once held for the Commanders wives. Some were charming, others not so. Instead of gently advising me that perhaps off the shoulder décolletage was more appropriate for the service industry than the Royal Navy they would point it out loudly and acerbically. I shall be a far more benevolent old dowager. Never will I hiss when a young gal appreciatively strokes the mess silver nor passes the port in the wrong direction and never will I ever exclaim “Good lord!” when an equally bright young thing sips the port before “The Queen”. Forgive me ma’am and thank you for the promotion. It’ll help with the mortgage no end. I remain your loyal servant..

Kidney.

“Alice”.
“Mmmm” I slumbered.
“Alice!”, Hubby’s voice was more urgent and he put his hand on my buttock. I slapped it.
“Not now”, I groaned, “I’m fast asleep”.
“I need you”.
“That’s all very flattering”, I mumbled into my pillow, then squinting up at my clock, saw that it said 5.55. “But it’s the middle of the bloody night. Later.” and I pulled the duvet over my head.
“Alice please”. God, this man was persistent, was the poor chap that desperate?
In an act of ultimate benevolence, I capitulated. “Come on then”, I said, “Get on with it” and puckering up, waited for the beast to pounce.
“Alice what are you doing?” I opened my eyes. Hubby hadn’t moved.
“Waiting for you big boy”, I drawled sexily, or so I thought.
“Why are you talking like some 70’s hooker? I’m not after your body. I’m in agony; I think I’ve got kidney stones or cancer”.
“Huh?” Why was he waking me in the dead of night to tell me this?
“You’ve got to help me. It’s excruciating. Go and Google the symptoms.”
“Are you completely off your head?”
“Please. I can’t stand it” and as he rolled towards me to make his point, he let out an almighty “aaargh”.
“Where is the pain?”
“Here, just under my ribs on the left side of my back” and as he once again groaned, I sat up.
“I’ll be back in a minute”, I said wearily, pushing off the duvet cover. Hubby rolled to his right, as he did so, I saw something silver lying on the mattress.
“For God’s sake, you haven’t got kidney stones; you’ve been lying on the nail clippers all night. Look” I brandished them at him.
“Oh”, he said, crestfallen. “You sure Alice?”
“Quite sure. Feel for yourself,” as I showed him the indentation of the clippers in his back.
“Well bugger me. It was agony. I’ve been lying awake for the past couple of hours, too terrified to move. I had to wake you in the end”.
“Evidently”. I flopped back on my pillow.
“The thing is Alice, now that I’m so happy to be given a second chance at life, well, it seems churlish not to celebrate, if you get my gist”.
“Forget it. Keep your hands to yourself”.
“Spoil sport” and he rolled over in a huff. Just as I felt the delicious balm of sleep once more envelop me, one of the children stood by my bed. I couldn’t figure out which one it was and was loathe to open my eyes again, lest they think, ‘Hurrah mum’s awake’. Eventually and for the second time that night I gave in. Without opening my eyes I growled, “Which one of you is it?”
“Me”, said the second daughter, “Is today the prince day?
“No darling, there are three more bed-times until we meet Prince Charles. Please go back to bed.”
“Can I watch Cbeebies?”
“Yeah Cbeebies”, her little sister had joined her. I poked Hubby very firmly in the kidney, “Your turn. Put the TV on for them”.
Groaning, as though fast asleep the fraud, he dragged himself out of bed.
“Prince Charles?”
“Yes daddy. He’s going to walk about with a duchess.”
I pity His Royal Highness. There must be little schoolgirls everywhere, who, brought up on fairytales and promises of dashing princes, are bitterly disappointed in the real thing. My own daughter’s was palpable. Looking at her face I knew she was expecting the Prince look: cape, cod-piece and crown.
“Where is he?” she kept asking, jumping and down, the rain sluicing down her kagoul.
“Over there love”, I pointed out. A medium sized man in a suit, albeit bespoke, was not her idea of castles and love everlasting.
“Where Dutch dress mummy?” asked the Red-Head. I was at a loss.
“She means duchess”, explained her sister.
“There sweetie”, I said, “The lady in the blue coat and see-through umbrella.”
God bless Camilla, how many mere mortals, weeks after strenuous gynaecological surgery, could be found traipsing around a soggy Cornish fishing village, trying their best to look coiffed and delighted as yet another small boy, who would be far happier to meet Dr Who, presented her with another cellophane covered posy?
The entourage was low key and we were not herded behind barricades by bolshi policemen. In fact, these policemen, having a day off from apprehending drunken sailors looked quite excited by the novelty of it all and were therefore quite encouraging to the schoolchildren. Then again, with the weather being awful there wasn’t exactly an unruly mob in Cawsand Square and we were able to get a good look.
“Where is her fur with the dots?”
“They keep their ermine for state occasions darling” I tried to explain. One of the teaching assistants standing next to me was getting more and more agitated.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
“Just realised we haven’t got anything for the kids to present to Camilla. What shall we do?”
“Something from the shop on the square?”
“I didn’t bring my bag”.
“I did” and I shot into the shop and spotted the perfect gift: a box of Cornish fudge with Cawsand written on it. She wouldn’t forget where she’d been that day at least. I got it to my daughter just as Charles and Camilla walked past. In her pink, squelchy mac she stepped forward and proffered the gift.
“This isn’t fudge is it?” asked Camilla smiling.
“Yes”, whispered my daughter, “I’m sorry about your hysterical tummy”. Camilla smiled quizzically.
The teaching assistant looked at me, “Did she just say hysterectomy?” I shrugged my shoulders, “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings…”

Picnic.

Lying on the sofa the other morning, revelling in the fact that with the Red Head at pre-school I could lie there and look out of the window and very decadently just ponder, I pulled out from under one of the scatter cushions – the very same cushions that Hubby has deemed ‘pointless’- an old copy of the Sunday Times Style magazine, unwrapped a Turkish Delight and sunk my teeth into both.
Inside the magazine was an article on celebrity mothers and their ilk and I was told in no uncertain terms that ‘shabby chic’ is the look one must adopt if one is ever to be considered a ‘Yummy Mummy’. From what I could gather from the fashion journalist, to achieve this look, which must be thrown together as though one has not bothered at all, when in fact one has bothered an awful lot, is that one has to wear a holy trinity of garments: a cheap or high street item, something vintage and something designer. I sighed and looked at myself, my skirt – from Tesco’s was certainly cheap and most definitely high street and the pink t-shirt I had on, which I bought when breastfeeding my first born 14 years, was unarguably vintage. Two out of two so far; I looked down at my feet which were shod in Birkenstocks – ha result, ‘designer’ flip-flops, sadly however, also cheap and vintage having been bought second hand on eBay last summer. I closed the magazine in despair, jostled with my stomach, prodded it, squeezed it, held it in but whichever way I looked at it, neither it nor my clothes could ever be considered yummy.
Sighing I dragged myself off the sofa, picked up my keys and handbag and went to retrieve the Red-Head. It being a glorious day I couldn’t bear to go home and sort out the airing cupboard or scrub the skirting boards, nor did I really want to spend the afternoon saying no to Cbeebies or chastising my child for making a mess every time my back was turned, so, instead of driving straight home from pre-school, I drove over the Tamar Bridge, up the A38, across Marsh Mills roundabout, through Plympton, stopping to visit my brother at his car show room before driving on up to Saltram House.
As my tyres crunched on the stately gravel as I pulled into my parking space, a feeling of doom was cast over me. The car park was heaving, and spread on picnic rugs around the grounds were a host of golden mother’n’kids, beside the pond, beneath the trees, fluttering and laughing in the breeze. Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their highlights in sprightly dance.
My own child, having been in pre-school all morning, looked, as my brother rightly pointed out, eccentric. Skinny at the best of times, she is recovering from yet another vomiting bug that has rendered her ‘fragile’. Her arms and legs are like sticks, her bottom totally flat, yet she is very tall so clothes literally hang off her – (the fashion journalist would be rubbing her hands in glee). On this particular occasion she had on a paint encrusted t-shirt, a pair of her elder sister’s leggings and her hair, beautiful always, was today, up in a crazy bun on top of her head whereas some stray tendrils, curly and sticky with marmite were dangling down either side of her face like an orthodox Jew.
“Sit on a blankie mummy”, she demanded pulling at my skirt for me to sit down.
“We don’t have a blanket darling”, I said.
“Me jumper”, she suggested. There was no getting out of it, she wanted to mingle with the Golden Mummies and their children, so with a heavy heart, I went to the boot, unearthed an old fleece jacket that had seen far better days and lay in out on the grass. I lowered myself down and watched the ease with which little children make friends. Within seconds she was playing with a group of boys and girls, picking daisies with them and shrieking with giggles and pretending to hide when a helicopter flew over. Of course I was now in the unenviable position of having to make small talk with the mothers. Their rugs without exception were Cath Kidston, as were their picnic bags and flasks. One woman, I kid you not, had brought her golden retriever, who very regally hung out of its Cath Kidston floral dog basket with a very superior expression. After twenty minutes of excruciating chit-chat where I gleaned that they all worked part-time in something noble or at least interesting, they called their Boden clad kids over for their picnic. Now as a girl of the 60’s, the picnics I was brought up on and thus attempt to replicate for my own family are cheese-spread sarnies, hard boiled eggs and a twist of salt, sausage rolls, a flask of tea and some crisps. If we were lucky, a Penguin biscuit would be lurking somewhere at the bottom of my mother’s duffle bag.
Not so these picnics. The mothers removed from their floral oil-cloth bags items of food that would have had my own children recoiling in fear and dread. The woman on my left took out a Little Trading plastic tub wherein lay some spelt bread and in another plastic container was a tangled mass of sprouting mung beans and celery. The other mum opened a tub of organic, roasted red pepper hummus and a packet of sunflower seeds. Peppermint tea was the drink du jour. My own child looked bereft. “Me lunch too mummy”, she said.
“I haven’t got a picnic sweetie”, I said quietly.
“Would she like some seeds?” asked one of the mums graciously.
“Yuck”, said my child rather too emphatically, “Not me seeds, me Quavers”.There was a gasp. Had she said Turkey Twizzlers they couldn’t have been more shocked.