Adventures across the pond...

School trips have changed....

One week and one day ago, I waved goodbye to the 13 year old at Manchester Airport as we watched a group of school kids go off on a school trip.

Not to Wigan Pier, not to Conwy Castle, not to the Lake District but to travel thousands of miles across the pond for a week's skiing in New Hampshire and two days in NYC.

The anxious one was most anxious about her travelling so far away.....and so was the 13 year old. It was made all the more tearful by the 4am drop off at the airport with not even a cup of coffee to calm the nerves. The next ten hours were mainly spent obsessing watching flight tracker as her plane managed to avoid the terrible potential disasters I had imagined and landed safely in Boston.

The joy of social media alleviated the school trip parent stress syndrome (STPSS) as the lovely teachers updated regularly on a (private) twitter account.

Five days of skiing then ensued with various pictures of the girls looking more and more tired. The pictures of the parents would have showed far more wrinkles, more stress and more tiredness than displayed during the first years of parenting. 

Who knew that an exciting adventure for the 13 year old would manifest in such parental panic for me. I naively thought that as my small things grew up, I would worry less. As I became more confident that they would breathe through the night, I would start to chill out on their development, growth and survival. But it turns out that when you put a 13 year old on a plane from Manchester to Boston that invisible umbilical cord that continues to bind us together is stretched a little bit farther than I would like.

Who knew that parents would panic like this? When I buggered off on my school ski trip I never gave my parents a passing thought (sorry mum, oops dad). When we were stranded in Dover for 18 hours waiting for the ferry (no flights in them there days) I didn't think whether my mum and dad would be wondering where I was, I was simply staring at the White Cliffs of Dover.*

When we were skiing in France, I didn't consider that mum and dad may be spending every day wondering whether I was safe, happy and well - and all without wifi and mobile phones to allow me to check in.

 'This is what I'm having for breakfast' text

I've heard from the 13 year old (almost) daily. To be fair I have mainly heard what she has had for breakfast, a question as to whether she should change her thermals on the third day (erm yes) and other random text that mainly didn't include her skiing adventures. But she was in contact - and so I knew she was alive (minimising the need for the healing powers of wine to cope with STPSS)*.

And then tomorrow the traveller returns home. I will squeeze her so tight when I finally see her face in the airport tomorrow (following a traumatic 12 hours ahead tracking flights across a rather large expanse of water) and hug her close and thank the heavens she is back where she belongs...and then I reckon I will probably start shouting within about 30 minutes.

And normality will resume. I. cannot. wait.



*that's a lie, we may have been chatting to boys from Dover
* again that's a lie, there's always a need for wine

Shush! I'm in silence

“Don't you hate that? Uncomfortable silence. Why do we feel it's necessary to talk about bull in order to feel comfortable? That's when you know you've found somebody really special. When you can just shut the hell up for a minute and comfortably share a silence -Pulp Fiction”

I've just realised that while I've been working over the past couple of days, I've been working in silence. Pure noiseless, deafening silence.

Apart from the odd conversation with the puppy (and frankly she is rather disappointing in the old two way banter) there has been no radio, no music and no noise.

I love noise (well apart from the small things shouting me at any time from 9pm - 10 am) and I've always lived in environments where people shout, curse, sing (badly) and where there is a constant humdrum of noise traffic.

For me a happy place is a noisy place.*

I never thought I would be a silence sort of a girl, but here's the thing - I have quite enjoyed it. 

The silence that follows the chaos of the school run, the calm after the storm of the shouting that starts at 7.15am and only stops when we leave the house at 8.36 am (OR WE WILL BE LATE).  

The hours of peace before the cacophony of conversation begins again after a day of school has been well ...really rather nice.

I'm still in silence now. And the only noise I'm really looking forward to is the sounds of my wine glugging cheerfully into my giant wine glass - some might say reminiscent of the sounds of a babbling brook. 

These are acceptable noises.

Now no-one dare disturb the sound of silence...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zLfCnGVeL4

*To clarify, I mean grown up noise. Not play parks, not screaming children, not doctors surgeries and not random conversations with strangers on trains. I mean the sounds of adult life.

What happened to me?

The downward spiral

I don't know when it happened. I can't pinpoint the moment. 


I can't even remember when I changed.


One minute there I was obsessively reading high fashion magazines, looking at the clothes I would, may and possibly could purchase for my ever extending wardrobe and then the next I was drawn to house things. 


Things designed to make my house look better - not me. And worse still, things designed to make my house run more efficiently. Not even beautiful things.


Don't get me wrong, I still crave beautiful things for me. My boudoir and shoe collection is testament to that but I am worried about my descent into middle age.


Things I really want start with the following:


- A Utility Room
Instead of having my washer and dryer downstairs in my cellar, I dream of a room dedicated to laundry. WTF! I am screaming at myself. Laundry. A room dedicated to washing. WHAT. HAS. HAPPENED. TO. ME?


- A Larder
Now I don't mean your run of the mill cupboard which you can pull out of the wall and it cunningly displays your tins of nearly out of date tuna, your herb collection from 1996 and the emergency chicken soup just in case of illness. I mean a real larder. A walk in larder. A cupboard where all sorts of interesting things are stashed. My granny had a larder and it was often the first thing me and my sister attacked when we went on a trip to visit the wrinklies (she had proper sugar cubes). AM I TURNING INTO MY GRANNY? A LARDER?


- A Porch
I'm picturing the front door of my dreams, it opens into a wide porch where there is a wellie bootrack like this:
http://www.notonthehighstreet.com/barefootkitchen/product/barefoot-bootloop
There is a range of perfectly arranged coat hooks where the waterproofs, school coats and weekend jackets are hanging in neat rows, perhaps even colour co-ordinated and there is even a hook for school bags. Perhaps there is even room for a small ottoman where picnic rugs and everything that is currently in the boot of my car can be stored.
I realise that the porch of my dreams is also a tardis.


However, my hallway is currently my porch.


Obviously further down the list of wants include beautiful shoes, gorgeous make-up, a ready supply of botox and a personal trainer on tap.


Seriously though what has happened to me? I am concerned. What's next? Bird-watching? The W.I.? A subscription to SAGA?


How have I become that person that wants a utility, in fact not just wants a utility. I crave a utility.


All you people out there, all you people with utility rooms, you don't know how lucky you are...