My son had managed to write off three cars in as many years, so was carless. Occasionally, he borrowed mine.
One day, after he had borrowed it, I noticed five bricks in the footwell of the car, with attached ivy.
I phoned him at work.
"Why are those bricks in my car?"
"Oh, yes I meant to tell you. I hit a wall. The car is not damaged."
"But why did you keep the bricks?"
"Sorry, Mum, it's your wall."
Friday, 29 January 2010
Saturday, 27 June 2009
Cherries
It's the cherry season and I love it.
Cherries remind me of my childhood: playing on my auntie's swing on the cherry tree; first the pink blossom arrives in spring, then the gathering of handsful of cherries in summer for tea time. My son used to hang the cherries by their stalks and have them dangling from his ears like earrings and my daughter likes to play the tinker, tailor game with the pips. I make clafoutis or eat them raw. I love the colour, the taste and what they stand for: summer and happy times. For once I don't look at air miles or check the provenance or the price: it's summer and I must have my cherries.
Cherries remind me of my childhood: playing on my auntie's swing on the cherry tree; first the pink blossom arrives in spring, then the gathering of handsful of cherries in summer for tea time. My son used to hang the cherries by their stalks and have them dangling from his ears like earrings and my daughter likes to play the tinker, tailor game with the pips. I make clafoutis or eat them raw. I love the colour, the taste and what they stand for: summer and happy times. For once I don't look at air miles or check the provenance or the price: it's summer and I must have my cherries.
Friday, 12 June 2009
Another Dreary Country House Hotel
I was really looking forward to our weekend as we hadn't been away for a while and we both felt like a break. I had no idea where we were going and I didn't ask; I like that delicious anticipation of the unknown. From the outside, Rooks Hall is imposing. It's a tudor pile with later additions, with neatly clipped lawns, topiary, fountain and an impressive drive up to the front door.
It's the sort of place where one can play at being rich for the weekend. There were a few real wealthy people, judging by the cars in the car park, but most, I guess were like us, splashing out on an occasional treat. Our room was nothing special, but it was large and quiet as we had requested, looking out onto a cobbled courtyard.
The public rooms were wooden panelled and dotted with deliberately mismatched sofas and chairs and table lamps, so it did not have that corporate hotel feel to it. The highlight for me was the terrace with wisteria and jasmine, with far reaching views over open countryside.
And so on to the food. This is where we lose the plot in the UK. In France, the food would be fabulous but perhaps the surroundings might not be so grand. In India's best hotels, they have food to match. All the indicators are there to lull one into false security: crisp linen cloths, polished glasses, fancy cutlery and even an impressive wine list, but sadly, yet again, the food was disappointing. My starter was a variation on salad leaves with walnut and cheese. The chef had used trevissio, a type of Italian lettuce; for some reason he had grilled it but I failed to see the point as it was burnt. There was far too much blue cheese and the whole thing just seemed cack-handed. Our main was much better, which is not saying a great deal really. It was a steamed onion on a bed of buttered spinach with a wild mushroom sauce and was reasonably tasty. Pudding was a disappointment. I was brought the wrong one at first, so I had to wait a further fifteen minutes whilst they got the correct one. This was after the waitress had snapped at me about it not being her fault. When it came, the pasty was so hard I could not cut it with my spoon and half of it had spent too long in the oven and was black. I left it. Breakfast was similarly underwhelming. They got my order wrong and when it eventually did arrive, P had already eaten all his food.
I feel a theme developing here. Fabulous hotel, lovely gardens and rooms - poor food. And terribly, terribly old-fashioned, but not in a good way. Do we really need to push wooden trolleys around the dining room and carve/serve food at the table? Isn't that a bit passe these days, a bit Upstairs/Downstairs? We had a reduction on our bill for the bodged up breakfast and the burnt pudding, but I don't particularly want my food comped. It's not really rocket science is it, but in the UK I'm afraid perhaps it is. If you know of a decent hotel with good food, do let me know.
It's the sort of place where one can play at being rich for the weekend. There were a few real wealthy people, judging by the cars in the car park, but most, I guess were like us, splashing out on an occasional treat. Our room was nothing special, but it was large and quiet as we had requested, looking out onto a cobbled courtyard.
The public rooms were wooden panelled and dotted with deliberately mismatched sofas and chairs and table lamps, so it did not have that corporate hotel feel to it. The highlight for me was the terrace with wisteria and jasmine, with far reaching views over open countryside.
And so on to the food. This is where we lose the plot in the UK. In France, the food would be fabulous but perhaps the surroundings might not be so grand. In India's best hotels, they have food to match. All the indicators are there to lull one into false security: crisp linen cloths, polished glasses, fancy cutlery and even an impressive wine list, but sadly, yet again, the food was disappointing. My starter was a variation on salad leaves with walnut and cheese. The chef had used trevissio, a type of Italian lettuce; for some reason he had grilled it but I failed to see the point as it was burnt. There was far too much blue cheese and the whole thing just seemed cack-handed. Our main was much better, which is not saying a great deal really. It was a steamed onion on a bed of buttered spinach with a wild mushroom sauce and was reasonably tasty. Pudding was a disappointment. I was brought the wrong one at first, so I had to wait a further fifteen minutes whilst they got the correct one. This was after the waitress had snapped at me about it not being her fault. When it came, the pasty was so hard I could not cut it with my spoon and half of it had spent too long in the oven and was black. I left it. Breakfast was similarly underwhelming. They got my order wrong and when it eventually did arrive, P had already eaten all his food.
I feel a theme developing here. Fabulous hotel, lovely gardens and rooms - poor food. And terribly, terribly old-fashioned, but not in a good way. Do we really need to push wooden trolleys around the dining room and carve/serve food at the table? Isn't that a bit passe these days, a bit Upstairs/Downstairs? We had a reduction on our bill for the bodged up breakfast and the burnt pudding, but I don't particularly want my food comped. It's not really rocket science is it, but in the UK I'm afraid perhaps it is. If you know of a decent hotel with good food, do let me know.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
Miscarriage remembered
23 years ago today:
My first child had been a “text book” baby. Having endured a twenty-seven hour labour, I’m not sure I would agree with the midwife’s description, but now I was expecting my second, three years later, all was going well.
We were watching telly and I started to get cramping pains, rather like period pains. I’d had them before, so I just kissed my husband good night and decided to go to bed early. The pains continued and I went to the loo. There was the tell-tale sign that all was not well – blood – and lots of it. My husband called the doctor – a locum – and he said to stay in bed and “try not to go to the toilet”. The baby was fine. We felt the advice a bit odd, but decided he knew best. I lay there, worried. When my husband came to bed, he noticed the mattress was soaked with blood. He called an ambulance.
The ambulance workers were kindness personified. They lifted my legs up above my head and spoke soothingly, saying I’d be all right when I got to hospital. The baby was fine, they said. I had to go to the hospital alone. We felt it unfair to drag our three year old son with us; we did not know the neighbours well enough to wake them up at 3am and my sister who lived nearby was abroad.
Once they left me at the hospital, things started to go downhill. I was put on a trolley in a side cubicle, the curtain drawn. The A and E department was busy. I heard crying and raised voices. Two seventeen year old boys had come off their mopeds and were being attended to urgently. A nurse came in and told me a gynaecologist was on his way. I lay in the cubicle terrified, hearing pandemonium around me. In the background I could hear a tap dripping. It wasn’t a tap. It was blood, my blood, slowly dripping onto the floor.
Eventually the gynaecologist arrived. He seemed irritated and slightly annoyed. It was 4.30am. “What is the problem?” A nurse appeared to answer his question. “She’s losing a lot of blood, 18 weeks.” “I need to examine you.” He pulled up my hospital gown. “Do not weep!” I had started to cry. I couldn’t tell from his reactions what to think of it all. “What about my baby?” I asked quietly. “It’s dead” he said, in a matter of fact way as if he were delivering the football results. I was devastated. “Dead?” I asked in case I had misunderstood. The doctor earlier, the ambulance men, they said the baby was OK. The doctor ignored me and roughly put back my gown. The nurse reappeared. “We need to get rid of the growth”, he said. Growth? That’s my baby in there you are talking about. I wanted to get up and punch him. Punch him for not understanding, punch him for being so unkind, and punch him because he didn’t deserve to be a doctor. But I lay there, mute and submissive. “25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage” he said, matter-of-factly. Oh, that’s OK then, I thought. Shall I get up and dance round the room? I’m not interested in your sodding statistics I wanted to screech at him, you haven’t got a clue, have you? You’re bloody useless. At this moment in time I want to kill you. But I lay there, mute and submissive. I cried a bit. But again he said “Do not weep.”
I was taken up to a ward of sleeping women. They had all just had abortions. Oh the irony! Then a sudden thought hit me. What about my baby? What about the dead baby inside me? I was hooked up to a drip and given an injection. I was terrified. “What is going to happen?” I asked an Irish nurse, who showed me some kindness. “We have to wait for the baby to be born. It should happen tonight. Try to sleep.”
Sleep? How could I sleep? I lay awake, lonely and upset and scared.
The butcher returned at 8am. “We have to get rid of the growth” he said and plonked a kidney bowl on the bed, disappearing to call a nurse. No nurse appeared so he decided to do it solo. I felt a sharp pain and the swoosh of something dropping in the bowl. He had bloodied hands and needed to find a towel. “Do not look!” he commanded as he left the cubicle. But I did look. It was my baby. How dare he tell me not to look?
I named her Elizabeth. I tried to write an official complaint to the hospital but found it too upsetting. Even now, twenty-three years later, I have tears in my eyes as I type. It took me seven years before I would consider having a baby again.
My first child had been a “text book” baby. Having endured a twenty-seven hour labour, I’m not sure I would agree with the midwife’s description, but now I was expecting my second, three years later, all was going well.
We were watching telly and I started to get cramping pains, rather like period pains. I’d had them before, so I just kissed my husband good night and decided to go to bed early. The pains continued and I went to the loo. There was the tell-tale sign that all was not well – blood – and lots of it. My husband called the doctor – a locum – and he said to stay in bed and “try not to go to the toilet”. The baby was fine. We felt the advice a bit odd, but decided he knew best. I lay there, worried. When my husband came to bed, he noticed the mattress was soaked with blood. He called an ambulance.
The ambulance workers were kindness personified. They lifted my legs up above my head and spoke soothingly, saying I’d be all right when I got to hospital. The baby was fine, they said. I had to go to the hospital alone. We felt it unfair to drag our three year old son with us; we did not know the neighbours well enough to wake them up at 3am and my sister who lived nearby was abroad.
Once they left me at the hospital, things started to go downhill. I was put on a trolley in a side cubicle, the curtain drawn. The A and E department was busy. I heard crying and raised voices. Two seventeen year old boys had come off their mopeds and were being attended to urgently. A nurse came in and told me a gynaecologist was on his way. I lay in the cubicle terrified, hearing pandemonium around me. In the background I could hear a tap dripping. It wasn’t a tap. It was blood, my blood, slowly dripping onto the floor.
Eventually the gynaecologist arrived. He seemed irritated and slightly annoyed. It was 4.30am. “What is the problem?” A nurse appeared to answer his question. “She’s losing a lot of blood, 18 weeks.” “I need to examine you.” He pulled up my hospital gown. “Do not weep!” I had started to cry. I couldn’t tell from his reactions what to think of it all. “What about my baby?” I asked quietly. “It’s dead” he said, in a matter of fact way as if he were delivering the football results. I was devastated. “Dead?” I asked in case I had misunderstood. The doctor earlier, the ambulance men, they said the baby was OK. The doctor ignored me and roughly put back my gown. The nurse reappeared. “We need to get rid of the growth”, he said. Growth? That’s my baby in there you are talking about. I wanted to get up and punch him. Punch him for not understanding, punch him for being so unkind, and punch him because he didn’t deserve to be a doctor. But I lay there, mute and submissive. “25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage” he said, matter-of-factly. Oh, that’s OK then, I thought. Shall I get up and dance round the room? I’m not interested in your sodding statistics I wanted to screech at him, you haven’t got a clue, have you? You’re bloody useless. At this moment in time I want to kill you. But I lay there, mute and submissive. I cried a bit. But again he said “Do not weep.”
I was taken up to a ward of sleeping women. They had all just had abortions. Oh the irony! Then a sudden thought hit me. What about my baby? What about the dead baby inside me? I was hooked up to a drip and given an injection. I was terrified. “What is going to happen?” I asked an Irish nurse, who showed me some kindness. “We have to wait for the baby to be born. It should happen tonight. Try to sleep.”
Sleep? How could I sleep? I lay awake, lonely and upset and scared.
The butcher returned at 8am. “We have to get rid of the growth” he said and plonked a kidney bowl on the bed, disappearing to call a nurse. No nurse appeared so he decided to do it solo. I felt a sharp pain and the swoosh of something dropping in the bowl. He had bloodied hands and needed to find a towel. “Do not look!” he commanded as he left the cubicle. But I did look. It was my baby. How dare he tell me not to look?
I named her Elizabeth. I tried to write an official complaint to the hospital but found it too upsetting. Even now, twenty-three years later, I have tears in my eyes as I type. It took me seven years before I would consider having a baby again.
Monday, 20 April 2009
India again
My tenth trip to this magical place came and went as always in a flash. I do remember swimming in the pool and lying back on the water and looking up at the trees and flowers and having a pinch-me-I'm-dreaming moment.
Trouble is, I come home and feel instantly discontented. The house is too small, work is too sporadic, weather is foul - it's chilly and raining, people don't smile, the food is rubbish, I'm too fat....then two days later I'm back to normal. Until the next time, which is July or August.
Thankfully one day in about three years I shall go and not come back. Then I will feel like I'm dreaming.
Trouble is, I come home and feel instantly discontented. The house is too small, work is too sporadic, weather is foul - it's chilly and raining, people don't smile, the food is rubbish, I'm too fat....then two days later I'm back to normal. Until the next time, which is July or August.
Thankfully one day in about three years I shall go and not come back. Then I will feel like I'm dreaming.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Musical Taste
I blame my generation for instilling a love of music in me. How could anyone who grew up in the 60s and 70s not be influenced by Hendrix or the Who or the Rolling Stones? I've never been one for soul or pop but do like rock and blues. Not heavy rock these days, although I don't mind a bit of Led Zep occasionally, but good, decent music with real instuments, not something over-mixed in the studio. I listen to my music nearly every day. Problem is my friends. They no like.
"Could you turn it down, it's giving me a headache." It wasn't loud, honest.
"Is this your choice of music?" asked another friend incredulously.
And the last time I saw a certain man friend "Oh, you and your teenage music!"
What's wrong with the Editors, Fleet Foxes or Elbow? Quite a lot according to my friends, so I listen in private, holding on to my guilty secret.
"Could you turn it down, it's giving me a headache." It wasn't loud, honest.
"Is this your choice of music?" asked another friend incredulously.
And the last time I saw a certain man friend "Oh, you and your teenage music!"
What's wrong with the Editors, Fleet Foxes or Elbow? Quite a lot according to my friends, so I listen in private, holding on to my guilty secret.
Mothers
I have a little ritual. On Fridays at 12 noon, I collect my mother and she comes to me for lunch. It's no big deal for me, but it makes her week as otherwise she doesn't get out. The fact that she puts up with her grumpy daughter for the best part of six hours shows how lonely she must get. I have usually bought her some clothes during the week, which we discussed carefully on Friday and then I take the whole lot back on Monday morning. All this is fine. I also don't mind that she's on a dairy-free diet but implores me to buy her Roses chocolates and muffins. What does get on my nerves though is the humming. Right from the moment I collect her to when I take her back, if she's not eating or talking, she's humming. It's like having a large Winnie the Pooh sitting next to you in the car, only not nearly as amusing.
I told my friend. "She's happy, that's why she's humming. Don't be so critical." I felt like a heel.
I told my daughter. "Humming?" "Humming?" she said again as if she couldn't believe I had said it and looked at me with, I felt, a little more loathing than was strictly necessary. "If my mother's only fault was her humming, I'd be really grateful." Touche, mon petit.
I told my friend. "She's happy, that's why she's humming. Don't be so critical." I felt like a heel.
I told my daughter. "Humming?" "Humming?" she said again as if she couldn't believe I had said it and looked at me with, I felt, a little more loathing than was strictly necessary. "If my mother's only fault was her humming, I'd be really grateful." Touche, mon petit.
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