Denial

"I didn't!"

"You did."

"I didn't!"

"You did."

"Would you two please stop bickering?"

"We're not!"

"You are."

"We're not!"

"You are!"

"Mummy, where's my Snuggly Duck?"

"In the baby's room, where you left it."

"I didn't!"

"You did."

"I didn't!"

"You did."

"Darling, have you seen my mobile?"

"It's on the dresser. You put it there this morning."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"You're imagining things."

"No, I'm not."

"Daddy, he took my Game Boy!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Yes, you did!"

"No, I didn't!"

"I'm telling Mummy. Muuuuuuum!"

"Muuuuuuuuuuuummmmmy!"

"She's in the sitting room."

"NO, I'M NOT!"

Solitude

It doesn't matter where she is. Nor matter how large the crowd.

Some days, it is as though her head is a goldfish bowl; public property for anyone to gawp and marvel at. But how can they see past the murk? How could you possibly tell if there's anything alive in there? And if they could, if they did, would they tell her? Or back off in confusion.

And her heart. It beats there, on the outside of her cardigan sleeve. Sometimes it hollers at people as their lives brush shoulders with hers:

"Today I'm sad! Today I need you!"

"I'm out of sorts, out of synch, out of kilter. I've lost my rhythm, lost direction, lost my marbles. I'm beginning to wonder if I had any rhythm to start with. Or direction for that matter - how did you know which route to take? Did you know from childhood? Did someone help you? Can you help me?"

But it falls on deaf ears. Or maybe her heart's frequency is set to another channel?

Occasionally, the channels cross with sparks of static electricity and her eyes light up with hope. But almost invariably the dial spins on past hers. Her station is not churning out enough crowd-pleasing material. She doesn't have the will to spin it. She wants the content to be accepted for what it is.

So she hitches on the smile and stands in the middle of the crowd in the playground, the life and soul.

Alone.

Freecycle

We don't want a drum-kit, do we?

Until we have a sound-proofed garage, the answer must always be no.

Robes. They are stone-coloured, natural, heavy linen. It includes a top, a skirt and a hooded coat. They give the effect of Jedi robes. Fits size 16-18 woman, about 5'7" - 5'8". These are used but undamaged. Excellent for ceremonies.

Anyone?

Hats. There are 5 hats, all hand-made and never worn. Two are Tudor-style and the other three are fascinators. Would be good for fancy dress or acting.

Ermmmm. Let me think. Oh, tell them OK. Good for the dressing-up box.

I have an old dolls' house, I think from the '70s, needs restoring. Was given to me by another freecycler last year and I've never got round to restoring it. Seems a shame to be sitting there.

But we have boys. Or... should we stereotype? Would they love it?

Three tables, 6' x 3', wooden tops, metal legs. In fair condition.

Yes, yes, yes! Straight away! Our party - they'd be perfect!

Wanted - bidet - Bohemia, St. Leonards. Can collect.

I'm afraid I can't oblige. Our bidets are in use. But Bohemia... Doesn't it sound wonderful?

dyson cylinder for offer i have just bought a newer model so getting rid it's in quite good condition still good suction has been used mainly for pet hairs so will need a good clean

Some things you should just never ask. Or own up to. And some people need to learn to punctuate.

Offered. Orthopaedic mattress, double (4'6" x 6'3") Somewhat coffee-stained but very supportive and if covered with a mattress cover and an underblanket would be fine. Has given me 20 years of good comfortable sleep but is just too heavy to take overseas.

Who needs a wife?

Offered. Majorette stuff. Leotards, jazz shoes, baton etc. that are no longer of any use.

Don't you look at me like that!

Without You

Where would I be?

You watched me grow, just ahead of you.

You were my little frilly shadow for the longest time.

You told me stories through your sucked thumb, lisping my name.

You stood just behind me and said "Yeah!" in agreement, often.



I adored you.

You were my china doll.

I wanted to brush your teeth before you had any; your hair before it came.

You watched the anguish of my teenage years. You saw my pain.

You squirrelled it away in the back of your mind to soothe me in later distress.



I would have liked to have been more use to you during yours.



We stand together now, and say "Yeah!", side by side.

Power-Point

Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

By George, I think I’ve got it!

Shouldn’t that yardstick apply to every thought, every action?

Would the human race not be better off if, before shifting the tiniest muscle, before lifting the smallest finger, before exerting the least grain of decision, it examined the purest corner of its conscience and said:

“Should I?”

_______

And would it be presumptuous to suggest to all you leaders-of-men that it's never too late to start?

Word Count

Unit = one.

But it also means two or more, doesn't it? Family unit? One unit of several members.

Couple = two.

A couple of children. A couple of problems. A happy couple.

Trio = three.

A tricky trio of troublesome tykes. Triumvirate. Tri-partite. Three-line whip.

Several = a few.

Several years ago I lost my marbles. How many?

Millions.

Right Where You Want Me.

We are very much aware of the frailty of life, for some reasons that you know and others that you don't.

"But what did she mean, Daddy? Obviously, I understand the first reference, but the second? What is wrong? What are you not telling me?"

"I told her she shouldn't put that in there when she read it to me."

"But what is it? Are you OK?"

Sigh. "Yes, darling. I'm fine. Look, I really don't think I should tell you this."

"Oh God! WHAT?"

"She'll be awfully cross. You must promise I didn't tell you."

"OK, OK, I promise. Just tell me!"

"There were a couple of scares last year. She was awfully worried. She found a lump. And then she had another fear, too. But they were both fine. They were checked out - tests and everything. There was nothing in it."

So, I don't quiz her about it because I'll re-open the can of worms, prolong the argument. And besides, it came to nothing.

Yet if I don't ask, I don't care.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Words

Scurvy.

It's a good word, isn't it?

Only one vowel but a good distribution of curves and angles.

Curves.

Curvy.

See?

But I don't suppose it's very nice to have it.

Do I Know You?

Have you been this way before?

I have.

Well, of course I have - here I am.

But I thought I was the first.

At least, I thought I was the only one.

I didn't think I'd find anyone along here.



You seem awfully familiar.

Look! That scar's just like mine!

And that one.

And that one!



This is kind of weird actually.

I might just go back. I'm sure I've got something pressing to do. I've just forgotten what it is.



Or...

Did you want to go on a little way together?

We could maybe see... you know... how they heal?

Think Fast

Crushed.

Devastated.

His little sleep-crumpled face betrays a child destroyed.

Lifting my foggy head from my pillow I look at him, small and fragile in the doorway, and ponder what could have brought such wretchedness so early in the day.

As the cloudy skies of deepest sleep begin to clear, the weak dawn sun of realisation lights a sense of panic rising somewhere deep inside me.

"She didn't come!" he wails.

"Are you sure?" I ask, trying to buy time to find a happy outcome to this tragedy.

"Yes! Look!"

He thrusts his little fist under my nose and uncurls his fingers. There, nestled innocently in his little palm (where it should not be) is a tiny, perfect tooth.

"Listen," I cajole, "It's still awfully early, sweetheart. Barely daytime yet. Night-time really. Is your brother still asleep?"

He nods.

"I'll sneak in and see if she's been while you've been talking to us."

He doesn't notice me take the coin from my bedside table. I am a devious mother.

I return triumphant.

"Look! She came! She must have been running REALLY late tonight. Perhaps lots and lots of little boys and girls lost teeth yesterday..."

His face is transformed. From wreckage to rapture in one wily move.

--- --- ---

At breakfast, I notice him observing me from under his eyelashes. He is puzzled.

Eventually, I ask.

"What is it, darling?"

He opens his hand again.

Anyone?

Trial by Love?

I was 19.

She came, uninvited, into my room and sat on my bed. She wouldn't make eye-contact; she looked at her feet.

"I don't know if you two have got what is called an 'active sex life.'"

My heart began a sickly pounding and my tongue seemed twice its usual size. I opened my mouth to speak. But she was faster. Talking swiftly, without stumbling, she spoke of 'protection'. I explained, quietly, that this information was a little late in arriving.

I pleaded. I begged. I appealed to her maternal protection. It didn't hear me.

"PLEASE don't tell Daddy."

"Your father and I have no secrets."

She always said that: "Your father and I". Like they were the important ones, the ones that mattered. We, their offspring, were secondary appendages.

When he returned home later that evening, I was summoned to my father's study. From behind his desk, he motioned for me to sit. In no uncertain terms he made it clear that I was an abomination. My behaviour would not be tolerated. I would desist. Not only that, but I would not be permitted to receive Communion until I had been to confession and put a stop to my sinning.

I would also not pervert my brother or sisters. I would not speak of my actions, far less perform them under their roof.

On Sunday, I was woken as usual and herded into the car with my younger siblings. As the time for Communion arrived, my family filed one by one to the front of the church and left me, the fornicator, alone in the pew. Head bowed. Mortified.

And so it went on. Sunday after Sunday. Shame, humiliation, ritual stripping of my soul.

And I did not desist.

--- --- ---

One Sunday, months later, in Moscow, I found an American church for my visiting parents. Fresh from observing a mountain of letters, sent to reinforce his love and keep my spirits chirpy, they sat either side of me. The congregation rose, one by one, to take Communion and my mother stood. She turned to me. Graciously forgiving, she held out her hand to me. Permission to return to the fold. I stood and followed, sobbing tears of gratitude, humility, repentance.

Should I call her God?

Tug-of-War

He was roped in. Literally.

I don't think I realised how game he can be. He came home with burns from that rope and a chest he later struggled to get to sleep on.

"I'm in team 3", he announced. All that was left was to wait to be called.

We stood along the line, his boys and I, roaring our encouragement.

On one end of the rope, a raggle-taggle assortment of dads; all shapes and sizes; all plucky and determined; all being cheered on by their proud families.

On the other end?

Firemen.

Seldom have I been so conflicted.

Danish Pastries

Two devastating blondes board the train. They sit adjacent to us and chat to one another happily. Admiring glances are angled at them from the length of the compartment.

My day-dirty hair is being used as a prop by my big, fat baby. He is hollering in my ear and rubbing half-chewed dates into my already crumpled blouse. It is hard to imagine feeling or, indeed, looking less glamorous.

The bombshells catch his eye and he gives them his most disarming grin. And dribbles down my neck. I feel it trickle into my bra. They coo at him and reach for his chubby little hands.

The trolley wends its way bumpily down the aisle, stops by me and I order some ridiculously over-priced and revolting coffee - anything to stay awake. And to kill time.

It is the vixens' turn. The trolley attendant leans over them attentively.

In their most beautiful accents, they ask for coffee and a croissant each. But there is only one left. He offers them an alternative :

"You could 'ave a Danish?"

They collapse into uncontainable fits of giggles. I've already got the joke, but the attendant is clearly flummoxed.

"We are Danish", titters the lovely nearest me, by way of explanation.

He still hasn't got it.

"Well, it won't be as good as the ones you get at home".

I sigh and turn back to my little round ball of damp havoc.

Well, that's killed five minutes.

Tea-Time

"Superman shot off through the garden. His..."

"I'm not Superman. I'm Superfrog".

"I do apologise.
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His cape bil..."

"I'm not wearing a cape. It's my ninvisible cloak".

"I am sorry.
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His ninvisible cloak billowed around his arms. Robin..."

"I haven't got arms. Frogs have four legs".

"How silly of me.
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His ninvisible cloak billowed around his four legs. Robin, his sidekick, leapt in..."

"He's not Robin. He's Super-Sumo-Robin-Head".

"How did I miss that?
"Superfrog shot off through the garden. His ninvisible cloak billowed around his four legs. Super-Sumo-Robin-Head, his sidekick, leapt into view halfway down the lawn..."

"It's not a lawn. It's a Space Trampoline".

...

...

...

"Mum?"

"I'm not Mum. I'm She-Who-Forgot-Where-She-Started.
And it's tea-time".

...

...

...

"Superfrogs don't eat tea".

Writers' Block

The tentacles of my thoughts thrash about, desperate to grasp onto something.

The something is elusive.

As the suckers of one long limb approach their goal, like an unyielding lover it vanishes around a corner in a flash of red, lost forever.

If I'm not careful, these writhing, living branches will knit themselves into the most horrible tangle and I'll never think straight again.

Would it help to apply gin?

Mrs Bantam

She's heading straight for me.

Look down, look up, look anywhere but at her. Maybe it's someone standing near me she wants. Maybe if I engage someone else in conversation, she'll walk straight past.

But she's a teacher. She knows who she's after. And it's me.

I try to look meek, optimistic, unthreatening, friendly, vulnerable, welcoming. It's too much for my poor face to cope with. I end up looking, frankly, a bit simple. I am already ashamed and embarrassed.

"Could I have a word, Mrs. Sands?"

I nod my acquiescence and smile hopefully. Perhaps he's been outstanding today. Maybe it's a heroic tale I'm about to hear.

But her face quickly denies me that hope. And I find it lurked only just below the surface anyway.

"I walked into the classroom today to find Alfie digging for gold".

I am non-plussed. Suddenly, I feel like a foreigner in my own land. Digging for gold? What on earth could she mean?

She senses my incomprehension.

She gestures with her index finger, turning her face away and pushing her finger up the far side of her nose. I get the point.

"I'm afraid he is beside himself. I simply asked him if he could desist and he dissolved into tears. I haven't been able to get a word out of him since".

I follow her to the classroom and collect my crumpled, sodden child.

Slowly, bleakly, desolately, my little nose-picker and I make our way out of the school gates and towards the car. He hiccups occasionally. He still hasn't looked up at me. I have one hand soothingly, protectively, on his shoulder.

Suddenly, he trips. And the force of the fall propels the cherry stone from deep in his nostril.

A Long Time Absent

Kneeling, I am overwhelmed with gratitude
For the peace;
For the calm.
Inside.
Most surprising.

Glancing down beside me: small head bent, intent.
Following.
Keeping up.
Angelic.
My darling.

Know Your Audience

"I have to be honest", he said.

Doesn't that always worry you? Why do you have to be? Very few people are, in truth. Doesn't it usually mean that you're about to say something a little outspoken and, really, you're just preparing your listeners for it?

Anyway, he had to be honest.

"I'm a breast-man. I don't know why. I just love them.
They're just... lovely".

His face was enraptured, his eyes far-away and wistful. There was no doubting the truth of his words.

His audience, two baggy-bosomed mothers-of-four, smiled at him indulgently.

Good job they love him.

School Reunion

I had never met her before. Despite the crowds milling around her, laughing, emptying their glasses with friendly abandon, using this short time to fill the last few decades, she sat alone.

She was one of the few who hadn’t brought a husband. She had found a quiet spot in a wicker chair, in a corner under a tree, by the pool. Before her, but apparently being afforded little attention, a family splashed, oblivious to anyone else. Armbands, rubber rings, giggles and screams. It was the perfect place to sit, undisturbed; to avoid having to make small-talk. The other guests appeared to understand. They gave her the solitude she seemed to require.

Very occasionally a wistful smile shivered across her face and, as quickly as it had appeared, vanished.

I sat at a table on the lawn with the rest of the party. We ate, drank and talked. They were a fascinating group; their lives so diverse, their paths so different. They had reached an age that had brought them ease in their own skin and no competition amongst themselves. They were simply enjoying being together. Most of them had children my age and grandchildren at similar stages to my own boys happily cavorting in the pool with their father.

The lunch, ridiculously billed as a picnic, was lavish and plentiful. There were cold meats, Spanish tortillas, quiches, salads of many colours and delicious warm breads. The wine was as always in abundant supply – the Rioja the sensible choice as the Rosé on the garden table was heating to the point of tasting mulled.

On the surface at least, the argument with my parents had been forgotten; they were basking in the glow of their munificence: hosts and providers, parents and grandparents; generosity personified. As I passed behind her chair, my mother took my hand and held it affectionately to her warm cheek without breaking off her conversation with her old school friend. I was enjoying the break in hostilities, allowing myself to relax into the afternoon: the sunniest of the year. But I didn’t altogether trust it. Experience had taught me, to my cost, that things were not always as simple as they appeared and that, more likely than not, the rumblings would continue undetected until the next time I dared declare my wishes in opposition to my parents’. This was merely a truce, and I shouldn’t trust its permanence.

The afternoon stretched into evening and the last of the guests left. The children were dried and dressed, the cold banished from their bones under sun-toasted clothes. One by one they were loaded into the car. A mood of pure benevolence washed over me as I embraced my father.

“I love you, Daddy. I hope you know that”, I told him.

He laughed, a little self-consciously, and told me he loved me, too. I headed for the car, where my mother was making faces through the window at my boys. I put my arms around her and thanked her for a superb afternoon.

“It’s so sad about Hettie”, she said.

“Has she never been married?” I asked.

“Oh darling, she had two sons. The first was killed in an accident in front of his brother. His brother couldn’t bear it and took his own life in despair”.

“Oh my God!”

“Then her husband left with a younger woman. She said that was the worst bit”.

Somehow I have forgotten what our argument was about.

Induction

He eyed me almost disdainfully.


"If I could ask you to just sit here a minute and fill out these forms. Just let me know when you're done". He swaggered off. He didn't even have to try to look nonchalant. He wasn't remotely attractive (certainly not my type) but something about his sinewy poise and movement just oozed fitness. You couldn't help but watch and admire.


I sat on the swivel-chair in the corner feeling small and inexperienced. I was, as they say, out of my comfort zone. In so many ways. This was not my world and I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to be a part of it. But it was too late now. I had come in and I had sat down. I had a questionnaire, for God's sake! Why didn't they make it easy?


I answered all the relevant questions, many of which made me squirm. There was something self-flagellatory in the manner in which I forced myself to answer questions at which other people would surely draw the line... Age, weight, reasons for putting myself through this humiliation.


Occasionally, I glanced up from my test to see minuscule young things in even smaller garments barely breaking a sweat on machines that would surely have been better located in a dank dungeon somewhere. This must be hell. I must, voluntarily, have mosied on into hell. What is more, I was actually going to pay them to torture me. And. AND, I was going to pay extra for them to devise a particular routine of suffering especially for me!

I was no stranger to humiliation. After all, you only have to get pregnant to qualify for large doses of it at the hands of anyone wearing a health professional's badge. And I had managed that four times.

Is it right to prefer to give birth naked in a roomful of people you don't know than to join a gym?

Loss

Her eyes had dulled, the life drained sadly away.

Her smile had disappeared; that it had existed at all had now become a mere rumour.

Her stance spoke of a broken woman, a woman who had thrown in the towel, given up the fight, relinquished her place, accepted defeat.

Her shoulders sloped so that you could almost watch her energy trickle down their length, drip off her fingers and vanish, unspent, into the ground.

Her head fell to one side naturally now, giving her a mournful yet slightly quizzical air, as though she were trying to fathom how she had come to be so.

Crowds passed her in the street. On their faces was the evidence of their thoughts:
"Poor cow - some people are so bloody miserable"; "Thank God I'm not like that"; "There, but for the Grace of God..."

Have you noticed that people seldom equate the old, infirm or unhappy with themselves? They seem to think they are exempt from these phenomena, naturally occurring and usually lurking somewhere around the corner for each of us...

To have loved and lost is a tragedy. To have loved and lost so many leaves only a shell.

Sports Day

The field stretches forward interminably. It seems yet more intimidating than it did before. The freshly-painted white lines dividing the lanes appear to merge into one in the middle-distance. Nervous giggling. Dry throat. Twitchy legs.

A small prayer on the starting line: "Don't let me be last, please don't let me be last. I don't have to be first but please don't let me be last!"

Everyone is watching. Everyone in the WORLD. Or so it seems.

The whistle blows and it all kicks off, everyone jostling for position. Some fall back and others seem to fly. Like the sound of train wheels the mantra is silently repeated: "Somewhere in the middle, somewhere in the middle, somewhere in the middle..."

Chest thrust forward, head thrown back, legs pumping. Eyes half-shut, tongue clamped between teeth. Mustn't fall!

First place is taken, second, third. Then fourth, too, crosses over the plastic cord on the scorched grass in this school field. FIFTH! Fifth out of ten! That's not bad at all. Perfectly respectable. Head can be held up; not too high, but up nonetheless. A sticker is thrust forth: "Well Done!"
God, I hate the mothers' race.

Fear and Comfort

The world is fraught with risk and peril, my love.
Like opening your head on the playroom doorframe;
Like snapping your collar-bone in the school-yard;
Like having your heart broken when she doesn't love you back.

These arms will keep you safe from harm, my love.
They'll mop you up and patch your wounds;
They'll take you where you need to be;
They'll hold you till the hurt has eased.

The time will come for you to leave, my love.
Adventures call and you must answer;
New arms await your nervous discovery;
I shall encourage your flight and fear your falls.

Collection

His eyes light up; face aglow
Tousled hair, everywhere.
He's seen me.

He stands, unsteady
Trousers sagging, wellies wonky.
Come straight to me.

My face? Inane.
My grin enormous.
My arms open.

A few small steps close the divide
From group to one
Enfolded.

Rite of Passage

Chest puffed out like a pigeon courting.

Grin stretched wide across his face.

Eyes half-closed with pride and pleasure.

Bags clutched tight; close and safe.

Steps small, knees high, he marches out.

Arthur has started school.

Cool Dude Day

8.30 a.m. is never a good time to have to be somewhere on a Sunday. For starters, it means having to be ready even earlier. But I am trying to be a good Mummy.

So, it is 7 o’clock and I am in bed with a day-welcoming cup of tea. My eyes are slowly ungluing themselves from their lids and my brain has started to whirr into action (or some semblance thereof). With peace reigning (in the way it never does at this time during the school week) I am given permission to run through a checklist of tasks before the time comes to haul myself, under protest, from beneath my all-too-comforting duvet. A packed lunch must be assembled, sun-cream and a cap located (in case of hot weather), waterproofs (in case of wet), all brought together in a backpack emblazoned with his name. Breakfast must be prepared and consumed...

I haven’t even mentioned the salvage job that needs to be carried out on my face before it is ready to brave the world.

With the bustle of preparation finally behind us and our journey to our rendez-vous nearly complete, neither of us has had time to acknowledge, to ourselves or each other, what is about to happen. The coach will leave at 8.30 a.m. It will deposit him in the same location at 5.30 p.m. (or thereabouts). And in between?

He hoists his backpack over his shoulders. I find myself hoping he doesn’t topple backwards.
I am handed a band with his name and contact details on it to attach to his wrist. I dutifully comply.

I fasten it too loosely and it slides, immediately, right off.

With my longest nail, I prise the edges of the stickiness (designed to hang on for grim death until removed with scissors) back, just enough to enable a fold. My sense of achievement is great. My son is identifiable and will remain so!

Another Mummy approaches, holding tightly onto her own son. His feet, too, are dragging a little.

“Why don’t you two sit together on the coach?” she suggests. “And maybe try to stay together today?” We are jollying them along. They are going to have fun.

All too soon, the coach has arrived. Our small, silent boys file, brave smiles hitched onto nervous faces, up the steps and onto the coach, brisk ladies-in-charge hurrying them on. He is so small I can hardly see the top of his head.

Oh God. Can he see me? Will he see me to wave goodbye? Did I cuddle him hard enough? Is he strapping himself in?

He turns, searches, and his face relaxes into his cheekiest grin. He’s fine. He waves cheerfully. I blow him kisses. I wave energetically. The coach pulls away. My little, independent son.

As I walk back to my car, something catches in my throat.

And I thought I was worried about HIM.

Bertie

A little fat hand swivels on its chubby wrist, or at least where a wrist would be were it visible through the chunky rolls that envelop it.

"Iggaligga!" he shouts, followed swiftly by "Mmmmm - AH". For those who are not in the know, or alternatively who don't speak baby-lingo, he has just hollered "See you later" and followed it with a smacker of a kiss.

Thighs that beg for raspberries are wobbling tentatively through their first upright paces.
"One..." we all call, "Two...", arms outstretched and face transformed in rapturous grin, dimples deepening with every step, "Three..." He stops abruptly.

Clearly, he feels it is time for unstinting applause. He claps thunderously and bellows his approval at his own achievement.

The force of his movement threatens to topple him and we all watch, suddenly silent, breath held.

He rights himself, grins again and continues his jerky journey until, eleven independent steps taken, he lands unceremoniously on a plump, nappy-clad bottom.

It is no tragedy for there, undetected by his parents or, indeed, the hoover, is a perfect sultana. Mission accomplished.