All is calm, all is quiet

So here I am, stranded in Kent, all alone in my parent's house. Of course the journey down South on Christmas Eve wasn't without incident; a steaming bonnet, broken power steering and a bright red battery light that wouldn't go off after a stop in a service station on the M11 80 miles from my destination. My Dad and Lurch (50 miles behind me with Danny Boy) advised me to carry on and not stop the engine. I did, with The Terminator swearing undying loyalty and promising not to leave me on my own. We made it over the Dartford Crossing without stopping and whooped and cheered as we arrived at El Vel and Sean Sean the Leprechaun's half an hour later. 'Happy Christmas everyone!'. Christmas was lovely, very relaxing and just family. The boys, Lurch and SSTL went for a long walk along the beach in the morning and then we had a fabulous traditional turkey with all of the trimmings.

Boxing Day was pretty much the same, although the boys were cranking up a gear and getting slightly more boisterous by this stage. I rang the AA on the 27th, they came out but said nothing was open and I would have to wait until Monday. I was supposed to be going back to work in Leeds. Lurch and the boys went off, as planned, on the early morning ferry to France. In the spirit of our recent home education experiences they are visiting war graves and possibly going to Ypres in Belgium too. So I had the weekend on my own.

Something strange has happened to me since. I've slept for 8 hours a night and am feeling totally relaxed to the point where my mental processes have broken through the perpetual low-level fug to a near clarity of thought. I'm not being bombarded with the usual artillery; requests to drive people anywhere (can't!), clean anything, break up fights, find anything, fix anything, empty or fill things. I've read Pat Barker's 'The Eye in the Door' and Sue Gee's 'Reading in Bed' and really enjoyed them. I feel like a different person, maybe this is what's really meant by a break?

It's also strange being back here without my family, and not being 18 again. I went to Tesco with El Vel and she pointed out grey, tired old faces that I didn't recognise. They're the same age as me, I know that because I went to school with them!

Yesterday we went for a walk (I went running) to the beach. On the way there we saw Alan, a neighbour of my parents, hoisting his Union Jack up the flagpole in the back garden. I hadn't seen him for years and he was certainly twice the man he used to be. After a quick chat we moved on. 'Blimey, he's put on weight, hasn't he?' I said to Vel. She made a face that was a cross between a bulldog sucking on a lemon and a crocodile smiling, this is how you can tell that she's feeling intense disapproval, although she would 'never say anything..' 'He's a fascist' she confided 'he's really nosy and knows everyone's business, he patrols the neighbourhood. He's even complained about building rubble here', she signalled to a nearby building site 'Dad and I were just having a very quick look through the windows and the builder invited us in for a tour, lovely man' she said.

We got to the beach and there are remembrance benches all along the seafront. I recognised the name of a girl I used to play netball with at school and the Aunt and Uncle of a friend of mine, and others I knew, it was extraordinarily moving. I ran half a mile one way into the biting, cold December wind, and then turned back. My parents were a short distance ahead, all wrapped up in hats, scarves and mittens, holding hands and battling the elements together as they'd done for nearly 50 years now. They didn't hear me as I approached at a jog. 'Get a room!' I yelled in my mother's ear as I passed. A startled stagger and a look that was pure bulldog was my response.

So now the AA have been and I'm here until tomorrow. The parents are at the golf club. Lurch has phoned and spoken to me in a strained tone with a background track of heavy fighting. I made the boys promise to let Lurch enjoy his holiday and to cut the brawling and behave and then I put the phone down, ran a hot bath with aromatic oils and pondered my third choice of novel.

Santa's coming..

'Oooh, that looks good!' I say to Lurch, as we make our way around the throbbing Christmas Market in York. 'You want one?' he asks. I nod my thanks and tuck into a steaming crepe, filled to the brim with ham and melted cheese, all washed down with a hot and spicy cup of mulled wine. We move onto the next stall, specialist chocolatiers with a bedazzling array of hand-crafted jewels. 'Just a taster then' I'm transported to food heaven and buy a small crate to dip into on the long winter evenings, whilst tucked up reading in front of the fire. After an exhausting shopping trip I treat myself to a couple of mince pies and a cappucino. I love this time of year!



I don't love going to the dentist though. Until recently we had an excellent,kindly 60 year old dentist who played Radio 2 and turned on the fan heater to full blast in the waiting room to dry out the damp woodchip wallpaper. He had a heart attack and sold on his life's work. I took the boys for the first time last week. Now everything glows and shimmers; the dentist and her assistant must be about 24 with shiny white hair, shiny white teeth and shiny white uniforms, the boys were transfixed by the sheer, physical perfection, I had an uneasy 'Vanilla Sky' type of feeling as if we were in another world, brought on by the shiny leaflets offering wrinkle fillers and perfect smiles.

It was my turn today and I got ready. We've been waiting for an oil delivery for ten days so have had minimal heating and it's freezing. I put on my red fleece and a cream scarf and went to the bathroom to clean my teeth for the regulatory four minutes, plus flossing, plus mouthwash. As I approached the bathroom a little bit of magic happened, I caught a glimpse of Santa! It couldn't be, could it? It wasn't, of course, it was me! Yes me! All red-faced from the cold and the fire-heat with a festivity-laden stomach bulging out into my red fleece. I carefully turned the mirror to the wall.



Two fillings and £200 later I've made some resolutions. No longer am I going to a) turn myself into a Christmas pudding/bauble fit to hang on a giant Norwegian Spruce every year and b) sport Austin Powers style gnashers from the 1960's - time to move on, as soon as the house is sold I'm gonna get myself some 21st Century teeth!

Look at me!

Well, I've had my meeting with the Head of Year and she had interviewed the Head of every subject I'd mentioned and each had prepared a written report on Danny Boy. The History teacher had also waited after school to meet me. I had a written apology from the English teacher but the rest of the remarks have dampened my crusading spirit. Danny Boy has been identified as one of the brightest students in the year but he is an attention-seeking class clown who finds it very difficult to concentrate, disrupts other pupils and is desperately immature. The reason for his shoddy work is that he is slap-dash and doesn't spend anything like the right amount of time on his homework, doing the bare minimum to get by. It made for an interesting meeting. Danny Boy was squirming as Head Of Year revealed some of his half-truths and excuses. The upshot of it all is that it's up to him, plenty of other children are prepared to work. Tonight DB and I have learnt the verbs etre and avoir by rote, tomorrow it's Spanish... there is a six year sentence stretching before me and Lurch (who's now testing him).

Why is he such an attention seeker? I can only imagine he takes after his father who has sported many an eye-catching look in his time from Country Squire manque, complete with plus-fours (aged 16) to Eurocrat with a leather handbag and hand-tooled Italian loafers, a fine dandy indeed. I have never been comfortable in the spotlight.

My worst work experience ever was in Jamaica. I was representing the company, sponsoring an evening of Caribbean culture, which was being broadcast simultaneously on radio and TV. The MC was a restless, slightly aggressive man who seemed to carry a large colonial chip on his shoulder. He referred to me as 'The Queen's Representative' at all times, accompanied by a direct, challenging gaze and a savage smile. I couldn't understand what I'd done but half an hour into the show his delighted tones rang out across the island 'Would the Queen's representative please come forward for an exhibition limbo dance with our country's champion?' What! me?! I was forced into it, wearing a tightish linen business suit. I had to perform a limbo with a 6 foot 6 liquid limbed, breathtakingly handsome Rasta in front of 1,000 people in the stadium but also on TV. My mouth was dry, my legs and arms were wooden. The Rasta tried his best and so did I, contorting, shaking and shimmying but I was worse than John Sergeant, it was the most humiliating episode of my life. I was stone cold sober and, unbeknown to anyone else, four months pregnant! I still shudder at the memory.

My new career, stalker or eduwarrior?

So which is it to be? Last week I fell into the slough of despond or the trough of disillusionment, whatever... The reason for this despair is that I examined Danny Boy's school books. He has had several assessments in the last couple of weeks and appears to have gone backwards in every single subject. In History he has gone from a level 7 to a level 3 and, at the age of nearly 13, has spent about six weeks colouring in pictures of Henry VIII, devoting himself to shading yellow and green syphilitic ulcers on Henry's legs. WTF? His English book hasn't been marked by his teacher since the term began although he has, once again, designed a chocolate bar for the rest of the class to mark. Having been involved in Marketing and New Brand Development for 20 years I feel well placed to judge whether Shakespeare or I will leave the greater legacy to this country. So, I've decided that my new career is going to involve either stalking Ed Balls or stirring the masses to rebel against the dumbing down of education. I am on a mission.



The cavalry arrived on Tuesday, just in time for The Terminator's birthday. When I came home from work I could make out a dim halo of light shining on the driveway, yes it was Sean Sean the Leprechaun with a camping headlamp strapped to his forehead, finishing off The Guardian Sudoko in the car. El Vel was at his side, rubber gloves poking out of the suitcase, ready for action. As usual, to the utter bewilderment of Lurch, they brought their own towels and mugs as well as all of the half-finished food in their fridge. After five trips between the car and the house we managed to squeeze it all in.



I showed her DB's books and, as a former Deputy Head, she was appalled. I made a list of issues and phoned the Head of Year. She responded fantastically and is interviewing the Subject Heads and then Danny Boy, she and I will be meeting. Hope is glimmering, Danny Boy is scowling, I am crusading. The fridge is sparkling, the vegetable patch has been dug over and planted with purple sprouting broccoli and cabbages, and as I waved goodbye to my parents I felt that all was now right with the world. And relax...

They grow up so fast, don't they?

We spent half term with old friends in Hampshire. My friend from university married Lurch's school friend and they have two boys, exactly the same age as ours. It was lovely. On Halloween we went trick or treating, not that I really approve of that activity, but I relented. About 6 teenage girls came round to call for James, Danny Boy was all studied cool, simmering embarrassment and self consciousness but tailed along with the group. I noted that all of the girls were taller than me, and considerably thinner.

My friend and I took the two younger boys trick or treating. The last door they knocked on was that of a bent and twisted old man of about 98. The Terminator saw him approaching through the frosted glass front door and took his werewolf mask off. Eventually the door opened, The Terminator said 'don't worry, we'll go away' but the old man insisted on searching for something for them and, after 15 minutes he came back and gave the boys 5p to share. They said thank you very politely and my heart swelled with pride when TT explained he'd taken his mask off to avoid causing a fatal heart attack.

Back home to their cosy warm house. Matt's an architect and they've renovated some old stables. All of the children were playing in the garden and Lurch knocked up his speciality for us, Mojitos - topped with fresh mint. Delicious! Life was sweet until I heard the deafening tones of The Terminator from the garden 'You f***in' w***aah!' I inhaled the mojito suddenly, coughing and spluttering, aghast. I called them inside and asked TT what he thought he was doing shouting in someone else's garden, and him a guest to boot. 'Don't worry, Mum' he responded 'it's not real, we're playing Chavs and Robbers! It's so much fun swearing...'


Having put a stop to the game we returned home a couple of days afterwards. A week or so later a shifty looking Danny Boy sidled up to me. 'What's wrong?' I asked 'I've got something to tell you' he replied, looking pale and drawn and at the floor, 'I've been looking at porn on the internet'. This time it was a cup of tea that I ingested. We sat down to talk about it, I found it very, very difficult, I was cross but he had told me. He then explained that all of his friends were doing it and one boy, Robert, spent every Friday night with a couple of Jack Daniels and Cokes surfing the world wide web. He'd given Danny Boy the websites. 'Robert's mother is a teacher and Robert is telling lies' I explained to him. I also told him that porn wasn't real life and that psychiatrists offices were full of young men who were unable to have normal relationships after porn addiction. What else can you say?

I subsequently found out that one of his friends had actually downloaded two porn videos, paid for with his father's credit card. The parents had to send their son's birth certificate to the company to prove that he was 12. Naturally, every computer in the neighbourhood is now fitted with new software and we're trying to hold back that crashing tide...

As you sow...

Rat a tat tat! I woke up to the sound of the door knocker and peeked out of the bedroom window, the shiny red post van was parked in the drive, again. Parcels and packages have been flying in from all over the world; portuguese grammar books from specialist London bookshops, CDs from Portugal and DVDs from Brazil. 'It's for you' I told Lurch, but he had already bounded downstairs to answer the door and unwrap his latest order. The elementary evening course is getting out of hand. I am about to commit Lurchicide. 'How do you pronounce cidades dos homems?' he asked, studying a DVD with intensity. I told him. A small furrow wrinkled his earnest brow 'I don't think Felipa said it like that', he then gave me his version, delivered in a forceful, swishing nasal twang. 'Has Felipa asked you if you come from Minsk, Belarus? And don't ask me again if you think you know best already. I told you I haven't studied portuguese for 20 years...' 'Ok, ok, I was only checking' Lurch sighed.

I am interested but Lurch is incapable of half measures. To humour him I asked him about the other people on the course. 'It's an odd mix' he said 'half of them are single women about your age and oddly enough the others are fifty something men who are married to Brazilian women. Felipa keeps asking them why their wives aren't teaching them at home, I can't understand it, they just look at the floor and don't answer her'.
I can and I was off on one of my favourite rants: Modern Day Slavery. I see these Youth Stealers in Sainsburys, miserable, grey haired paunchy men, being followed by tiny beautiful Thai, Russian or Brazilian wives, staring dispiritedly at the shelves through the bars of their supermarket trolleys, loaded with beer and cleaning fluids. I cannot believe that the practice of buying a wife on the internet is legal. I usually give the men a hard stare to show my disapproval. Lurch says it is none of my business and I am in no position to judge, both parties deem it a fair exchange etc etc but it just does not feel right to me. So, from Ipanema to Ilkley Moor. I explained to Lurch that the reason the Brazilian brides did not talk to their husbands was because they already had to do unmentionable things with them and a conversation with the Youth Stealers may very well push them right over the edge.


However, I don't want to risk alienating my two male readers so I'll desist with the rant. We start the day with a quick recap of the night before's pronunciation exercise. Danny Boy and The Terminator stare at Lurch over breakfast, incomprehension and bewilderment etched on their sleep-rumpled faces. The volume and nasal twang seem deafening at this time of day. We go to work and then when we arrive home the DVD goes on - 'Cidades dos homems' as I mispronounced earlier - a gritty soap opera about teenagers set in the slums of Rio de Janeiro, made ever more difficult to understand because Lurch repeats everything like an exotic parrot in need of a hearing aid. Then to bed where he rustles the papers of his homework, once again asking me how to pronounce things and subsequently correcting me. It can only be a matter of time before Felipa moves him up to the next level, probably at the request of the rest of the class.

Smudge on my character

I have a skeleton in the closet and, after years of burying it, suddenly it's surfaced again. It's risen its terrible head because Lurch has started elementary portuguese evening classes.

In the 1980's I studied Hispanic Studies with subsidiary french at university. I could manage the french and spanish but I'm afraid that I began portugese in my second year, which was, coincidentally, one of the two most debauched years of my life. I had a new boyfriend and we used to go to a pub quiz every Sunday night. Monday morning 9.00am was my portuguese class. I think I made about 2 and after a term and a half I received a departmental warning and was told by my personal tutor that I wouldn't be able to go to Spain for my year abroad if I failed portuguese. I rallied and immediately bought all of my literature books in english and taught myself a code for translating portuguese to spanish to english. I only had to translate from portuguese to english and I managed to pass. I couldn't speak a word of it and my tutors were not impressed.

Cut to 5 years later and Colin, the european head of the global drinks company I worked for, had asked Human Remains to produce pamphlets on everybody to include 'skills they were too modest to mention'. After an attention-seeking entry of 'European' under nationality I also included portuguese in my language skills(hoping it wouldn't be noticed). 'My Favourite European Corporate Polyglot! Amazing! You are the only portuguese speaker in the company!' bellowed Colin at me. I tried to smile winningly and hoped he would forget but he was so proud of me, the European Corporate Polyglot.


I realised I had nothing to fear, nobody spoke portuguese so I basked in his admiration until the fateful day when he cantered towards me, waving a piece of paper, yelling 'The Brazilians are coming! I've prepared your itinerary, let's go through it this afternoon!'. I felt sick to the stomach, he had scheduled in 5 key brand presentations in portuguese, to be given by me, followed by a tour of London by helicopter, with me as translator, and a fabulous dinner to end the perfect day, with me as translator again. I had done the same with our French and Mexican distributors so there was no reason for him to presume I wouldn't be able to do it. My knees were shaking, I couldn't speak. Eventually I had no option but to tell my immediate boss, sobbing with worry and shame. She laughed her head off and rang Human Remains to explain my lack of expertise. They arranged for me to go on a residential 'Active Listening' course on the appropriate days and I got out of it. I have never been more ashamed or relieved in my life. Colin was bitterly disappointed and harangued HR but, saints that they were, they wouldn't budge.

So Lurch began his course. When he arrived home after the first lesson I shouted 'boa tarde' to him. He came into the bedroom with a quizzical look on his face 'I'm no expert but isn't it boa noite when it's dark?' he asked. 'Hmm, maybe' I grunted. 'I told our teacher that you had a portuguese degree by deception' he countered. I said nothing.