Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 11

Let's Be Honest

My son, having been unceremoniously dumped by his latest, has been home for the last couple of weekends looking for a shoulder to cry on.  Well, cry isn’t strictly true.  But you know what I mean.  He’s looking for comfort.  Distraction.  So, on Friday night, we went to Pizza Express and had mother-and-son time.  Which, believe me, isn’t something I’m honoured with very often.  After all, I am still very much an ‘embarrassing parent’ according to both my children.
          ‘I do hope,’ said Robbie, ‘that when we go to Canada you won’t suddenly announce to family and friends, “Oh excuse me, I’m having a hot flush,” and then start fanning yourself with whatever you can get your hands on.’
          ‘Honestly, what sort of uncouth person do you take me for?’ I asked, picking up the menu and flapping it about.
          ‘Look!  You’re doing it now!’ my son hissed.  ‘It’s so embarrassing.’
          ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snapped.  ‘Look around this restaurant.  Every woman my age is fanning herself with the menu.’
          ‘But not setting fire to it,’ said Rob grabbing the menu from me and bashing it against the table.  ‘You constantly set fire to menus.’
          ‘It’s not my fault the menus are tall, made of paper and that there’s always a candle burning on the table.
          ‘I just wish you were, you know, a bit more composed.’
          ‘You mean seen but not heard.’
          ‘No, I mean composed.’
          ‘I am who I am and can’t pretend to be something I’m not.’
          ‘Why not?’ asked Rob, giving me a frank look.
          ‘Because I tried all that long ago and it’s impossible to keep up.’
          I was instantly transported back in time to my late thirties when I began dating again.
          ‘Don’t tell any potential date that you are a rubbish cook,’ advised a friend.
          So there I was ordering take-outs from restaurants and pretending to be a marvelous domestic goddess.
          ‘Good heavens,’ said the first man brave enough not to run a mile upon finding out I had two small children, ‘this is a superb curry you’ve made.  It tastes just like the one from my local.’
          That’s because it was.
          And when I produced an Italian three course meal right down to ‘home made’ tiramisu, my date thought he’d died and gone to heaven.  A woman who cooked like his mama!  It was un miracolo.
          ‘Tell me, you don’t happen to play golf do you?’
          ‘Do I play golf?’ I rolled my eyes.  ‘Do I play golf?  That’s like asking me whether I can cook!’
          ‘I knew it!’ my date sighed happily.  ‘I’ll book us a round.’
          ‘Er, I’m a bit rusty,’ I nodded my head vigorously.  Bugger.  Things were getting seriously out of hand here.  And then a light-bulb went off in my head.  I picked up the phone to the local golf club and booked a course of lessons.
          ‘Yes,’ said the golf club, ‘we can give you regular lessons and have you playing a decent handicap within six months or so.’
          ‘Make it six days,’ I replied, ‘it’s an emergency.’
          My date took me to the local club where fortunately there was a nine hole option.  I persuaded him to play this shorter course on the grounds of me ‘not having played for years’.
          ‘Of course,’ he said magnanimously.
          The fact that I teed off and promptly did a fluke hole-in-one had my date in raptures.  At the second hole I wasn’t so lucky and ended up in the bunker.  However, the Gods were looking down on me and miraculously I chipped the ball up and out where another fluke took place.  The ball shot across the green and rattled straight into the hole.
          ‘One under par!  Is there no end to your talent?’
          I think it was at that point I collapsed on the green in a gibbering heap and said something like, ‘Yes, I’m an accomplished fraud.’
          Needless to say I murdered the rest of the game.  And the golf course.  Divots and sand everywhere.
          I came back to the present and looked across the table at my son.
          ‘Trying to be something you’re not is exhausting.  Honesty really is the best policy.’ Well, most of the time anyway.  Which reminds me.
          A wife looked in the mirror and didn’t like what she saw.  ‘I’m old, wrinkled, grey, and fat.’  She turned to her husband.  ‘Give me a compliment to make me feel better.’  ‘Well,’ he considered, ‘there’s nothing wrong with your eyesight.’ His funeral will be held next week... 
         

Me, myself, I(pad)

                ‘I’ve done it!’ I proclaimed, coming in through the front door.
            ‘Done what?’ asked my daughter.
            ‘Bought a mini iPad.’
            ‘You mean an iPad mini,’ Eleanor corrected.
            ‘That’s what I said.’  I reverently set my purchase down on the dining room table.  ‘And this time, it’s mine.’
            ‘Let me see?’
            ‘No,’ I instantly snatched up the little white box with its bitten apple logo.
            You see, this isn’t the first time I’ve bought an iPad.  My first attempt at acquainting myself with the gadget was a couple of years ago.  Except my daughter suggested we share it.  And then, of course, the purchase just happened to coincide with her fast approaching birthday.  So in fact it ended up being her birthday present, with me supposedly having a go on it here and there.  Except here and there, as you’ve probably guessed, only materialised on the days the moon turned blue.
            The second time I bought myself an iPad was last year.  My son took one look at it and said, ‘You know how you always insist that you treat me and Ellie the same?’
            ‘Er…yes,’ I looked at Robbie warily.
            ‘Well, that’s not strictly true.’
            ‘What do you mean?’
            ‘My sister has an iPad, but I don’t.’
            ‘It was her birthday present.’
            Rob grinned broadly.  ‘I just thought I’d remind you that I have a birthday looming.’
            I sighed, and wrapped up the iPad in gift paper.  After all, what did I want with such a gadget?  I couldn’t even send an email on my Smartphone, let alone talk to Siri.
            However, I revised this drop-out attitude after my parents’ recent sixtieth wedding anniversary celebrations.  On that night, I was very cross with myself for failing to charge up my digital camera to take to their celebratory ‘do’.  I thought my camera was the bee’s knees.  After all, it came in a box with a vast sticker screaming ‘Five Megapixels’.  I realised how lacking it was when I heard that Nokia’s Lumia phone has a forty-one megapixel camera.  And glancing around at the many guests taking pictures of my parents cutting their diamond anniversary cake, half the guests weren’t snapping away with a five megapixel digital camera.  They were using iPads.  When my uncle strolled past clutching such a gadget, it was the last straw.  My uncle is nearly eighty.  If an eighty-year-old can keep up with technology, then surely to goodness I can – especially when I’m off to Canada in August to visit precious family and dear friends.  I want to capture the memories.  
             So yesterday, for the third time, I bought an iPad.  This smaller version is much more suitable for slipping into my handbag.
            ‘Ooh, isn’t it a lovely size,’ said Eleanor after grappling the box from my grasp.  ‘It’s perfect for slipping into my handbag.’
            Was this kid a mind reader?
            ‘Indeed.  Except it’s going in my handbag.’
            ‘Gosh, and sixteen gigabytes,’ said Eleanor, ignoring me.  ‘Mine is only eight.’
            I kept my silence, and waited.  I wasn’t the only one who could mind read, and knew what was coming next.
            ‘You know, Mum, you’d be much better off having my old iPad to mess about on, and instead give this one to me.’
            ‘You don’t say!’ I turned to my daughter wide eyed.  ‘Tell you what…I’ll share it with you.  But only when the moon turns blue.’
            ‘Eh?’
            I left my daughter to think about it.  Which reminds me.  If Apple made a car, would it have windows…?

Tea for Two

Earlier this year, my son gave me a very different birthday present – tea for two at a posh hotel in London.  Tea is possibly my favourite drink.  Recently, when out with some family, a cousin asked me if I wanted tea or coffee.
            ‘I’ll opt for some teabagging,’ I replied.
            This produced quite a bit of sniggering until another cousin brought me up to date with some changes to the English language.  Apparently suggesting I love a brew with references to being a teabag means something else completely different.  So as my son and I emerged from Marble Arch tube into bright Spring sunshine, I reminded myself that at no point should I tell any of the waiters that I was up for a spot of teabagging.
            A short walk away, down a side-road off Oxford Street, was the boutique hotel with wrought iron railings decorated in smart flowerboxes.  We went up the stone steps and into a tea room that seemed to be from a forgotten era.
            ‘This is nice,’ said Robbie.
            ‘Indeed,’ I replied.
            As we sat down, I was captivated by the wall opposite me.  It was smothered in framed portraits, prints, paintings and something that particularly caught my eye – an intricate tapestry.  Now anybody who can painstakingly produce the tiniest of cross-stitches into a work of art needs, in my opinion, a medal.  The only time I ever attempted such a thing was when I first discovered I was pregnant with my daughter.  I immediately purchased a personalised tapestry kit of a rocking horse complete with two cute teddy bears cuddling each other in the saddle.  This, you understand, was a gift for my unborn child to one day exclaim over and say, ‘Good heavens, Mum, you did this amazing tapestry for me?  It’s incredible!’
            In fact, it’s incredible I finished the wretched thing.  I spent the next nine months going cross-eyed as I counted tiny holes for different coloured threads, muttering oaths when I realised the saddle was four squares out and the stirrup didn’t quite line up, and decided that cross-stitch was thus named as it did indeed make you very cross.  Years later, instead of exclaiming over this work of art, my daughter looked at the tapestry and said, ‘You’d better come clean, Mum.  Your sewing just about covers putting a button on a shirt, so who really did this tapestry?’  Which is why, when I looked at this particular tapestry hanging on this hotel’s wall, it was all the more amazing because it was signed and dated – in cross-stitch – in 1806 by a little girl aged ten.  Ten!  It was beautiful, elaborate and instantly conjured up a by-gone era where little girls did indeed once sit quietly and use their fingers to intricately sew rather than stab an iPhone or a computer keyboard.
            But I digress.  Our afternoon tea was delightful and, for a couple of hours, we ate tiny triangular crustless sandwiches and tiddly cakes off fancy china and sipped a perfect brew from thin porcelain cups while putting the world to rights.
            Which reminds me.  How does a teapot address its lover?  Oh, darjeeling…
 

Introducing Nikki Moore

 Nikki Moore's Blog Hit
New Release - Crazy, Undercover, Love 


The day has finally arrived!! Nikki Moore's debut novel with HarperImpulse - Crazy, Undercover, Love - is released as an ebook today, 24th April 2014.

 If you like pacy, sexy romance and fancy a long weekend in Barcelona with a smoking hot guy this one's for you!  Want to know more...?
 When uber-feisty career girl Charley Caswell-Wright takes on the assignment as PA to the gorgeous Alex Demetrio, CEO of Demetrio International, she's there under entirely false pretences; to get her life back on track. Having lost the job she worked so hard to earn, she’s determined not to give it up so easily, especially when she didn’t deserve to lose it in the first place.
Mr Dreamy CEO is her only chance of clawing back her career – and her reputation. So she has to keep things strictly professional… boy, is she in trouble!
To buy Crazy, Undercover Love as an ebook:-
 
Amazon – http://amzn.to./1gdpOxb
Google Play - http://bit.ly/1rTMrQw
iTunes - http://bit.ly/1mkzpHP
Kobo - bit.ly/QlpKpC
Sainsbury's - http://bit.ly/1hoD1bj
 
Or to buy it as a paperback on pre-order, released on 26thJune:-
 
Amazon - http://amzn.to/1rTKGmB
 
What people are saying about Nikki's other stories...
 The Love Letter and A Day in the Life... HarperImpulse short story collection Be My Valentine, with Teresa F Morgan and Brigid Coady, attracting 4 and 5 star reviews.
 'I loved all 5 stories and will look out for more books by each author.'

CometBabesBooks, Amazon
 'Whilst I enjoyed all of the stories, I particularly liked Nikki Moore's … her voice as an author really resonated with me and I can't wait to read more of her work.'
Kate Beeden, Goodreads
 Nikki's short story A Night to Remember in the Mills & Boon/Romantic Novelists Association anthology Truly, Madly, Deeply which has also attracted 4 and 5 star reviews.
 'My favourite story was A Night To Remember. I think what drew me to this … was its resonance with real life. I'm not going to spoil the story but I could feel the emotions spilling out of the page - it was beautiful.'
Beckie, www.beckiesbookmix.blogspot.co.uk 

'A Night to Remember - Beautiful, devastatingly so.'
Cheryl M-M, Goodreads & http://mmcheryl.wordpress.com/
 
Nikki Moore lives in beautiful Dorset and writes short stories and sexy, pacy romances. A finalist in several writing competitions including Novelicious Undiscovered 2012, she graduated from the Romantic Novelists Association New Writers' Scheme after four years and and has contributed to their magazine Romance Matters. She has far too much fun attending the annual RNA conference and has previously chaired a panel and taken part in a workshop at the Festival of Romance.
She blogs about some of her favourite things – Writing, Work and Wine – at www.nikkimooreauthor.wordpress.com and believes in supporting other writers as part of a friendly, talented and diverse community.
 
You can find her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/NikkiMooreAuthor or on Twitter @NikkiMoore_Auth and she invites you to pop in for chats about love, life, reading or writing!

Les Menuires

This time last week I was on the ski slopes of France.  Like any longed-for trip, it all came and went far too quickly.  My daughter and I wasted no time at all in getting onto those slopes.
            ‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Eleanor as we were coming to the end of our first day on the mountain top.
            ‘Les Menuires,’ I replied.
            ‘There are no signposts by that name.’
            ‘Yes there are. Look,’ I pointed with a ski pole, ‘there.’
            ‘That says Lez Manure.’            ‘Well that’s where we want to be.’  I gazed around cluelessly.  We’d wanted to ski to Meribel earlier but had somehow ended up in Courchevel.  That’s the great thing about skiing – there is a very large area to explore.  Just don’t get lost because one mountain has a tendency to look like the next.  Needless to say, we did find our way home eventually.
            The trip had started off with high anticipation.  I’d deliberately booked a chalet with a rose-tinted dream of sitting around a scrubbed pine table making friends with like-minded people, buddying up on the ski slopes, and generally having a giggle.
            Eleanor and I set off for Gatwick Airport at 4 a.m. with a spring in our step.  There was a moment of angst on the plane when I realized I hadn’t put on my in-flight socks.  Okay, they were actually surgical stockings from a spell in hospital last year, and I was being a cheapskate recycling them.
            ‘Flip,’ I said to Eleanor as the plane began to rumble down the runway, ‘I’m not wearing the surgical stockings.’
            ‘Does it matter?’
            ‘I don’t know.  Possibly.  My legs were swelling up after every flight last year.’  Memories of nearly being denied a trip home from Crete had my stomach knotting.  ‘I think I’d be happier if I had them on.’
            ‘Well put them on,’ Eleanor hissed, ‘but hurry up.’            Now putting on a pair of long surgical stockings under a pair of jeans when you are sitting in the middle bucket seat of an aircraft isn’t the easiest thing to do.  Not unless you are six inches wide and more bendy than a gymnast.  Which I’m not.  There then followed a lot of ankle grappling and muttered oaths as I creaked my feet up to my nose, wrestled with the surgical stockings and elbowed the woman to my left more times than was polite.  By the time I’d got the stockings on I was dripping with sweat.
            ‘Done,’ I muttered to Eleanor.
            ‘Pull the legs of your jeans down, Mum!’
            ‘Ah, yes.’  I leant forward and pulled the denim down.  Regrettably the surgical stockings rolled down with them.
            ‘Now what’s the matter?’
            ‘They’ve fallen down.’
            ‘They can’t have fallen down.  They’re skin tight!’
            ‘They got caught up with the denim.’  I hoiked a leg up onto Eleanor’s lap.  ‘Look.’
            My daughter lifted the hem of my jeans.  A very neatly rolled surgical stocking greeted our eyes.
            ‘You’ll have to leave them like that.’
            ‘I can’t do that!’ I gasped.  ‘They’re miles too tight like this.  They might cut off my circulation or something.’  Visions of black ankles drifted through my mind.
            ‘Then take them off,’ said my daughter in exasperation, ‘and put your socks back on.’
            ‘Good idea.’
            There then followed more huffing and puffing as I pulled the wretched garments off, much to the irritation of the woman sitting next to me.
            ‘Now what’s wrong?’ asked Eleanor.
            ‘I can’t find my socks.’
            ‘Well they can’t be far away because you haven’t gone anywhere!’
            Cue more contortion as I went into the brace position and peered under our row of seats.  Two striped cotton socks were under my neighbour’s chair and j-u-s-t out of reach.  Meanwhile the aircraft was now in the vertical position having left the runway.
            I came up for air, hit my forehead on the chair in front and was nearly knocked out by a dinner tray unfolding on my head. ‘Terribly sorry,’ I said to the tutting woman next to me, ‘but you appear to have my socks.’
            She gave me the sort of look reserved for the mentally unhinged before reaching down and gingerly picking up my socks.  She dangled them between thumb and forefinger before depositing them in my lap.
            ‘God, Mum, you are so embarrassing.’
            ‘I know.  It’s embarrassing to be so embarrassing.  I think I ought to disown myself.’
            ‘Can you now just sit still?  Please?’
            I sat still.  For about thirty seconds.
            ‘Oh for goodness sake, what’s up now?’
            ‘I want to read my Kindle.’
            ‘Well read your Kindle.’
            ‘It’s in the overhead locker and I’ll have to ask the woman sitting next to me to move.’
            ‘You really know how to annoy people, don’t you?’
            So after a bit more faffing involving the woman next to me shuffling in and out of her seat, a rucksack falling on her head – yes, mine – retrieving the Kindle and shoving the rucksack back, oh, and then my ski jacket because all this Zumba in an aircraft had once again left me hot and bothered, the woman next to me finally sank back into her seat to enjoy the rest of the flight.  By that point, of course, it was all over and we had to disembark.  I never did get to read my Kindle.
            At the chalet Eleanor and I oohed and aahed with happiness.
            ‘Look!’ I said pointing to the large scrubbed pine dinner table.  ‘It’s just as I thought it would be.  I can’t wait to make friends with the others.’
            Unfortunately, the large scrubbed pine dinner table was the only thing in my rose-tinted dream that actually came true.  That evening, half the people who trooped into the chalet and pulled out chairs to sit down to our three course home cooked meal were most definitely not our ‘cup of tea’.
            ‘Hello,’ I smiled at two of the women, ‘I’m Debbie.’
            Clearly this came out as something totally different.  Possibly it sounded like: Hello, I’m an alien wanted for hijacking a number of starships across several galaxies.
            One gave a tight smile back, while the other just stared.  Seemingly they didn’t ‘do’ women like me.  They also gave the cold shoulder to the single mum and her two young boys sitting at the far end of the table.  They sat grimly hanging on to the arms of their own partners presumably lest I and the single mum grapple their men away from them and ravish them there and then on the scrubbed pine table scattering crockery in all directions.  A heavy silence prevailed.  Awkward or what.
            Our chalet maid set steaming bowls before us all.
            ‘Ooh, yummy,’ I said brightly to nobody in particular, ‘homemade vegetable soup.’
            At this point the two married women were suddenly my best friends.  They apparently couldn’t abide vegetables and were more than happy for me to eat their soup too.  So I did.  The next course was salmon with masses of broccoli.  Suddenly my plate was full of greenery.  However, that was as far as the friendship went.  The women let me and the single lady know that under no circumstances could they abide children, or pets.  The single lady and I did later exact revenge by whipping out our mobile phones and sharing our pictures of respective children and pets.  All five hundred of them.  Revenge is sweet.  Which is more than I can say about those women.
            On the last day, one of the men helped me wrestle two vast suitcases down the chalet’s wooden staircase.  Judging by his wife’s expression, she wasn’t happy.  Her mouth took on the sort of shape that resembled my dog’s bottom.  I gave her a neutral smile and wished her a pleasant trip home.
            It is the Law of Sod that when you want to get away from someone, life has a joke and makes sure you are thrown together.  Of all the people taking that packed flight home, who was sitting next to me?
            ‘Quick,’ I whispered to Eleanor, ‘give me my surgical stockings.  I want to put them on.’
            ‘I’m having a déjà vu moment,’ she sighed.
            Which reminds me.  What do you call this second moment of déjà vu?  Déjà two… What do you call being on the same plane as before?  Déjà flew…  What do you call a woman who doesn’t like you? Déjà moo… What do you call elbowing the woman next to you? Déjà ooh…  What do you call lost socks under an airplane seat?  Déjà poo…  What do you call a menopausal hot-flushing passenger? Déjà phew… What do you call an exasperated daughter? Déjà disowning-yooo…
           
                       
 

A Bit of a (Diamond) Do

Three days ago, on April 3rd, my parents celebrated sixty years of wedded bliss.  Okay, let me rephrase that.  They celebrated sixty years of marriage.  I don’t think any marriage – let alone one that has lasted sixty years – is literally all bliss.  Indeed, as my mother recently quipped to me, ‘I don’t know how we got to sixty years.  I always meant to leave your father.’
            Marriage is a juggling act at the best of times.  You have to work at keeping someone happy.  They, in turn, have to work at keeping youhappy.  Then just when you think you are both happy, children come along and shift the balance and you have to re-think the whole keeping each other happything all over again.
            My parents had a nine year wait before I came along and they were happily married.  At that point my father was in the Merchant Navy.  He spent months at a time at sea – which is probably another reason for their happiness …they rarely saw each other.  Imagine when my father left his nine week old daughter to return to sea, and didn’t see her again until she was nine months old.  What a change!  And imagine, again, when he next saw his daughter at eighteen months – but she’d have nothing to do with him!  He was devastated.  Apparently I would scream if my father cuddled my mother in front of me.  And I’d scream if he tried to cuddle me.  This was stressful for both parents.
            Eventually my father made the monumental decision to leave everything he’d studied and qualified for and find work elsewhere.  Except there wasn’t any local work.  So, there was another period of stress as unemployment was experienced before making one more colossal decision – selling up and moving near London where my father found work behind a desk.  But eventually harmony was restored.  The family settled into the new abode, in a new area, and my father adapted to his new career.  And, in time, I became accustomed to this man-person who was apparently my father.  Balance and peace were restored.  The marriage ticked along…until my sister arrived.
            The effect of a new baby on an older child is considerable.  One minute the child’s life is like that of a lovely smooth pond, and then suddenly a pebble plops in and causes all sorts of ripples.  Once again my poor parents’ marriage became a bit stretched.
            Eventually the ripples subsided and there was then another period of calm until the eldest turned into a teenager.  Now this is where a marriage is sorely tested as a manipulative teenager constantly tests the boundaries – which usually involve playing one parent off against the other.
Me:      ‘Can I go to a party on Saturday night?’
Mother:‘Um, best to ask your father.’
Me:      ‘Can I go to a party on Saturday night?’
Father: ‘Ask you mother.’
Me:      ‘I did.  She said it was fine, but only if you give me a lift home afterwards.’
Father: ‘Okay.  I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.’
Me:      ‘The party starts at eight.’
Father: ‘In that case ask your mother to collect you.’
Me:      ‘Dad says I can go to the party, but because he’s tired you’ll have to collect me at midnight.’
Mother: ‘Flaming cheek – I’m tired too!  Where is he?  I’ve got a few words to say to your father.  TONY?  Turn that television down right now and listen to me.  You WILL collect Debbie from her party at midnight, do you hear?’
Father: ‘Yes, dear.’
Me:      Mission accomplished.
            Aren’t teenagers horrible!  And just when I’d stomped off into the big wide world at eighteen, my parents had about six months of bliss before my sister turned into a walking hormonal gland and once again put them through their marital paces.
            This pattern repeats when grandchildren come along.  But we won’t go there.  Least said and all that.  And fortunately the grand-children are now young adults.
            ‘You can finally enjoy your marriage,’ I recently said to my mother.
            ‘I’m now too knackered to enjoy anything,’ she retorted.  Well, she is eighty-one.
            However, knackered or not, you can’t reach sixty years of marriage without some sort of celebration.  Even the Queen sent an anniversary card to my parents congratulating them and urging them to celebrate.  So celebrate we all did.  And how touching it was to see my parents take to the dance floor last night as their youngest daughter serenaded them, and watch the silver-haired gentleman sway in time to the tiny lady with a stoop.  Love conquers all.  As well as endurance!  Which reminds me.
            ‘Some people,’ said an elderly gentleman, ‘ask the secret of a long marriage.  The secret is this.  We take time to go to a restaurant two times a week. A little candlelight.  Good food.  Soft music, and even dancing.  She goes Tuesdays, and I go Fridays…’

Mothering Sunday

According to Wikipedia, Mother’s Day is a celebration honouring mothers and motherhood, maternal bonds, and the influence of mothers in society.  The reality is that there are many women out there who might not have physically given birth to a child, but are still in a mothering role. For example, the childless woman who, in later life finds herself in a role reversal situation nurturing the frail old lady who once nurtured her.  There are also childless women who foster kids, and some adopt.  One of the most famous mothers of all was a convent school headmistress.  She experienced a ‘call within a call’ to leave the convent and help the poor whilst living among them.  Somewhere in that moment, Sister Teresa became Mother Teresa.  And there are other women still whose pet becomes their baby.  I know numerous women who are ‘Mum’ to budgies, rabbits, guinea pigs, cats, dogs, hamsters and horses.  The bottom line is…mothering is knowing how to love and nurture.  I am blessed with a son, a daughter, a dog and a cat and am ‘Mum’ to them all.
            On days like today I love looking back at the whole mothering concept and how, when you enter that point of life, your world is turned upside down.  There can be joyful moments, tearful moments, and tear-your-hair-out moments, but above all else we love to love – no matter what.
            Earlier this week I had to catch a train to London.  A harassed mother puffed her way onto the train with a little boy on her hip.  She plonked him down opposite me and then slumped, exhausted, on the seat next to him.  The little boy gazed at me enquiringly and asked a question.  As it has been a great many years since I was fluent in baby babble, I hadn’t a clue what the little chap asked, so was unable to answer.  Instead I smiled.  Instantly bored, the tot stood up on the seat and looked out of the window.
            ‘Duck,’ he said.
            My eyes swivelled sideways searching for a duck.  In fact we’d gone into a tunnel.  Ah!  Not duck, but dark.  I closed my eyes and relaxed back against the seat, listening to the little boy’s babble and trying to work out what he was saying, with the occasional helpful prompt from his weary mother.  The years peeled away and suddenly I could understand him.  Dwink was drink, twee was tree, seep was sheep, and so on.  Finally he said the magic word that every mummy understands and really doesn’t want to hear on a packed train to London.
            ‘Poo.’
            Well we won’t go into what happened next, but let’s just say that every parent has been there, done it, and ‘bought the t-shirt’ as they say.  And no I won’t tell you about the time my young daughter uttered the same magic word just as the aircraft we were on charged down a runway and flung itself into the sky.
            So whatever you are doing today, whether it is blowing a kiss to the heavens for a beloved mother no longer with you, or letting your children kiss you, or your precious pet slobber all over you, make sure you have a Happy Mother’s Day – and that the husband spoils you too.  Which reminds me.
            Fred was thirty-two years old but still single.  One day a friend asked, ‘Why aren’t you married?  Can’t you find a woman who will be a good wife?’  Fred replied, ‘Actually, I’ve found many women I’ve wanted to marry, but whenever I’ve brought them home to meet my parents, my mother didn’t like them.’  His friend thought for a moment before saying, ‘I have a perfect solution. Find a girl who is just like your mother.’  A few months later they met again, and Fred’s friend said, ‘Did you find the perfect girl?  Did your mother like her?’  Fred frowned and answered, ‘Yes, I found the perfect girl.  She was just like my mother.  And you were right!  My mother liked her very much.’  The friend said, ‘So what’s the problem?’  And Fred replied, ‘My father didn’t like her…’

It's a Bread Thing

In my quest to be fitter and slimmer, yesterday I once again ventured to Greenwich Park.
            ‘Don’t expect me to jog with you,’ said Mr V, ‘I’ve only just got over my bad back.’
            ‘That’s fine,’ I said, ‘I shall do on-the-spot jogging keeping pace with your strolling, and also jog ahead of you, and then jog back.’
            ‘Are we taking a picnic?’
            ‘Good idea.  The weather looks perfect.’
            So we set off, picnic wrapped and packed, and it immediately poured with rain.  Fortunately, by the time we arrived at Greenwich, the sun had chased away the dark clouds and a pale blue sky was bravely doing its best to stay put.
            ‘I’m starving,’ said Mr V.
            ‘Me too.’
            We found ourselves in the Flower Garden.  In all the years we’ve visited Greenwich Park, never before have we set foot in this absolutely beautiful area.  This is because, many summers ago, our children were riding the obligatory bicycles on stabilisers or, later, hurtling along on scooters or, later still, there was a pooch barking hysterically in our wake.  So today, we opened the wooden gate bearing the sign: No dogs, no radios, no bicycles, no scooters, no wheelies, no heelies…no anything in fact other than yourself and peacefulness.  Oh, and your picnic.  So, clutching our tuna baguettes, we stepped through the gate into this fragrantly blooming wonderland.
            ‘Ooh, isn’t this lovely!’ I peered around admiring the beautifully landscaped parkland and taking mental notes.  Would a circle of hyacinth bulbs interspersed with nodding daffodils work in my postage stamp of a garden?
            ‘Look,’ Mr V pointed, ‘a bench.  Let’s sit down and eat our picnic.’
            So we sat.  Unwrapping the foil from my baguette, I gazed at the impressive pine tree to our left.  ‘What a majestic tree.  Look at those huge branches and the way they almost bow to the ground as if in worship.  Oh, and see there!  A dear little squirrel…and he seems quite tame…look how close he is to us.’
            ‘Mmm,’ said my husband, mouth full of tuna and bread.
            ‘In fact, I can’t believe how daring the little fella is.  How charming.  And endearing.  And–’
            I broke off.  Because actually, this charming and endearing squirrel was starting to look like he was on a mission.  If he’d been human, he’d have been rolling up his sleeves as he strode purposefully towards me, eyes fixed firmly on my lunch.  I clasped my baguette protectively to my chest.
            ‘Evacuate,’ I squeaked.
            ‘What?’  Mr V paused mid-munch.
            ‘Evacuate the Flower Garden.’
            ‘No, that song was called Evacuate the Dance Floor.’
             I stood up.  ‘Forthwith.’
            ‘Forthwith?  Sit down, you daft mare.’
            By this point the squirrel had a ‘hand’ on one hiking boot and was all set to do his squiggly walk up my leg.  I hastily pulled off a bit of bread and lobbed it.  Exhaling with relief, I watched as the squirrel shot off after the bread, looking for all the world like a dog after a rubber ball.
            ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ my husband shook his head.
            ‘Why not?’
            I didn’t have long to find out.  Within a nano-second another squirrel had appeared and he was bringing reinforcements.  A pigeon landed at my feet.
            ‘Coo, coo,’ said the pigeon.
            You didn’t need to speak pigeon to understand what it was saying.  Hand over the baguette, dude.
            ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ moaned Mr V as five more pigeons landed at our feet.  It’s quite astonishing how much racket half a dozen birds can make.  And then, like something out of a Hitchcock movie, the sky was filled with pigeons all circling above my baguette.
            ‘I’m off,’ I told my husband.  For some strange reason the pigeons and squirrels were leaving him alone, instead focusing their attention on just me.  I took off at a sprint with a stream of pigeons and squirrels trailing in my wake.  At that moment I can honestly say I know how Snow White felt when she made friends with all the woodland animals and they followed her everywhere.  Perhaps I should have turned around and sung to them?
            Which reminds me.  Why does Snow White always treat each of the seven dwarfs equally?  Because she’s the fairest of them all…
                       

Road Rage (in a car park)

First thing yesterday morning I had to take my daughter to Blackheath Hospital for a consultancy appointment (nothing serious, I hasten to add!).  We arrived with twenty minutes to spare and I mentally rubbed my hands with glee.
            ‘There’s a lovely little café around the corner,’ I said to Eleanor, ‘we’ll go and grab a cappuccino before your appointment.’
            ‘And a nice fat slice of cake?’
            ‘Of course!  I’ll just park the car and we’ll be on our way.’
            Easier said than done.  And, as it happened, the only cake we ended up encountering was the bun fight in the hospital car park.  As I crawled through the narrow entrance, it was immediately apparent that the place was full.  I scanned the choc-a-bloc parking bays, and offered up a few silent prayers.  Hurrah!  Straight in front of me was a woman reversing out of a space.  Except she appeared to have a particularly diddy car.  And mine was, like my derriere, a little on the ample side.  Still, if bottoms can squish into chairs, then cars can squash into parking bays.  All it took was a bit of maneuvering.
            ‘I don’t think you’re going to get into it, Mum.’
            ‘Nonsense.  If I squeeze myself into this alleyway to the side, I can then reverse back and…oh!’
            Some dear kind sweet thoughtful soul had taken advantage of my sideways manoeuvre and zoomed into my space.
            I buzzed the window down.  ‘Excuse me!’ I called politely to the dear kind sweet thoughtful soul, ‘but that was myspace.  I was just preparing to reverse into it.’
            The dear kind sweet thoughtful soul gave me a steely glare.
            ‘It’s my space now.’
            Well there was no arguing with that, was there!  I gave the dear kind sweet thoughtful soul one of my ‘looks’ whilst taking ten seconds out to sit firmly on my hands lest they do the sort of hand signals that aren’t part of the Highway Code.
            ‘What a flaming cheek,’ said Eleanor.
            ‘Never mind, I’ve spotted another one.’
            ‘Where?’
            ‘Over there.  Somebody is leaving.’
            ‘Quick.’             ‘On it.’
            I rammed the car into gear and shot forward.  YESSSSSS!  A stream of cars were coming into the car park, bunging up the aisles, causing chaos, drivers’ heads rotating three-hundred-and-sixty degrees in an effort to seek out an elusive space – but I had it covered and my imminent space was secure.  Except…what was that driver over there doing?  A swish BMW had stopped and was signalling, indicating that he was after myimminent space.  More buzzing down of windows took place.
            ‘Excuse me?’ I smiled pleasantly.
            The man blanked me.
            ‘He’s going to nick your parking space, Mum.’
            ‘Oh no he’s not.’
            ‘He is.’
            He was.  I jumped out of my car and marched over to the BMW.
            ‘Hi.’  My next attempt at a polite smile probably looked more like how the Joker greeted Batman.  ‘This space that you’re waiting for…well I saw it first…so it’s mine.’
            ‘But I’m closest to it.’
            ‘I don’t care.  I was here before you and good manners dictate you acknowledge that and let me park my car here.’
            ‘You ain’t parking your car here, lady.’
            ‘Oh yes I am.  Watch me.’
            ‘It will be my pleasure.’
            ‘Good.  Have fun watching.’
            ‘Are you a magician or something?’
            ‘What sort of daft question is that?’
            ‘Because while you’ve been telling me that you’re parking in this space, the original car has left and a Mini has parked there instead.  So are you going to somehow magically park your car on top of that Mini?’
            ‘Wha–?’
            ‘Hurry up, lady.  I’m waiting to be entertained.’
            Muttering oaths under my breath, I returned to my car.
            ‘Mum, we’re going to miss our appointment at this rate.’
            ‘The next space is ours,’ I snarled.  ‘And if anybody tries to stop me I’ll–’
            ‘Look!  He’s leaving!’
            ‘Who?’
            ‘Him!’
            ‘Where?’
            ‘There!’
            ‘Oh dear God and Mother Mary and anybody else up there listening, just get me into that parking space!’
            A van was moving out of a sideways bay.  This meant having to do what nearly every woman dreads.  Parallel parking.  I zipped over, put my hazards on, slammed the car into reverse, lined up my passenger door with the car to the side’s rear door, swung the steering wheel hard left ninety degrees and prayed very hard that my car would go in first time and…yes…yes…it was happening…absolutely fantastic…what a sensationalbit of parallel parking…someone should film this and use it to demonstrate to Learner drivers all over the world exactly how you should parallel park because this was beyond brilliant…except…what the hell was that?
            Behind me a horn had sounded long, loud, and protesting.  I craned my neck to see a little old lady in a Micra beeping me and halfway into my parking space.
            ‘I don’t sodding believe this!’ I fumed.  ‘Well two can play that game.’  So I hit my horn too.  For a while we duetted.  After thirty seconds a cacophony of horns joined in because, of course, this stand-off over a parking space was causing major havoc with the other circling predators.  And then the little old lady began edging forwards.  Good heavens!  She was calling my bluff and going for it!  Ten out of ten to her for sheer bloody-minded courage.  I instantly wimped out and drove forward again.
            ‘What a nerve!’ Eleanor said.  ‘And she’s got to be at least eighty.  You’d have thought the older generation had manners.’
            ‘Unfortunately there are some members of the older generation who think that just because they are Golden Oldies, they have the right to be rude.  Look at Victor Meldrew.’
            ‘Who?’
            ‘Ah, never mind.’
            And then a miracle occurred.  A man knocked on my window.
            ‘Do you want my parking space, love, only I saw what happened there and I’m just about to go.  And the wife is with me, so she’ll make sure nobody barges in.’
            You see!  There is a God!
            ‘Oh thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I said to the nice man, and God, and Mother Mary, and anybody else who cared to listen.
            And so it came to pass that the sun shone down, birds tweeted, flowers bloomed and I parked my car with no mishaps, while a huge thunderbolt burst out from nowhere and turned the little old lady’s Micra to marshmallow.  Well, actually, that last part didn’t happen, I made it up, although I can’t deny the thought didn’t enter my head.  Which reminds me.
            A group of pensioners were discussing their medical problems at the Day Centre’s coffee morning.  ‘Do you realize,’ said one, ‘that my arm is so weak I can hardly hold this coffee cup?’  ‘Yes, I know,’ replied the second, ‘and my cataracts are so bad I can’t see to pour the coffee.’  ‘I can’t turn my head,’ said the third, ‘because of the arthritis in my neck.’  ‘My blood pressure pills make me dizzy,’ lamented the fourth, ‘but I guess that’s the price we pay for getting old.’  ‘Well, it’s not all bad,’ piped up the first, ‘we should be thankful that we can all still drive…’

 

Happy Imminent Birthday To Me

Apparently I have a birthday occurring at any moment.  I can honestly say that I’d completely forgotten about this annual event.  It seems as though only five minutes ago we celebrated Christmas.  Hot on the heels of the festive season was my mother’s 81st, and then my son’s 21st.  If I were a cosmic policeman I’d flag down 2014 and say, ‘Do you know what speed you’re travelling at?  A hefty fine for you, and three points on your calendar.’
            ‘Can we celebrate your birthday at our favourite restaurant?’ asked my daughter.
            I did a rough head count which included those who are very good at ordering extra bottles of champagne without offering to pay for it.  This was followed by a cartoon gulp.
            ‘I think a birthday buffet at home would be better.’
            ‘Oh, how disappointing,’ said my daughter, ‘not to mention boring.’  She stuck out her bottom lip, seconds away from a full-blown sulk.
            But the truth of the matter is money doesn’t grow on trees.  There are those who are invited but seem to think this means they can, in turn, go on to invite the entirety of their own families.  I’ve only just recovered from paying for my son’s 21st. I wouldn’t mind if some of the guests were a little more giving of themselves, but one turned up and didn’t even have the generosity to give my son a birthday card!
            ‘What would you like for your birthday?’ my son asked during one late night telephone call.
            ‘Your company,’ I replied.
            ‘Okay, I’ll pop down for the weekend.’
            ‘Hurrah!’
            ‘Can we celebrate your birthday at our favourite restaurant?
            I experienced a moment of déjà vu.
            ‘I need to save a few pennies.  I’m doing a birthday buffet instead.’
            ‘Oh, how disappointing.’
            Another moment of déjà vu.
            ‘I know!’ said Rob.  ‘What about we go somewhere cheaper?’
            ‘Like where?’
            ‘What about pub grub?’
            ‘Yes that would be fine if W didn’t drink like a fish, and X didn’t order the most expensive things on the menu twice over because of his huge appetite, and Y didn’t want half a dozen shorts – and I don’t mean trousers that end at the knee.  Not forgetting Z who is so stingy he even likes to have a laugh at my expense.’
            It would seem that there are two ‘gifts’ for being the age I now am.  The first is cynicism and a touch of the Victor Meldrews. The second is no longer caring about whether I’m displaying cynicism and a touch of the Victor Meldrews.  Perhaps I should just blow a small fortune and be done with it.  Which reminds me.
            It’s a hot day and there’s a travelling salesman passing through a small town in Texas when he sees a little old man sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of a house.  So he stops and says to the little old man, ‘You look as if you don’t have a care in the world.  What’s your formula for a long and happy life?’   And the little old man replied, ‘Well, I smoke six packs of cigarettes a day, I drink a quart of bourbon every four hours, and six cases of beer a week.  I never wash and I go out every night.  Oh, and I don’t get to bed until four in the morning.’  And the guy says, ‘Wow, that’s just great.  How old are you?’  And the little old man says, ‘Twenty-two…’