Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 2

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!

Have you written your Christmas cards yet?  I’ll bet you have, and posted them too.  I bought my cards in September, left them on my desk, and told myself they’d be written and in the post box by 30th November.  This year I was going to be super organised.  Unfortunately, the buying of the cards was the only bit of early organisation.  Earlier this week, I returned to Bluewater for a final attempt at purchasing Christmas gifts.  Hurrah, success!  This time I walked around the mall with arms and shopping trailing across the floor.  I was dying to use the Ladies, but no chance.  Ever tried using a public loo with a dozen bags strung about you?  It’s a non-event.  So I drove home cross-legged, dumped everything in the hallway and then had a minor panic attack about finding time to wrap everything, slapping away a sudden vision of handing out presents wrapped in Boots and PC World carrier bags with a bow dangling sorrowfully off one corner.  THIS MUST NOT HAPPEN!
          My daughter, Eleanor, then cornered me.
          ‘When are we putting up the tree?  Can we do it on Sunday?’
          ‘Oh, er, good question,’ I replied, mentally calculating the time required to walk the dog, get back, swift change of clothes, charge out to look at apartments with my son, race back, cook Sunday roast, clear up, drive Eleanor back to drama school (which is miles away), tear home again, rip open a packet of Christmas cards, write out just the one, before nose-driving onto my desk with tiredness.  There isn’t enough time in the day right now.
          ‘So?’ my daughter prompted.
          ‘Do you really need me to help?’ I asked.
          ‘Where’s the Christmas spirit?’ Eleanor complained.
          Search me.  I lost it years ago.  I tried a different tack.
          ‘You do such a fabulous job decorating the tree, so much better than me.’
          When trying to get out of something, go for flattery.
          ‘We will do the tree on Sunday at noon,’ my daughter said, her tone of voice defying negotiation.
          I was really hoping to put it off until next weekend.  Or the one after that.  Or, heck, Christmas Eve.  Apart from anything else, I truly cannot decorate a Christmas tree.  It ends up looking like the decoration box had a vomit attack, with baubles and tinsel dripping off random branches.  Wherever I place a bauble, you can bet my daughter’s fingers will be re-arranging it seconds later.
          ‘No, Mum.  We need to have two unicorns equally placed.  See?  One to the left. One to the right. Actually, have you got a tape measure?  I’ll make sure they are both perfectly equidistant.’
          Eleanor is a nightmare for OCD when it comes to things being symmetrical.  As for wrapping up the Christmas presents – let’s not go there.  No way am I sellotaping things up with my dear daughter monitoring whether the wrapping paper’s pattern lines up.
          ‘Right, noon it is,’ I said, resigning myself to the task of getting the tree out of the garage, shaking out hibernating spiders, assembling the thing and knowing within minutes the cat will be wanting to climb it and the dog will be ransacking the decoration box and running off with the baubles.  Perhaps I’ll put on some Christmas Carols to get me in the mood!  Which reminds me.

Christmas Carols for the Psychiatrically Challenged
Schizophrenia: Do You Hear What I Hear?
Multiple Personality Disorder: We Three Queens Disoriented Are
Dementia: I Think I'll be Home for Christmas
Narcissistic: Hark the Herald Angels Sing About Me
Manic: Deck the Halls and walls and house and lawn and streets and stores and office and town and cars and busses and...
Paranoid: Santa Claus is Coming to Get Me
Borderline Personality: Thoughts of Roasting on an Open Fire
Obsessive: Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells...
                

Worrying Yourself to Death

I don’t mind confessing that for more than half my life I’ve suffered from a ridiculous anxiety.  Even though I told myself it was a ridiculous anxiety, the ridiculous anxiety wouldn’t go away. So, I took myself off for counselling.  And when I say took myself off, I don’t mean, in that moment, that I picked up the phone to a professional head doctor and said, ‘Hello, is that Mr Counsellor? Excellent! Okay if I pop in and see you for a natter about anxiety this afternoon?’ Oh no, no, no!  It took me two years before I even privately admitted that anxiety was getting out of hand, rudely interrupting happy moments – from walking my dog, to watching a film, or whooping it up at a party.  Because anxiety is no respecter of where you are, who you are with or what you are doing. Anxiety likes nothing more than tapping you on the shoulder in the middle of sharing a joke with a friend, or while you’re doing some shopping.
          ‘Hello, it’s me.  You haven’t been paying me enough attention. It’s about time you felt some anxiety, and just for good measure, have a panic attack too.’
          I trundled on for years saying, ‘Stuff off, Anxiety.  I’m a Brit.  We are famous for our stiff upper lips and pulling ourselves together!’
          But bit by bit, anxiety wore me down.  I found myself waking up in the mornings regularly greeted by anxiety.
          ‘Ah, awake now, are we?  About flipping time, because we need to spend a good hour thinking up some really awful anxiety-making stuff!’
          It was time to do something about it. Even then anxiety has a funny way of holding you back.
          ‘Hey, heyyy, aw, c’mon, I’ve only been having some fun.  You don’t really need to see a head doctor! Tell you what. I’ll give you a break. What about I leave you alone for a while?’
          Until you seriously start to think you are certifiably nuts.  So, ignoring the little voice, I went off to see a smashing chap who firstly told me I wasn’t half way round the bend, nor was I the first person to see him with this particular anxiety, nor would I be the last. And so began the addressing of anxiety, starting with drawing a timeline of my life.  Bit by bit, the cause of anxiety was revealed.  I’ll now tell you what the anxiety was.  Note the past tense!  Okay, deep breath from me, and I don’t care if you laugh.  It was a fear of death.
          How can something as natural as the end of a life cycle cause so much anxiety?  Well, for me, it’s because sometimes we don’t all reach a ripe old age, snoring our way soporifically from this world to the next.  That’s where trauma arose.
          A glance at the timeline showed the first memory of trauma.  Aged five, the death of a classmate. I made my shocked teacher very angry, telling her to cheer up, and that everyone had got it wrong, because only old people died.  It was only when the entire class moved up a year, and the little girl in question still hadn't returned to school, that her death sunk in.  Aged ten, another death of a school mate from a straightforward operation that went tragically wrong.  Aged twelve, the death of my beloved horses after a fire, and seeing their charred bodies brought out on a JCB digger. Aged fifteen, being harassed by a car full of young lads in a lonely lane who told me I was going to be raped and murdered when they'd finished taunting me.  Aged seventeen, mumps encephalitis, three weeks in hospitalised isolation and being told I was lucky I hadn’t died.  Aged nineteen, a burst appendix and again being told I was lucky I hadn’t died.  I could go on … the timeline is littered with trauma.  From nearly choking to death, to falling into a deep crevasse whilst skiing off-piste, from riding a bolting horse heading towards a motorway, to being diagnosed with Leukaemia.  I guess sooner or later trauma catches up with you.
          ‘Hello, Anxiety. Is something awful going to happen today?  Should I sit down and worry about it?  Right, okay, I’m now worrying.  Am I worrying enough? No?  Okay, I’ll worry a bit more. Think of worrying situations, you say?  Okay, I’m now walking through the woods with the pooch and it’s really windy so maybe this tree will blow down and squash me flat and I’ll be DEAD.  Yes?  Right, got it!  Okay, maybe this enormous dog coming towards me will attack me, bite through a major artery, blood will spurt everywhere and I’ll be DEAD!  Oh-my-God-oh-my-God he’s almost upon me … oh phew… he was actually rather lovely and … sorry?  He wasn’t?  Didn’t I notice that mean look in his eyes?  Oh, okay, I’ll worry about that and pray I don’t see him again and … actually I’ll take a completely different path from now on.’
          The thing about anxiety is that it isn’t rational.  And it’s also a waste of time.  And it takes so much effort to keep worrying about things – but even knowing all of that doesn’t stop it!  But one thing I AM aware of since seeing my lovely head doctor is that, when trauma happens, actually ... you deal with it.
          My counsellor asked me what I wanted – to survive, or thrive?  It’s a no-brainer. So if you are suffering from anxiety, don’t be a slave to it.  Send it packing.  Which reminds me about an amusing phone call.
          Welcome to the Psychiatric Hotline.
          If you are obsessive-compulsive, please press 1 repeatedly.
          If you are co-dependent, please ask someone to press 2.
          If you have multiple personalities, please press 3, 4, 5, and 6.
          If you are paranoid-delusional, we know who you are and what you want. Just stay on the line so we can trace the call.
          If you are schizophrenic, listen carefully and a little voice will tell you which number to press.
          If you are depressed, it doesn’t matter which number you press. No one will answer.
          If you are delusional and occasionally hallucinate, please be aware that the thing you are holding on the side of your head is alive and about to bite off your ear…

Christmas Shopping

It doesn’t matter how many times I frequent the shops, whether a village ‘festive fayre’, the local town’s High Street (and ten pounds on a parking meter) or my local shopping mall, Bluewater, I am not having much luck with the Christmas shopping.
          ‘What do you think my sister’s boyfriend would like?’ I asked my daughter.
          ‘A really decent Italian red wine?’
          ‘I bought him that last year. It’s not very imaginative, is it?’
          We were standing in House of Fraser, dithering over impending Black Friday sales with huge signs screaming SALE NOW ON! I picked up a wash bag full of luxuriant lotions and shampoos.
          ‘This is nice.  Should I buy it for him?’
          ‘Does he not have a wash bag?’
          ‘I don’t know!’
          My sister’s boyfriend is a musician.  What do you buy a concert pianist who can play whole concertos without sheet music and rattle off the scale of B Flat Major with his eyes closed? And probably play it with his toes too? Somehow, a wash bag doesn’t quite cut the mustard.
          ‘And I need to buy Grandma something nice.’
          ‘What have you got in mind?’
          ‘I don’t know!’
          My mother is nearly eighty-five.  She has categorically stated no bath smellies, no earrings, no clothes, no food hampers.  Her concentration is too poor to read a book, so that’s no good.  It took her an entire year to read my very first novel which she proclaimed ‘pure filth’ because nobody was a virgin.  A magazine subscription doesn’t fare any better as she ‘doesn’t have time to read’ which is evidenced by her taking scissors to my father’s daily newspaper and cutting out articles of interest ‘to read later’.  My father goes to read his paper and finds it full of holes.  Theatre tickets are tricky because she’s disabled and doesn’t always follow the plot of the play.  DVDs of music are a no because ‘they make a racket’.
          ‘What would you like for Christmas?’ I recently asked my step-daughter.  Last year she went with Eleanor and watched Matilda in London, and they loved it.  But this year my step-daughter wants pots and pans because she has apparently developed a passion for cooking.  I went into Lakeland and hadn’t a clue what to buy.  Let’s face it, as one who regards cooking purely as a means for survival, I have no interest in machines that make courgetti pasta, and wouldn’t know what one looked like if it hit me over the head.  The place was heaving, and the sales assistants wore frazzled expressions.
          ‘I’ll put money in a card,’ I said to Eleanor, as we elbowed our way out through the crowd.
          ‘What would you like for Christmas?’ I asked my son last week.
          ‘Loads,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
          ‘Wonderful,’ I beamed.  Someone with a clear idea of what they wanted.  ‘Do tell me.’
          ‘A BMW, a house at that new village they’re building in Ebbsfleet, and a holiday to anywhere in the world so long as it’s warm and sunny.
          ‘Ha ha, very funny.  You’ll get money in an envelope and be delighted.’
          The space under our tree is going to look very empty this Christmas!  That said, it will just be nice to see everyone, have a few drinks, eat turkey and pull crackers.
          ‘Come on,’ I said to Eleanor, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to leaving the chaos of Bluewater, going out tonight and having a glass of Prosecco.’
          ‘Sounds wonderful,’ she said.  ‘Where are you going?’
          ‘We’re having dinner with Aunty Janice and her boyfriend.’
          Which was apparently news to Mr V when I got home.
          ‘But Manchester United are playing Newcastle!’ he protested, pointing to the blaring television.  ‘I can’t possibly leave the boys right now.  We’re two goals up.’  He twisted his hands anxiously, as if an absence of armchair refereeing might change the whole outcome of the match.
          ‘I did tell you we were out this Saturday.’
          ‘No you didn’t.’
          ‘Did.’
          ‘Didn’t.’
          ‘Did.’
          ‘Didn’t, so there.’
          Sometimes it’s like dealing with a football-obsessed schoolboy.
          So we were the car on the A21 yesterday with the radio volume at maximum and a driver yelling, “YESSSSSSS” as Pogba and Menama took the score to 4 – 1.
          ‘Well done, Man U,’ I said, when Mr V had calmed down.
          ‘Thank you,’ said my husband, as if he’d personally scored every goal.
          Which reminds me.  Mr V once had a girlfriend who dumped him on the grounds he was football obsessed.  At the time he said he was gutted.  Apparently, they’d been going out together for three seasons…

To Catch a Thief

I’ve had a few dogs over the years. From noble German Shepherds to wilful terriers, from the super obedient to the downright delinquent, and from the haughty I’m-not-eating-that-muck to the gimme-gimme-gimme-I’m-starving.
          My last pooch, a beagle with a stomach that continually rumbled, was renowned to steal food.  Whether it was morning toast to a Sunday roast, she wasn’t fussy.  If you walked away from your plate for a nano-second, she was in there, wolfing it down and woofing with delight.
          My latest canine family member is an orphaned pup from Crete.  She comes from a line of street dogs programmed to survive, so whether it’s digging up beetles in the garden (ewwww!) to swallowing spiders that venture into the house, Molly isn’t fussy.  Every mealtime she quietly stations herself at my side, hoping a dropped morsel will land at her feet.  She is a polite dog, and always gently taps my arm when the knife and fork are put together, asking if it would be okay to lick my plate clean.  She has never stolen my dinner before – until this week.
          In an attempt to shed a few pounds before the Christmas feasting begins, I’ve been on a salad binge.  Like most people, I love to ‘mindlessly eat’. What better way to get through a mountain of rabbit food than prop your latest read against the pepper pot as you chomp your way through lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, grated carrot, alfalfa and all manner of strange sounding stuff.  The hero I was reading about was definitely tastier than my salad.
          Having spent fifteen minutes washing and prepping lunch, I topped it off with a couple of slices of thick ham, then looked around for my kindle. Ah, I’d left it by my bed. Leaving my lunch on the worktop, I nipped upstairs and was gone for half a minute.
          When I returned, the salad looked pretty much as I’d left it, although slightly re-arranged.  Something was different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it and was far more interested in immersing myself in a world of fiction than considering facts about my lunch.  Five minutes into chewing carrot sticks that looked, well, tatty is probably the best way to describe them, I realised what was missing.  The ham.  I could have sworn I’d put some on the plate.  No matter.  My memory is appalling.  I must have thought I’d put meat on the plate.  I went to the fridge to get the ham – but there wasn’t any.  That was when the dawn came up.
          Have you ever looked at a dog that can’t meet you in the eye?  Molly’s eyes were suddenly slithering all over the place. She let out a whimper of shame and slunk off.  I regarded my lunch in bemusement.  Great.  How much doggy slobber had I just eaten? Cue remainder of dinner in the bin and much gargling with mouthwash.
          As if this wasn’t bad enough, in an absent-minded moment I went and did exactly the same thing the following day.  Except this time Molly scoffed my boiled eggs too.  On the third day, I looked at my pooch and said, ‘Ha! You’re not getting the better of me today,’ and shoved my lunch right to the back of the worktop where she couldn’t reach it, before hastening off to fetch my kindle.
          When I returned it was to find the cat delicately picking out pieces of chopped chicken from the beansprouts.  The moral of this story is, never leave your book upstairs and never leave your lunch unattended.  Which reminds me.
          What do you get when you cross a hungry street dog with a computer? Mega-bites …

A Crystal Anniversary

This week, my husband and I celebrated our fifteenth wedding anniversary.  Like all marriages, we’ve had our moments.  From the “I-can’t-live-without-you” declarations to the “why-am-I-with-you” questions.  I appreciate it works both ways.  I’m a rotten cook, and he is hopeless at anything practical.  But if marriage is likened to a road, so far we’ve weathered the potholes and bumps.
          ‘Fifteen years!’ said Mr V, in wonder.
          ‘Indeed,’ I nodded.
          ‘It seems like yesterday.’
          And in some respects, it does.  Our wedding was small and low-key.  After all, we already had three beautiful children between us and weren’t youthful twenty-somethings.  For better or worse, we became a new family.
          ‘Do you know what fifteen years of marriage is called?’ asked Mr V.
          ‘A sentence?’ I quipped.  Well, I had to get that in before he did!  ‘I have no idea.  What is it?  Paper, or something?’
          ‘It’s a Crystal Anniversary.  And I don’t want you getting too excited, but I’ve bought you a little something.’
          ‘Really?’ I said, eyes lighting up.  ‘What is it?  Tell me!’  My mind was already darting off to Bluewater’s brightly lit jewellery shops, and crystal earrings.
          ‘An iron.’
          There was a long pause before I repeated, ‘An iron?’
          ‘Yes.  Are you pleased?’
          ‘But … but I have an iron!  And, actually, no, I’m not pleased.’
          I didn’t want to sound ungrateful but, hell, I didn’t want an iron!  And how could an iron in any way relate to the crystal theme?
          ‘This iron is special,’ Mr V explained.  ‘It has a crystal element which is meant to be extra helpful for getting creases out of clothes.  So, what do you think of my gift?’
          ‘I think,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘that it might be time for you to do the ironing.’
          Needless to say, he was pulling my leg and the ‘iron’ turned out to be a beautiful glass jewellery box, so we’re on track to celebrate our sixteenth

Scammers Who Prey on the Elderly

Every morning I telephone my elderly parents to make sure they’re okay.  At some point in the conversation I invariably ask, ‘What are you both up to today?’ Usually I’m told there is either a hospital appointment, a doctor’s appointment, a chiropodist appointment, or a visit to an osteopath (appointments are now a full-time occupation!).  You get the picture. However, on this particular day my parents weren’t going anywhere ... because somebody was coming to them.
          ‘That’s nice,’ I said, expecting them to say another golden-oldie pal was swinging by for coffee.  ‘Who is visiting?’
          ‘An audiologist,’ said my father.
          I was puzzled.  My father has had hearing aids for a few years, and always visits a specialist in Bromley. As far as I was aware, his audiologist didn’t do home visits.
          ‘Oh no,’ my father explained, ‘it’s a completely different person doing the hearing test.  He’s offering the latest hearing aid.’
          ‘But you have the latest hearing aid,’ I said, confused.
          ‘Ah, but this is the latest latest hearing aid.’
          ‘Right,’ I said, mind whirring, ‘and how did you hear (no pun intended) about this chap, Dad?’
          ‘He telephoned me.  Such a nice man.  It’s all above board.  He said he’d show me his business card.’
          I'll bet he did, I thought, my mouth pressing into a thin line.
          ‘So let me get this straight, Dad.  You were cold-called?’
          ‘Yes.’
          ‘And what’s the man’s name?’
          ‘I don't know.’
          Marvellous!
          ‘Can you remember his company name?’
          ‘Um ... no.’
          ‘So, basically, Dad, you’re allowing a total stranger into your home?’
          Whereupon my father laughed and laughed and laughed, and said, ‘Debs, why are you getting so worked up? It’s fine!’
          But it’s not fine.  My parents are from a generation where trust was, and still is, paramount.  Their word is their bond.  Shake on it, and it’s a deal.  I don’t know about you, but nowadays I don’t see much honouring of that.  Mostly, it’s every man for himself and exactly what he can get out of an opportunity.  It’s not that long ago my father was telephoned by a ‘nice chap’ claiming to work from BT who told him his computer wasn’t working properly (by coincidence, it wasn’t), and talked him through remote control. Next thing my father was locked out of his computer and having to change all his bank cards.
          ‘What time is this man coming over, Dad?’
          ‘In an hour.’
          Thank God I work from home and can drop everything.
          Twenty minutes later, I pulled up on my parents’ drive.  My father told me I was over-reacting.  Meanwhile he’d remembered the visiting audiologist’s name.  I Googled it and within seconds found the company.  A company search revealed its net worth was zero, and it wasn’t trading.
          ‘Well I’m not concerned.  The gentleman sounded very educated.  Lovely speaking voice.  And he’s going to show me his business card,’ was all my father kept saying.
          A few months ago, my parents were nearly duped by a man selling necklaces that contained a panic button, supposedly linked to an emergency helpline that called an ambulance if you, for example, had a nasty fall and couldn’t get up.  I checked that company out too, and discovered they’d gone bankrupt.  There were also many negative reviews on their website – which hadn’t been taken down – about customers who’d spent hundreds of pounds on necklaces that didn’t work because nobody had come in their hour of need.  After that, I’d made my dad promise he wouldn’t fall for cold callers’ sales spiel again.  When I pointed this reminder out, he had no recollection at all about the necklace fiasco, which worried me.  He’s not senile, but he is clearly forgetful.
          Sighing, we settled down to await Mister Nice-Guy, the audiologist.
          ‘What's the betting this guy turns up in a flash motor and smart suit? I said.
          ‘Surely that would mean he’s genuine,’ said my dad, baffled.
          I mentally slapped my forehead, and inwardly groaned.
          ‘No, Dad. It means nothing.’
          ‘And the business card? Surely that counts for something!’
          ‘Sadly not. Listen, Dad. I can print off business cards saying I’m the Prime Minister.  If I gave you a card, would you believe I’m Theresa May?’
          My father paused, digesting this.  For the first time, I saw a glimmer of realisation dawning.  He’d been had.  Well, almost.  Fortunately, he had an absolutely livid daughter on the warpath.  We were distracted by the sound of a car pulling up.  I erupted out of my parents’ house like Dame Kelly Holmes off the starting block.
          The man was everything I’d expected. Ultra-smart, his suit was so sharp I could have cut my fingers on it, and his vehicle was a top-of-the-range Land Rover (hired for the day?).  His big smarmy smile wavered when I whipped out my mobile phone and took a picture of, first, his registration plate and, second, him.  Looking anxious, he buzzed the window down half an inch.
          ‘Um, I have an appointment with–’
          ‘It’s cancelled,’ I interrupted.
          ‘Not a problem,’ he squeaked, one hand already putting the car into reverse.
          ‘How dare you target the elderly,’ I snarled, doing my best impression of an aggravated Rottweiler, ‘and wangle your way into their homes.’
          But I was talking to myself.  All that remained of the visitor was the dissipating exhaust fumes from his car.  It’s about time scammers were named, shamed and punished.  You can’t trust anyone.  Which reminds me.  (Stop reading now if you are a very refined type, super religious or easily take offence!)
          A man is driving down a deserted stretch of road when he notices a sign.  It says Sisters of Mercy House of Sin 10 Miles. He thinks he must have misread it and drives on without a second thought. Soon he sees another sign which says Sisters of Mercy House of Sin 5 Miles and realises he read the first sign correctly. When he drives past a third sign saying Sisters of Mercy House of Sin Next Right, his curiosity gets the better of him and he pulls into the drive.  In front of him is a sombre building with a small sign next to the doorbell.  It says Sisters of Mercy. He rings the bell. The door is answered by a nun who says, ‘What can I do for you, my son?’  He says, ‘I saw your signs on the motorway, and wondered if you’d like to do business.’  The nun inclines her head and says, ‘Follow me.’  The man is led along a passage to a closed door which bears the sign Please knock.  He knocks, and the door is answered by another nun holding a plate.  She says, ‘Please place £50 on the plate, then go through the large wooden door over there.’ The man opens his wallet, puts £50 on the plate, and trots eagerly to the large wooden door, pulling it shut behind him. He finds himself in a small courtyard, adjacent to the car park, where another sign reads: Go in Peace. You Have Just Been Scr*wed by the Sisters of Mercy.

Keep calm and carry on shopping

Yesterday I went shopping with my son and daughter at Bluewater Shopping Mall.  It’s a great place to go, notably because every shop you can think of is under one glorious brightly-lit indoor circuit.  From coffee bars to restaurants, umpteen cinema screens to hand-painted china, baby paraphernalia to toys, furniture to every item of clothing your heart desire’s, it’s pretty much the place to venture for everything you need.  It’s also a target for terrorists.  According to police, there have been several foiled attempts.  On a cool autumn afternoon, I discovered first-hand what it’s like to be caught up in an ‘incident’.
          I’d arranged to meet my son at Bluewater, by the internal entrance of M&S.  My daughter and I were travelling together, and parked in our usual underground spot.  Leaving the car park, we walked into M&S from the rear doors, straight into the lingerie and nightwear section.  Our attention was immediately caught by the pretty seasonal pyjamas in the softest, silkiest fabrics.  Eleanor has only to touch material like this to instantly regress to babyhood.  Back then she used to sleep with a balled-up square of soft material called Cuddly.   For years, Cuddly went everywhere until, frayed and ragged, a cleaning lady on holiday thought it was rubbish and binned it.  Eleanor was heartbroken.  Now aged twenty, she doesn’t need a cuddly!  However, she’s very partial to stroking any garment that reminds her of a time where the world was full of unicorns and fairies, and the only monsters were animated creations in Disney films.
          ‘Oh look at these, Mum,’ she said, picking up the bottom half of some pyjamas covered in cute galloping reindeer.  The moment her fingers made contact with the material, she was lost.  ‘This is so soft.’
          ‘|You’re right,’ I said, letting a swathe of fabric slip through my fingers.  ‘It’s gorgeous.’
          Distracted, we were only dimly aware of a shriek in the background, followed by another, this time shriller, accompanied by the approach of people running at full pelt.  Someone bashed into me, nearly knocking my handbag off my shoulder.  Mildly irritated, my immediate thought was, ‘Flipping teenagers, can’t they have some decorum?’ Eleanor and I remained fondling the pyjamas and sniffing lavender pillow sprays, oblivious to what was going on until we were shoved unceremoniously into a rail of dressing gowns.
          Turning around to see what the commotion was about, our eyes widened at a human tidal wave of panic-stricken shoppers shoving, pushing, and fighting their way to the exit doors that Eleanor and I had walked through only minutes previously. A security guy was talking into a walkie-talkie.
          ‘What’s going on?’ we called.
          ‘You’ve got to get out,’ he yelled, ‘the entire mall is being evacuated.’
          We didn’t hesitate.  Stepping into the throng, we were immediately swept forward and out into the car park, where we paused to see if we could help some people who were in a very bad way.  Strangely, I felt very calm.  Two young girls were hugging each other, one shaking badly, and crying.  We offered to give them a lift home, but they said they had a car, and just needed to work their way around the perimeter to get to it.  Vehicles were screeching out of car parks, and within seconds the ring road around the shopping mall was at a standstill from congestion.  Three fire engines, blue lights flashing, sirens wailing, sped past us in the opposite direction.  People who had fled out of the first available exit but were nowhere near their cars, were standing on the grass verge, hugging each other, crying, talking into mobiles, reassuring relatives no doubt.
          ‘Ring Robbie,’ I said to Eleanor, once in the car.  ‘I don’t think he’s here yet.  Tell him to turn around and go home.’
          However, we couldn’t get through.
          ‘The network might have been immobilised as a security precaution.’  I said to Eleanor.  It was only then that I felt the first frisson of alarm.  Where was my son?  I was fairly sure he’d still be heading towards Bluewater.  On the other side of the carriageway, cars were flowing towards the shopping mall, the drivers blissfully unaware of the incident, but shooting puzzled looks at the pandemonium on the opposite side.  Slowly, slowly, we crawled our way out of the exit roads, some drivers in no mood to queue and cutting up vehicles in a desperate bid to put as much distance between themselves and a terror attack.
          ‘It’s ringing,’ said Eleanor, as Robbie’s line finally connected.  Frustratingly it went to voicemail.
          ‘Put it on loud speaker,’ I said, ‘and hold the phone towards me.’  Some might argue that now wasn’t a time to worry about whether you were hands-free or not, but I guess I’m a law-abiding citizen even in a crisis!  ‘Rob,’ I shouted at the handset, uncertain about the ability of the microphone at a distance. Best to enunciate for clarity too.  ‘There. Is. A. Bomb.’  I nodded at Eleanor, who rolled her eyes.  ‘Turn. Around. Now.’  I dithered whether to finish with, “Over and out,” but realised this was real life, not an action movie.
          Eleanor hung up, but seconds later her phone rang.  It was Robbie.
          ‘Where are you?’ he asked his sister.  ‘I’ve just picked up a ridiculous voicemail from Mum sounding like she’s doing an impersonation of Inspector Clouseau.’
          ‘Never mind that,’ said Eleanor, ‘where are you?’
          ‘At Bluewater.  Outside M&S, waiting for you!’
          You know, it doesn’t matter how old your kids are, being a parent, a protector, never leaves you.  In that moment I had a strong desire to abandon my car, jump on its bonnet, then leap from roof to roof of all the other surrounding cars until I was back in the shopping mall and able to grab my 24-year-old six-foot-tall son away from the threat of death.  Which would have embarrassed him no end, I hasten to add.
          Needless to say, the ‘terror incident’ was a fire in one of the kitchens at the Food Hall. Eleanor and Robbie did some quick Googling from their phones, and found an announcement warning the public not to panic. Not that a great proportion of them were listening.
          As soon as we’d crawled to a roundabout, I turned the car around and headed back to Bluewater.  I guess the moral of this tale is, ‘In a crisis, keep calm.’  Oh, and if you haven’t got to drive home for a few hours, have a glass of wine. Which reminds me.
          Girl:  ‘I love you so much, I could never live without you.’
          Boy: ‘Is that you talking, or the wine?’
          Girl: ‘It’s me talking to the wine.’

Making a hash of the hashtag

Yesterday, I attended a social media course for writers.  It was an eye opener.  There was I, happily thinking, ‘Ah, lovely Facebook, the online place for chat and gossip with the occasional blip (like when I once discussed make-up, and mentioned wearing foundation in shade Milk Bottle Whitebecause of being so pale, and Mrs Bee-Up-Her-Backside called me a racist).  But I digress.  As I learnt yesterday, the world and his wife are on social media (and I hope nobody calls me sexist for not saying ‘her’ wife – you just never know!). We’re all updating a status, posting a picture, firing off a tweet.  The good, the bad, and the downright weird.
          A gentle reminder was given about how to behave on social media.  Don’t talk about religion.  Or politics.  Or anything that can, in the slightest way, be misconstrued. And don’t rant either.  I think we’ve all done the latter at some point.  Instead do nice things.  Like post a picture of a cake you’ve made.  Interact with people in a positive (and kind) way.  It goes without saying that all sorts of promotion takes place on Facebook – from clothing to, well, authors.  Apparently I should think about having an author page, independent to my ‘normal’ page.  Words like adverts and Sign Up Button were mentioned (amongst loads of others) and I could feel myself inwardly quaking.
          But if I was quaking over Facebook, when it came to Twitter I was positively vibrating with anxiety. Let’s look at the words tweet deck. A nice sunny decking area to sit and tweet from an iPad?  It was a shock to see a tweet deck in action with columns of frantic activity. When we were asked to make a list, it wasn’t for that week’s shopping.  I dived in, immediately feeling like a swimmer struggling to do breast-stroke while everybody else did a flashy front crawl.  Out of my depth – in every way.
          Instagram.  That’s where I post pictures of my dog and cat, and woodland walks with conkers.  Wrong!  It’s time to think outside the box.  Want to post a picture of a tree?  Fine.  But prop your book against the trunk and caption it accordingly.  ‘Look what I found! A copy of my book about evolution. This is a tree of knowledge!’ You get the gist.
          I’m trying to look at social media with fresh eyes … promotional eyes.  For this I need to take on board yesterday’s notes handed out by the super-knowledgeable and ultra-patient Anita Chapman.  I’m off to do some studying.  Which reminds me:
          Memory was something you lost with age.
          An application was for employment.
          A program was a TV show.
          A cursor used profanity.
          A keyboard was a piano.
          A web was a spider’s home.
          A virus was the flu.
          A mouse was a small furry creature.
          And if you had a 3-and-a-half-inch floppy, you hoped nobody found out!
         
         

Keep Calm and Scream Silently

Good heavens, how can it be ten months since I last blogged?  I guess life went a bit bonkers, with days passing so quickly it sometimes seemed pointless getting dressed, because five minutes later it was time to put the pyjamas on again.  Not that I ever went around in my PJs, you understand.  But I reckon I’ve sussed why some women shop in their nightwear –  simply because they’re up against the clock and something has to go.  Like clothes.  In which case, massive thanks to whoever invented pyjamas. Can you imagine what supermarkets would be like without them?
          ‘Mummy, look, there’s a naked woman in aisle two.’
          ‘That’s a mannequin, Harry.’
          ‘I don’t think so, Mummy, she’s filling her trolley with gin.’
          Cue pandemonium.
          This year I’ve somehow published two more novels, had a mega hissy fit over an on-going snagging list two years after buying our house, had ceilings taken down and a roof opened up, held down a day job with a rural internet connection more temperamental than the bull on the other side of my garden hedge, had a computer keel over (no, nothing backed up), then had PC World break the news that they’d lost not just the computer but also the hard drive, but were delighted to offer me a £25 gift voucher as a gesture of goodwill (oh how I laughed…in the unfunny having-a-nervous-breakdown kind of way).  My Italian husband, who had been overdosing on Gomorrah re-runs, took one look at my stricken face, jumped in his car and paid the young manager a visit which involved telling him all about where the £25 goodwill voucher would be placed if he didn’t immediately start looking for the chuffing computer.  Weeks later it turned up in Germany.  Don’t ask.  At this point I was two weeks away from going live with The Woman Who Knew Everything and had to start from scratch with edits and proof reading.  I was so fired-up with adrenalin I could have possibly taken out Kim Go-and-do Un without any help from nuclear weapons.  Stress is not a good thing.  Something had to go.
          I made a conscious decision to give up an unfulfilling day job and write full-time.  If you were the fanciful type (yes, I am!) you’d wonder if the universe was trying to tell you something, and cause chaos to make you stop and listen.  Because once that decision was made, everything immediately calmed down.  Along came WF Howes Ltd with two audio contracts, and then the fabulous Bookouture offered me a two-book romcom contract.  I was gobsmacked.  Thrilled to bits.  And absolutely terrified.  It’s one thing to write novels as an independent (I love writing, I’d do it for nothing), but it’s something else producing eighty-five-thousand words knowing there is an expectation.
          At the start of this week, I sat down in the study and stared at the computer in panic.  It was a bit like stage fright.  I wrote, backspaced, re-wrote, deleted, and after half an hour put my head in my hands.  And then a little voice said, ‘You don’t have to sign anything, just write for you.’  So I told myself I wouldn’t sign, that I’d just carry on as before, being an indie.  Relieved, my brain immediately produced an internal television screen where fresh characters were getting up to no good and acting out drama and mayhem.  My fingers flew across the keyboard noting it all down.  And yes, I went on to sign the contract.  But I pretend, when writing, that I didn’t!
          Which reminds me.  A writer died and was given the option of going to Heaven or Hell.  She decided to check out each place before making a decision. Descending into the fiery pits, she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes.
          ‘Oh my,’ said the writer. ‘Let me see Heaven now.’
          A few moments later, ascending into Heaven, she saw rows of writers, again chained to their desks and in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they too were whipped with thorny lashes.
          ‘Wait a minute,’ said the writer.  ‘This is just as bad as Hell!’
          ‘Oh no, it’s not,’ replied an unseen voice.  ‘Here, your work gets published...’
           

Let’s All Go to Amsterdam!

Now that the kids are pretty much grown-up and independent, it is nice to be a bit selfish and please ourselves.  Which is exactly what we did a couple of weekends ago when Mr V turned fifty-one.
          ‘What have you bought for my birthday?’ asked my husband rubbing his hands together with anticipation.
          ‘Ah, that would be telling,’ I said.
          ‘Give me a clue then.  Can I eat it?’
          ‘Nope.’
          ‘Can I drink it?’
          ‘Nope.’
          ‘Can I wear it?’
          ‘Nope.’
          ‘I give up.’
          ‘Book a couple of days off work either side of the weekend.  We’re going somewhere.’
          My husband’s smile wobbled.  He’s not really one to embrace the great outdoors unless it involves a golf course.
          ‘Don’t you think the weather is a bit, well, chilly to go off wherever?’
          ‘It’s not the North Pole,’ I grinned.  ‘But you will need to wrap up warm. Oh, and make sure you have comfortable shoes for walking in.’
          ‘Right,’ said my husband trying to look enthusiastic.  ‘We’re going to the North of England, aren’t we?’
          ‘Maybe,’ I nodded.
          As the weekend drew closer, Mr V was convinced we would be trekking around the Yorkshire Dales and roughing it overnight in hostels.  So he was pleasantly surprised when I accidentally blurted that we mustn’t forget to buy some Euros for Amsterdam.  Why am I the world’s worst at keeping a secret?
          ‘Brilliant,’ he beamed.  ‘I won’t need trackies and trainers now.’
          ‘Yes you will,’ I assured, ‘warmth and comfort is all when sight-seeing.’
          The taxi arrived to take us to Southend airport.  I didn’t even know there was an airport in Southend until recently when at my son’s place, a sky-high apartment in Leigh-on-Sea.  I was staring out of his top floor window admiring the lofty views when an EasyJet plane whizzed past the window so close I could almost see the pilot.
          ‘Flippin’ heck,’ I squeaked, ducking down behind the window sill.
          ‘The airport is just over there,’ my son pointed.  Inching up, my eyes followed the flight path of the plane’s orange tail as it dipped over some trees and dropped onto a runway.
          Southend airport is small.  It has one WH Smith with limited stock, a virtually empty duty free shop because it’s awaiting refurbishment and one restaurant-come-bar, the latter named after Freddie Laker who launched cheap flights back in the seventies. We sat at a fake marble-topped table eating our full English breakfast whilst waiting for our flight to be called.
          Schipol airport, on the other hand, is enormous.  A mini city of ceramic tiles, steel and glass, it is littered with inviting bright modern shops. We walked through the airport under soaring rafters decked with festive lights dangling like giant crystal droplets.  To one side, a twenty-foot-high fir tree plastered in tasteful matching lights glittered away.  We made our way to the taxi rank where a driver whisked us off to the welcoming Bilderberg Garden Hotel.
          The following morning we headed to the Van Gogh museum. At this point I would like to give a top tip.  Pre-book your tickets on-line!  We stood in driving rain and wind for ninety minutes.  I was as warm as toast in my fleece-lined trackies, ski jacket and hat.  Mr V, possibly being a stubborn Italian male, had opted for style over warmth.  So whilst the wind tugged at the hems of his Boss jeans, blew into the gaps of his flimsy Armani jacket and his toes went numb inside his Italian leather shoes, I told him he at least looked cool.  Which was true.  He was so cool his ears had turned an unfetching shade of mauve.
          Inside the Van Gogh museum it was blissfully warm.  Huge glass windows looked out onto rattling trams, hardy cyclists and cold pedestrians, necks huddled into collars, gaily coloured umbrellas held aloft and frequently blowing inside-out.
          First stop was to warm up at the museum’s coffee shop.  We sat at one of the long trestle-tables drinking hot cappuccino.  In the background the coffee machine repeatedly hissed like a dentist’s suction machine as it doled out cups of foam and froth.
          What can I say about Vincent’s art?  “Stunning” doesn’t really sum it up.  There is a very over-used word that my kids use for almost anything – from describing a bar of chocolate to what sort of day they’ve had.  Awesome.  Well these pieces were awesome in the true sense of the word.  Gazing upon such mood changing images that filled canvas after canvas after canvas conveyed the troubled artist’s frame of mind at the time of painting.  He continued to paint while in a mental asylum and even when injured after shooting himself in the chest.  It took him two days to die from his wounds.  It doesn’t bear thinking about.  What an intriguing human being.  And what a premature loss. But what a wonderful collection he left behind.  I had two favourites: The Pink Orchard and The Pink Peach Tree.
          Many hours later, we ventured outside.  Finding our way to the nearest viaduct we spent a peaceful couple of hours gently cruising through Amsterdam’s centuries old canals.  We glided past hundreds of long and narrow houseboats, gazing upwards at the beautiful architecture of ancient patrician houses gabled with richly decorated cornices against a backdrop of towers and churches, all the while absorbing the quaintness of the many bridges strung like beaded necklaces with hundreds of padlocked bicycles.
          Amsterdam is also known for its permissive atmosphere and alternative lifestyle.  That evening we took the tram to Dam and walked past shops selling anything from fashion to huge cheeses and drugs.  Dipping down a side-street we came out into an open area where yet another canal divided a rat-run of narrow streets.  These were lined with elegant houses, most of which sported soft red lights or other pretty coloured beams.  All flagged up the same wares.  Prostitutes.  These streets were heaving with tourists scurrying like ants, eyes darting from left to right to gawp at the ladies of the night.  We fell in with the crowd.
          Obviously you hear about this, and you read about this. But nothing quite prepared me for actually seeing this.  Imagine quaint shops with dimpled glass windows like Giuseppe’s charming workshop in the Disney film Pinocchio, but instead of wooden puppets displayed to passing customers, those cutesy windows showcase semi-naked women.  It’s both surreal and bizarre.  All the girls were young and beautiful.  They stood, like mannequins, modelling skimpy underwear showing off their surgically enhanced assets.  All wore bored expressions and all were chatting on their mobile phones, possibly to each other, whilst waiting for a customer to knock on their door. And then I felt overwhelmed with sadness that such gorgeous ladies were availing themselves.  I was old enough to be a mother to all of them and was surprised at how the maternal instinct reared up.  I wanted to punch the lights out of one creep who knocked on a door.  Instead I gave him a filthy look and continued with the flow of the crowd.
          Despite being outside the air was thick with the smell of cigarettes and weed.  Clouds of smoke billowed up to the tops of the old-fashioned street lamps, which added a touch of spookiness.  The haze cloaked every narrow street and all the way along the embankment, and the pong stuck to your hair and clothes.
          We were desperate to grab a hot drink somewhere, but the coffee shops in Dam are not to be recommended unless you aren’t fazed about passive-smoking cannabis and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with others, many of whom appeared to be stoned. I guess we’re too old to be up for any of that!  For us it was back to the hotel for a nightcap and a hot bath to thaw out.
          On the second day we simply wandered and did what we always do best.  Got lost.  Several times over.  I’m not sure how many tram rides we took but it was quite a few and encompassed visiting the Rijksmuseum, the flower market, Rembrandt Square, Vondel Park (where we’d hoped to cycle its forty-seven hectares but had to abandon due to visiting Storm Angus blowing people off their bikes) and finally arrived at Anne Frank’s house.
          Despite the weather, die-hard tourists were lining the streets with a two-hour queue.  However, time was no longer on our side.  A security guard kindly let us go through a barrier so we could take a picture of the famous house that once hid a young Jewish girl and her family for two long years when Amsterdam was invaded by the Germans.  Privately I was relieved not to go inside. Friends had told us they’d found the experience quite harrowing. Their advice had been firm. ‘If you go in, have a stiff drink when you come out.’
          The following morning Storm Angus had passed over Amsterdam leaving a trail of crumpled bicycles with misshapen wheels, uprooted trees and many roofs with gaping holes.  I was relieved the high winds had gone and the thirty-five minute flight back to Southend was reasonably calm.  As the plane sailed past my son’s block of flats, I gave a cheery wave just in case Rob was standing at his kitchen window washing up.  Which reminds me.
          A blonde rang up an airline.
          ‘How long are your flights from Southend to Amsterdam?’ she asked.
          ‘Just a minute,’ said a voice at the other end of the phone.
          ‘Thanks,’ said the blonde. And hung up…