The class rep

I am the class rep for my daughter's reception class at school. Technically speaking I am half the class rep, as I share the role with another mother, who happens to be a friend of mine. We agreed to do it together because no one else wanted the job, and like me she has two small kids and little enough time to have an uninterrupted toilet visit let alone time to dedicate to an admin job of this kind.

The rep the previous year provided very big shoes to fill.  She'd get the weekly newsletter we all got on a Friday afternoon, extract the relevant bits and email us later that evening. She'd send us online calendars which allowed us to specify a preference for a mothers dinner date and it would then collate the popular choice. Emails were sent the day before reminding us if our children were meant to take things into school, or class trips, and we were effectively shaped into a highly efficient summer fair, book fair, winter fair, bake sale, and fund raising machine. You see a lot of women like this in the school -  high functioning professionals that give up their careers for a few years to raise their children and who are effectively intellectually frustrated.  They approach things like being a class rep as though they are orchestrating a hostile takeover, all the while elegantly attired.

I genuinely appreciated her for it, because in the nursery the year before, I was one of those mothers that had no idea what the hell was going on most of the time. I had a new baby and a toddler, so I might have been forgiven for that, but it didn't look very good. I'd always turn up having missed the boat about something while everyone looked at me a little pityingly. While the other children were given beautifully made sandwiches for their walking home snack, my daughter often got a Penguin. She didn't actually like sandwiches  but they didn't know that. I felt like that kid that is constantly asking other kids to copy their homework, or for spare PE kit because they've forgotten theirs at home and don't want detention.

MUFTI day - the phrase has a painful association for me. It's a day at the school - once a year, where the children get to wear non uniform and donate two quid to charity. Back in nursery our class rep wasn't quite as, well, efficient at reminding people about things as the aforementioned high functioning rep was. For starters I had no idea what MUFTI day was, and hadn't read the newsletter, so I didn't know when it was either. And to be fair to the rep, she had older children, assumed everyone read the newsletter, and didn't feel the need to spoon feed us. So on the fateful day, I'd had a terrible night with the baby, and I asked my cleaner to walk my daughter in to school. That afternoon, upon waiting in line to collect her, I began to get an increasingly sinking feeling, as miniature princesses, cowboys, and knights began emerging from the nursery (beaming) into their mother's waiting embrace. And then my little girl came out wearing school uniform; a small, solitary, distraught figure, who subsequently fell apart in my arms. A genuinely even tempered and happy little girl most of the time, she was totally distraught. At the time dressing up as a princess was the most special wonderful thing in her world, and here was this one day where she not only had license to dress up as one but to spend an entire morning in the company of other princesses! And her mother had messed up. 

The following year I kept a frantic eye out for information or mention of when MUFTI day was, double checked it with the teacher, triple checked it with the class rep and the other mothers, and then marked it in bold letters in my diary and on the calendar in the kitchen. There is no way in hell I was going to forget it. This time my daughter chose to wear something low key like a pair of jeans, a jumper, and trainers. But at least she wasn't in school uniform. As part of my class rep duty this year, I reminded the mothers at several different intervals - a kind of MUFTI day count down. I felt like, even if I did nothing else, I had fulfilled my duty as a good rep.

Another job of the class rep is to liaise on behalf of the parents with the head of the department and the headmistress. These meetings occur once a term and are fairly relaxed. We are invited to propose items for the agenda, and I ask mothers to email me any of their questions or concerns. It's things like: The toilets are dirty and smell (always). Why is the (albeit handsome) French teacher not a native French speaker? My French speaking child finds his pronunciation humorous. Why don't our children have napkins at lunch time, my son is using his sleeves? That sort of thing.

Regarding the toilets the answer is always the same: Small kids, especially small boys, tend to miss the target and unless you have a cleaner in the toilet 24/7, it is going to smell of urine. In fact I have a vivid unpleasant olfactory memory of my own school toilets even all these years later.

At the last meeting one mother vociferously stated her opposition to pudding on the lunch menu and biscuits as snacks, and suggested these be removed in favour of more healthy options. My response didn't go down too well: "What are you kidding me?! It's the one time in your life you can eat pudding and not worry about it. Why would you want to take it off the menu?!" The headmistress sensibly interjected that the children were not permitted pudding unless they had eaten their lunch first, and that they also had the option of fruit if they so chose. She thought it was good to promote the concept of choice from a young age, and that children should be given the ability to exercise this and to self regulate. Yeah, I thought, as I nodded my head - that's what I was going to say. But I could tell the Sweet Nazi, as I unkindly mentally labelled her, had my number, and likewise my sugar loving face burnt into her alfalfa eating mind for all of eternity.

As luck would have it, this women, whom I had never seen or noticed until this meeting, suddenly began appearing everywhere. A couple of days after the meeting, I almost collied with her outside of the school as I was in the process of magnanimously handing out chocolate eggs to some of the children who were coming back to my house for a play date. The expression on her face undoubtedly read: 'Yup, just as I thought - the Pied Piper of rotting teeth and emerging fat cells.' I walked home feeling sheepish.

I am presently planning my son's 3rd birthday party. Fortunately he is consistent in his tastes. Last year it was pirates, specifically 'Jake and the Neverland Pirates', this year it's robots, space rangers (specifically 'Buzz Lightyear'), and rockets. At three my daughter thought she liked 'Ben 10' even though she had never seen a single episode of it. It's a complicated story but she had a little friend called Ben, whom she adored. And one day in the store she saw a book with 'Ben 10' on the cover and excitedly exclaimed, "Look it's Ben!" And in all fairness to her, it was a rather uncanny likeness. From that moment on 'Ben 10' was her friend Ben. I could see some of the other nursery mothers thought I actually let her watch the programme because she talked about it all the time. They were probably thinking: 'OK, so always late, has no idea what the hell is going on, traumatised her child my missing MUFTI day, AND allows her to watch totally age inappropriate TV.'

Anyway, so she wanted a 'Ben 10' theme for her 3rd birthday, but then she also wanted dinosaurs. It really threw me - what to do, what to do? It genuinely messed with my desire to have an integrated matchy matchy sort of theme. I blame it on years of working on Proctor and Gamble advertising. In the end I landed up going for both  - and alternated table settings with either 'Ben 10' tableware or dinosaur ones - likewise with the balloons. Party bags had a similar assortment of things, and the entertainer was a conservationist chap who showed off his collection of lizards, snakes and spiders.

For her birthday presents she asked for something called 'The Tower of Doom' and a 'Blue Dragon' - both featured in a kids shop catalogue she enjoyed browsing while she used her potty. So I, despite instinctively thinking these things may well be frightening for a tiny just on three-year-old girl, once again indulged my daughter's eccentric tastes and ordered them. The blue dragon (an automated remote controlled creature who's eyes glowed red as it menacingly lumbered forwards, while producing a blood curdling screech) had to be banished into the deepest recesses of the garage because she was terrified of it.  I think it was then that it occurred to me that the Temple of Doom (with its two headed creatures and knights) might be similarly received, and it never got presented. It remains unopened in the garage and I think my son may well be getting it for his birthday this year.

Building works

We bought a house a year ago, and have gutted it inside, knocked a couple of walls down, and are in the process of putting it back together again. So these days all my free time (and there isn't much of it to begin with), is used looking at taps, shower enclosures, toilets, doors, door handles, paint swatches, spindles (the wooden bits that staircases are made up of), stair lights, paint swatches, wall paper, tiles, and and and - the list is endless. At the beginning of the process the architect told us we could be as involved or uninvolved in the project as we liked. I have not found this to be the case, because ultimately, unless you say to someone, and mean it: 'You choose everything' - there are going to be choices to make and this involves you pouring through brochures and browsing the internet. Now I love shopping, I won't deny it, but this wore me down. And being a pro choice sort of person, I never thought I'd say this, but after this experience, I think there can be such a thing as too much choice. It can be overwhelming and contribute to that already residual sense that one could always do better than the choice one has already spent 50 odd hours making. Google is sometimes not your friend - it is the equivalent of the Jones's.

Ask anyone who has renovated or refurbished a house what the experience was like and they will almost certainly share a widely different set of stories and opinions on the matter, but I bet you a dollar that almost all of them will say the following:
1. Whatever you had budgeted to spend, double it
2. Whatever time you had planned on the process taking, double it

One of the most important things in the process is that you have a team of people that you trust. This means and includes the architect and the building contractor. Because what invariably happens is that you start out with a plan, stuff goes wrong or crops up, and you incur a lot of extra time and money to fix it. Even with the most honest man on the job unexpected things occur. In our case we were going to strip the walls only as far as the wall linings, and once they started doing that they discovered the plaster behind was crumbling, so we made the decision to take the whole house back to the brick and re-plaster from scratch. And in some places wooden support beams were sagging with age and damp and had to be removed and replaced with steel. And it turns out the existing water supply is insufficient so we have to pay Thames Water to dig out something in the road and replace it, which means putting up parking and traffic restrictions in place, and getting their team to replace water pipes, for a price, naturally. Then there's the roof, or parts of it, that need replacing, the guttering etc etc etc.

And while you're at it, you may as well fix the higgledy piggledy 1920's ceilings, insulate the whole house, and if you do that, then probably a good idea to double glaze the windows otherwise you are going to lose heat and triple your heating bill. Oh and that ugly 1970's fireplace probably should be changed because it don't work with the style of the house, but you have to get a chimney sweep (yes they actually exist outside of Dickens novels)in to see if it is clear, and see if the gas connection is sufficient, etcetera. You see where I'm going with this right? 

Ahh and what about changing your mind? The more you do this, the more money and time you spend. But to be fair to the moderate mind changers of the word, of which I count myself one, it is impossible to work from a set of drawings only. For example: We had decided on a separate TV room to our kitchen, but once the builders took down the existing wall and were about to put up a new one in a different place, we found that actually we liked the space to be left completely open plan. Then there was a space where a door was going to go, and when you were walking around it didn't feel right in that position, so we moved it. 

I once worked with someone who told me never to settle with something unless I was 100% happy with it. This was in a work context, but it's stood me in good stead with many other things since. This cropped up with the opening to the conservatory from the kitchen, which was off centre, and needed opening to the left by approx half a meter. I kept walking into the room and wanting to shove the wall over to the left - probably the designer in me that likes things to be aligned and equidistant. Our first builder said he wasn't sure it was possible and ummed and ahhed and made it sound like I was requesting a complex feat of engineering. The architect talked about added cost, and the two of them genuinely tried to talk me out of it. Our second (and final builder - which is another story) came along and said he didn't think it was a problem provided the structural engineer took a look. Long story short, it was possible, it wasn't a huge cost, and everyone agrees it looks infinitely better. Sometimes you have to stick to your guns. I have this theory that if something bothers you,  go home and sleep on it. If you are still bothered by it in the morning, chances are you need to make a change.

We have also put electric plug sockets in every conceivable location.  So much so that I wouldn't be surprised if our house doesn't visibly glow in the night from all the energy. But until we have lived in the house and know how we are going to use it, use the rooms, we needed to have the flexibility. Also because my doctor, who has himself renovated his house recently, mournfully advised: "You can never have enough outlets, and getting them done after the fact is a huge pain and expense."

Then there were our friends who told us that the sunken spot lights in our kitchen should line up exactly with where our kitchen cabinet doors open, so we should hold off on putting in the ceiling until the kitchen was fitted. And to have two fridges instead of one of those large expensive American ones which are all about door space and not much fridge space. That saved us a few quid.

Or the friend who warned us regarding the position of plug sockets or light switches so that they don't conflict with where one wants to put art.

Lots and lots of opinions and bits of advice from everyone. There are people out there who make up their minds about something and don't really care for or want anyone else's opinion - but I am the opposite. It's not that I am insecure, indecisive or easily swayed, quite the opposite actually. But I genuinely believe, especially when you are doing something for the first time, that information is priceless. Learning from other people's experiences and mistakes has been very beneficial to us. Now I'm certain there will be things that once we are in we will say, "If we were to do this over, we would do x, y or z differently..." There are already a few electric socket positions in the kids rooms I am not too happy with and probably should have checked, but once the furniture is in I doubt that the fact that they are not precisely centred with where a (potential) double bed in the future would go to house bedside lamps, is going to bother me hugely.

I do however think that if you have a generous budget, getting an interior decorator in is helpful. Our budget was not that generous. These people spend their time pouring through catalogues and brochures on your behalf, and probably have a lot of stuff at the tip of their tongues, once they know your taste, and can save you the hours of having to choose things yourself and the second guessing. And it really is hours and hours and hours. And knowing which taps to choose, and which shower hose, and that you don't just need the shower hose, you need a cradle, and an end piece, and which basins to get with waste or without etcetera  A lot of it started out as being Greek to me, but we are fortunate to have a very intelligent and helpful contractor who has assisted me through the laborious and confusing process and has suffered a thousand and one probably rather idiotic (at least to him) sounding questions via email.

Timings are another tricky bit. We are currently renting, and it goes without saying having a mortgage and a rental is a financial stress. But we also know that it is cheaper than a divorce, which is what a lot of couples risk when they live in a house while building work is going on. I also think it's very tough when you have small children, school runs, the usual havoc of life with a young family, and tons of dust. I don't think I have it in me. And I'm praying that I won't have to test that theory because our landlord has droves of estate agents showing our rental every week. One couple who appeared to like the house asked me when we were moving out. I could see the estate agent behind them trying to signal me, the veins bulging in her neck and her eyes widening as I said: "Well, hopefully at the beginning of July, if our builders are finished." I am praying it won't be a situation where they find someone, give us a month's notice (our current agreement), and we have to find a place for a few weeks before the works are completed.  *Area just below left eye twitching as I ponder this possibility.*

Everyone says to me: "How exciting you will get your house exactly as you want it." At first I genuinely didn't think this, I felt overwhelmed at how much I would have to choose and how many ways I could get it wrong. But I've found that you figure it out as you go along, guided by budget, advice from the architect, builder, and friends, and it slowly starts to fit together. Also, I am blessed with a husband who has a very relaxed attitude about things and he constantly reminds me: "Honey, if we hate it, we can always change it." Which I suppose is true, after sleeping on it of course.

Notes from recent travels

"I wouldn't want to mess with her," says my husband, eyeing a particularly muscular woman at the poolside. This instinctive nightmarish vision of having to defend himself - bar brawl style or perhaps in a dark alley - against this unsuspecting stranger, feels peculiarly male to me. Later my son steals her sons' toy and we get chatting. "You are in great shape," I tell her. "I take it you work out?" I almost expect her to say, "Well, duh!?" But instead she says warmly, "Thank you. Yes I do, it's my release. If I didn't work out I'd have anxiety. I really enjoy it." She tells me she works out every day. I try and appear knowledgeable on the subject despite my soft body and the calorific cocktail I'm nursing in a plastic cup. The truth is I do know quite a bit about transforming one's body because my father used to weight train religiously when I was younger, and I got into it myself in a big way after university. Years of drinking and unhealthy eating had taken their toll, and it took almost a year of hard work and daily dedication to shed the massive 55 pounds I had accrued. Me: "So you alternate muscle groups and cardio versus weights?" She nods, evidently impressed, and says she does. 

I reflect on my own current exercise regime which consists of doing the school run - a total of 6 walks a day - in a hilly party of London with one small child in tow and another in the pushchair I am breathlessly hoiking around. By the looks of her thighs and washboard stomach, and mine which resemble misshapen lumps of dough, what I am doing is evidently not enough.

I like a muscular build on a woman, I see it and I appreciate all the hard work and dedication that's gone in to it, because I know what it takes to achieve something like that. So many Mars bars denied, so many hours working out - the self discipline is enviable. But more so she looks strong, healthy, and able to defend herself, which is what really appeals to me. Maybe I too somehow envisage the bar brawl or being jumped in a dark alley, and the idea of being able to surprise any potential attacker with my strength and stealth truly appeals. All fantasy material naturally, as I'd most likely scream for help or make a run for it as much as the next person. But still, it would be cool.

On the subject of surprises, I decided to surprise a friend of mine and fly to DC for his 40th birthday party last week. We have known each other for about 20 years now and I thought it might be nice for him to have some friends, or at least a friend, from his pre American life, apart from his lovely wife that is.  This involved flying from West Palm Beach in Miami to the Ronald Reagan airport in Washington, approximately a 2.5 hour flight.

Given the fact that I travel frequently I should be more used to it, and I guess I am, but I don't like flying. It's not so much that I worry the plane will fall out of the sky, but I struggle to wrap my head around how such an enormous piece of machinery, plus passengers, plus all their bursting at the seams suitcases, manages to actually get up there in the first place. Whenever I check in, I look around at all the luggage people are checking in themselves, and it makes me very nervous. 'All that stuff, all that stuff must weigh a ton!' I think to myself. I am most nervous on take off, which I'm told is realistic given that's also when the plane has a full tank of gas. Thanks very much to whoever told me that - probably my husband.

So ahead of this particular flight I am doing my usual pre flight withdrawal thing; I retreat into my book and don't want to talk or be gregarious. But my American co travellers are gregarious and in high spirits, chatting away in the waiting area, especially as the flight has been delayed by about 40 minutes and then a further 20 or so thanks to the toilet on the plane being broken.  They are an upbeat bunch, but connections are at risk and people are beginning to get nervous, so the talking and joking is elevated. I'm all for the toilet getting fixed: whatever it is, fix it, I don't care how long it takes. I'd rather wait longer and know that everything is working as it should. That's the fear talking.

In the seated area next to the gate, the man next to me is frenziedly shovelling something into his mouth, his head bobbing back and forth. I look over to see he is eating trail mix (a mixture of nuts, seeds and raisins). The woman opposite is reading her Kindle and has removed one shoe and sock and is twirling her foot this way and that.

'God, if I find myself in a 'Lost' situation I really don't want these people to be on an island with me', I think to myself. I am nervous and therefore intolerant. And I hate seeing people's feet, especially in an out of context situation such as this. She could be naked - it's feels the same to me, just very, I don't know, uncomfortable. And the audibly masticating man next to me is just annoying. 

Once we board, my seat is right at the back of the plane, and my travelling companion is a woman in her mid to late 60's wearing a surgical mask - the kind that Chinese tourists wear when they have a cold. I greet her and then add, "Do you have a cold, or are you afraid of germs?" trying, and probably failing, to sound as friendly and upbeat as my co travellers. "I have cancer," she answers plainly, "and my kids have told me I should wear this because the air on planes is circulated over and over and I could catch something that would be bad for my immune system."

Me: "I'm really sorry to hear that."

She puts on ear phones and I take that as my cue to shut up and read my book.

The flight is bumpy - so bumpy that for the entire flight the seatbelt signs are on. I manage to order a small bottle of red wine and drink it hurriedly lest is spill all over the place, and of course, in the vain hope it might calm my nerves. I try and write a piece about a recent fellatio master class I attended (I'm not kidding) but then think a woman who is battling cancer may not want to read about penis hygiene in such close confines. So I shut my laptop and go back to reading about extremists and people who believe in such things as a secret organisation that runs the world. As an aside Jon Ronson's 'Them' is excellent, should you want to read about conspiracy theories of this kind.

30 minutes before landing and the woman next to me is getting angsty, she removes her mask, and asks the flight attendant to please enquire about her connection and if she is going to be OK. Five minutes pass and it appears as if he's forgotten so she asks him again, and then adds: "I am burying my husband tomorrow in Buffalo and I cannot miss my flight."

Me: Your husband? What happened?

Her: He died and he is orthodox and he has to be buried with his people up there, even though we live in Miami. So I flew him over

Me: God I am so sorry. What did he die from?

Her: Cancer

Me: (Incredulous) So you both have cancer?

Her: Yes, I think I got mine worrying about him being sick. He fought it for five years but we weren't lucky

Me: (Swallowing), My goodness, I am very very sorry, you've been through so much

Her: Thank you, yes, I have. But I cannot miss my connection today. I should have flown out with him yesterday

I imagine this woman dealing with all this fear and tragedy and having to bury her husband in a strange place - certainly far away from her and her children, and I feel an enormous sense of loss and sadness. Irrespective of how upbeat and hopeful I like to be in order to cope and keep the shadows at bay, sometimes I have to concede that life can be a terribly unfair bitch.

Fast forward a few days and I am back at our resort, chatting to a grandmother at the pool, who is there to help look after her 8-month-old granddaughter while the father is at a conference at the hotel and the mother is back in Kansas heavily pregnant. Her and I chat about children and how taking your grandchildren on holiday is such a brilliant idea if you have to babysit for an extended period of time, and then something, or rather, someone, jolts our attention away.

A man looking exactly, and not just a bit, but exactly as though he has just stepped off of the cover of Men's Health magazine saunters into our vision and joins the aforementioned well toned muscular woman and her kids at the pool. Obviously if he was going to be anyone's husband, he was was going to be hers, and I realise the gym is evidently a shared passion of theirs. He starts talking on his mobile phone, ever so slightly turned at the waist, and every conceivable muscle in his body is bulging and shining in the afternoon sun. I pretend to read my book and then look over at he grandmother who is not pretending to do anything other than stare. And you do stare, because seeing someone so physically perfect is a rarity and it's, well, a thing of beauty and wonder. Another man, a father watching his kids in the pool, eyes the Men's Health guy and then instinctively crosses his arms across his chest. My husband, lying next to me, says: "I think I need to get back to exercising again." But this time there is no mention of messing with anyone.

This and that

This week we attempted to toilet train our two and a half-year-old son. Toilet training a child is a bit like trying to blow up a balloon. Nothing nothing nothing nothing, and then pffft! it happens. Or in the case of toilet training the 'nothing' refers to: Pee in pants, pee in pants and on carpet, pee in pants and on kitchen floor, pee in pants and cry about wee burning legs, pee in pants and on leather sofa, pee on sister's bedroom chair causing her to lament and announce that such things shouldn't happen because she is the president of her room all the while wearing a revolted expression. The 'pffft!' or rather psssss moment happens when on day four, just when you are thinking the whole thing is a bloody waste of time, you've washed 32 mini boxer shorts and trousers, your child is clearly not ready, and the nursery school that requires him to be 'dry' can go, well, you know what itself, he walks into the room and announces, "Mummy come see, I did it!" and shows you a potty with wee in it. Not only that, but he then carries the potty to the toilet, empties it, and flushes it. 

The challenge of potting training is not so much about changing the fact that the child pees or poos in a nappy to doing so in a toilet or potty, although this is of course the end objective. But more so about them gaining awareness of the initial need or sensation of needing to urinate or defecate, and then having the time to get themselves to a toilet or potty to do their business rather than it being a reflexive action. That awareness is what is key, which is why you have to go through that cruel sounding business of them peeing in their pants so many times. It is the discomfort of that procedure that somehow causes the switch whereby they suddenly pause and think 'Hang on a second, I need to wee.' To my husband's credit, he is quite adamant that even if we leave the house we do not regress to nappy use, and instead take out several pairs of trousers and underpants so we can change my son if we need to. We use nappies just ahead of bedtime only, but increasingly these themselves are dry in the morning. 

So many of these little microcosmic moments with children act as metaphors for life, learning, and the human condition. Aside from the incredible love one experiences for one's children, it is one of my best things about parenting.

Separately, but not entirely unrelated, I saw my optician some months ago. The man who works the front of house was telling me about his baby. He told me how much he loved being a parent despite the sleepless nights. He didn't have to tell me about those - he looked pale, gaunt, and a bit unhealthy. I conceded it was a wonderful thing and also hard work. He looked at me like he was about to cry and then with a burst, of what I suspected was a bunch of stuff lying beneath the surface, blurted out "Oh my god it's hard, it is so hard. I am so exhausted. And I try and help my wife, but I also have work, and I love my child, but I really really struggle with it you know? And the baby cries a lot." And I said yes, I knew, and it was OK to have ambivalent feelings about being a parent which seemed to give him some relief.

I think a lot of people really struggle with how life changing the experience is. But to admit to, or voice the fact that they struggle, or that they sometimes miss their pre parent life, that they miss being an individual who has the freedom to come and go and make choices without the enormous responsibility (physical and emotional) of having to consider a small person or several small people, feels like committing a kind of blasphemy.

To miss being able to lie in in the mornings, to go out and have a night of excess without worrying that you may have to get up in the night to see to a child, or achingly early the next morning to do the same.To be able to make love without the risk of a child walking in on you. Likewise going to the toilet. To book adventurous holidays where you don't have to worry about it being child friendly. To enjoy getting lost in a strange city. To eat popcorn for dinner instead of having to conjure a nutritious meal that inevitably gets only partially eaten - if at all. To lie at the pool and read a book until your fall asleep. To sit down and write when inspiration takes you, or play a video game, or read a book, without being asked to wipe a bottom or fetch a drink. To have a conversation with your partner when the need arises, as opposed to having to wait until evening when the children are in bed and you are too exhausted. And to be able to have an afternoon nap on the weekends. Ahh yes, the afternoon nap.

I think it's OK to say, you know, I miss this stuff, I really do, and I hate the worry that comes with being a parent - that constant overwhelming worry, which I'm told never stops, even when they are older and greying themselves. And at the same time saying this, acknowledging it, doesn't mean I don't love my children enormously and delight in their company, or that I wish them away.

I think much of the human condition, what makes us unique and interesting, is that we can have these mixed feelings about things. That it doesn't have to be one or the other because if it's the other, well then, I am a terrible person. It is important to embrace one's ambivalence for the sake of one's sanity. Oh yes, and a sense of humour. I am eternally grateful to god, the gods, evolution, science, the universe, the Spiritus Mundi - whatever you choose to believe in that had a hand in our making, for blessing us with the capacity for humour. It is, in my opinion, next to the opposable thumb and oxygen, essential and life sustaining.

I asked a mum of three this week (three under 5's - can you imagine?) how she manages, and she told me matter of frankly, "Wine, a glass of wine in the evenings. It's the only way I can do it." And then we discussed the merits of box wine, and having your tubes tied. She also looked me squarely in the eye and said, "And that thing people tell you about the difference between having two children and three not being so noticeable is a load of bollocks."

So, TV, I am really enjoying the new HBO series, 'Girls.' There is some homage within the programme and comparison in the reviews to the 'Sex and the City' TV series. I used to love SATC but thought the earlier series were better. They were gritty, well written and to a greater extent, certainly more so than the movies, a more realistic representation of life, and how some women think, talk and interact. Later they became, I don't know, some sort of fantasy aspirational world that annoyed me. Girls reminds me a lot of that early SATC stuff - very gritty, and frankly even more cringe worthy and difficult to watch at times. Despite the comparison - I don't entirely feel like I've seen it before, which in this day and age of remake after remake, is saying something. Also the narrative doesn't feel entirely predictable which is another achievement I think.  

I recently travelled to South Africa for my cousin's wedding. So there I am at the airport at immigration and the immigration officer, a surly man (immigration officers are always surly, I concede) asks me, "So, you are a South African citizen. Where is your SA passport?" Me: "No, I am a British citizen". Him: "Do not lie to me! You are South African, it is in the system." Me: "It is true I was born here and lived here, but I renounced my South African citizenship back in 2003 by failing to renew my passport and requesting dual citizenship." 

For people, like me, who were born in South Africa and are in possession of a SA passport, expired or not, there is some strange rule, that is causing much confusion even for the South African immigration department. It appears that if you are a South African citizen you must travel there on your South African passport, irrespective if you have another passport and are a citizen elsewhere.  I believe I got off lightly, because there is risk of arrest for not doing so. But then there is that weird thing about having renounced your citizenship, which is what I cited, which appears to be the loophole. To be honest no one really knows what the hell it's all about and exactly what the rules are - just be forewarned.

He gave me the third degree and a very hard time for renouncing (not consciously but more so through carelessness and ignorance) my SA citizenship, and told me that South Africa would always be my country, that my family and friends were there and that it was my home (wtf???!!!) and I should travel in on my SA passport in future. And I stood there feeling anger rise up inside of me because this man knew nothing about me or my life. And I felt like saying: 'Actually, you know, its not my country any more, I have very few family members still here likewise friends, and it's not my home and it hasn't been for some time. Home is where you make it, where your heart is, and for me this is where my family and my life is, where I earn my living and pay my taxes, and a country that has been good to me. And for me this is England and it has been for the past 15 years. And really all I want to do is come here for a long weekend, see my sisters, see my cousin get married, and spend my British pounds in your country. So for f-sakes, let me in already.'

But of course I didn't, because I needed to get on the other side of him so I could begin my short holiday. So I did what any other self respecting person in that position does, I rose up to my full height and lied: I agreed and said, "Yes, yes, you are quite right, this is home and I do miss it so. I will look into the matter of getting my dual citizenship reinstated asap, and I'll renew my passport." Which seemed to placate him and he waved me through with an undisguised look of repugnance on his face. Once on the other side my sister found the whole thing uproariously funny and said, "Oh, boy, that is funny, but you know what would have been even funnier? If they had given you a cavity search!" Yup, for that I nearly got arrested.

I enjoyed my stay, however brief. But Johannesburg has changed a lot since I lived there 15 years ago, and even from when I visited three years ago. There are people on pretty much every street corner hawking their wares or holding up cardboard signs begging for money - there is tremendous and visible poverty. And every time you park your car, even for 5 minutes,  someone asks for money to watch it for you so it doesn't get stolen or damaged - like it's a given that theft or damage is an inevitability. Not that I'm sure it's that easy to steal cars what with the state of the art laser beam shark infested moat technology they have over there, which is, tragically, why hijackings exist I imagine. And for those of you planning a visit thinking your pounds or dollars are going to give you an inexpensive holiday, think again. Inflation means food is pricey as are clothes and gifts. Still, there is fun to be had, and I regret not having a bit more time to catch up with those of my friends who have not scattered to the four corners of the world.

I recently sold my DSM IV - that is the bible of psychologists, psychiatrists, and psychotherapists - and translates to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. I purchased it back in university, back at a time in my life when I genuinely intended to become a psychologist.  Later I started doing my masters degree, but things happened, well, life happened, and I didn't continue with it. My mother fervently believes I missed a beat and should go back to it. But I think I am genuinely OK with the fact that it's not something I want to do with my life any more - ergo the exodus of textbooks via eBay from my collection.

A friend of mine has been selling his textbooks too (an unrelated subject)  - another shutting of a door on something he thought, at some point in his life, he was going to do. I asked him how he felt about letting go of that chapter, and he said he found the experience strangely liberating, and I know what he means. Sometimes you hold on to this stuff from year to year despite you and your life changing. Like it somehow, I don't know, means something and would be an irreversible tragic loss if you were to give it up. And in reality it can just be clutter in your life, emotionally and spatially, and you need to move on and look to the future.

A few of my friends have been or are about to turn 40 and there's a lot of talk of the 'This is not where I thought I would be' variety going on. I'm not entirely sure where I thought I would be at 40. As a child I  remember loving a TV programme called 'Hart to Hart' - a husband and wife team, who along with their faithful dog and butler, had thrilling adventures mostly with them stumbling upon mysteries and crimes that needed solving, while living a fabulous millionaire's lifestyle of course. She also had great big auburn hair and a to die for wardrobe. I had no desire to play house and certainly no interest in having children - so I aspired to this jet set crime solving future. Later, when I became a teenager, I seriously doubted I'd ever find anyone to match my cynicism and love of Yoko Ono, and imagined myself in the future being single, driving an old Chevy (???), and living in an apartment exactly like the character Brontë's in 'Green Card'. I'd most likely be a writer or director, and have very interesting friends and fabulous affairs with brooding men in black polo neck jumpers, but never a husband.

And fast forward, not quite to 40, and I have a wonderfully good humoured and not in the least bit brooding husband (who occasionally wears black polo neck jumpers) and two lovely funny children, and I'm a stay at home mother and a not quite published writer.  A friend of mine who writes, occasionally asks me how I feel about not quite writing and being a stay at home mother, like she's expecting me to say how frustrated and unhappy I am about it all, but strangely enough, I'm not. I get days when I want to write and I cannot (see earlier paragraphs) and I feel annoyed and I have fantasies of living in the Brontë flat, but mostly I'm actually enjoying what I do now.  Raising my children and trying to give them a good start in life and a happy childhood; a job which is hard work, fun, frustrating, wonderful, exhausting, and all that mixed bag stuff being a parent involves. And when the time is right the other stuff will happen. In the mean time it's all part of the material.

The colour of love

Recently I had reason to call the Clairol hair dye hotline number. You know the one printed on the incredibly detailed instructions leaflet. For years I genuinely believed it to be a ghost number, or at the very least, one of those automated phone maze nightmares that goes nowhere except to elevate your blood pressure. But low and behold, after only two or so number pressing options, I got through to a real live person.

Theresa sounded bored. I imagined her sitting alone, in a factory-sized call centre somewhere in the desert (cheap rent), with every other desk empty. She'd be well dressed, with full makeup, holding her handbag - the only person to man the phones since no one ever calls that number anyway. Well, no one but me that is.

The presenting problem was that the 'medium auburn' shade in their Natural Instincts Creme range, didn't come out so much medium auburn as it did raspberry. And I'll be dammed, if after the fact, I didn't look at the top of the pack and see it actually says 'Raspberry Creme/Medium Auburn.' Not on the front by the good looking airbrushed model where it only says '23R Medium Auburn', but on the top! Which bloody genius came up with that I'd like to know? And I'll go further, your honour, and ask, in what way does the colour raspberry have anything to do with the hair shade auburn? 

I had visions of turning out looking like Nicole Kidman in Practical Magic, or Charlotte Rampling in Stardust Memories (although it was shot in black and white so who knows what her real colour was?), or vintage Jane Fonda (her Hanoi Jane days) - but not actual raspberry. And trust me, it was raspberry. 'Good lord, I've royally screwed up my hair this time,' I thought to myself. And there is a lot of hair to screw up at the moment, what with it nearly reaching to the small of my back.

Before I left England I texted my lovely stylist Ross and asked him what the store-bought equivalent of my colour was so I could DIY it. I mean, who doesn't trust a cheap off the shelf solution over a myriad of qualified professionals in New York right? Well, er, stupid me that is, on some illogical level. I don't know what I was thinking. In London I would never dream of doing my own hair colour because, well, it could turn out raspberry and there is a lot of it. I think we covered this already. So maybe I was swept up with the romantic atmosphere that is the K-Mart hair dye aisle and I thought 'What the hell?' But Ross wisely advised me that I should avoid a DIY job, and he would send me the colour spec to pass on to a NY stylist.  He didn't, but then I forgot to remind me, or ask him, or whatever.

So back to Theresa. Theresa, in her bored 'I'm the only person in this creepy Mexican call centre factory' voice, asked me if my hair was lighter or darker than a glass of red wine. Me: 'Well which wine in particular? Merlot, Shiraz, or perhaps a fence sitting slightly loose on morals Rose? And what year?' OK, so I didn't ask her that. Theresa didn't strike me as one who wanted to discuss vintage versus drinkable, and she genuinely sounded like someone who wanted to get back to the serious business of being bored.

Eventually we established the exact hue my hair had turned out; Me: "Um, well, it's kind of violet, but more magenta than a true orange red, and it's well, it's not quite purple, but it's sort of pinkish, but more on the red side of pinkish." Sheesh.  If the eejit that is me had looked on the top of the box as opposed to just the front, well I would never have used it in the first place. But, in the real world, if I had looked at the top of the box I would have realised that the product had indeed done exactly what it had said on the box, and that I wouldn't need to fish around for pantone adjectives. My hair was, quite accurately, raspberry. Evidently Theresa had had more than one person call her in her experience of being the hotline hair dye screw up adviser, and she cut to the chase. She advised me to get another specified shade, mix all the components with an equal amount of shampoo (any shampoo she answered), and keep it in for 10 minutes or so but checking it every 3 or so minutes.

You may be surprised to learn that I have not taken her advice. Not because I don't believe she is qualified enough in the area of 'holy shit this is not the colour on the model on the box', field of expertise,  but  right now I am employing the 'rather the raspberry devil you know than the total f**k up you may know' kind of thinking. The good news is that it's a 28 washes out kind of thing, and as I wash my hair every day, I'm living in hope. Or rather, I'm hoping that it washes out of my hair better than it does out of my towels, which still resemble a rag in a butcher's shop. I have also booked the first available appointment with my stylist back in London to try and remedy the situation. I can see him looking at me with genuine pity, but not saying anything. He will try and be upbeat about the whole thing, but I know that deep in his heart, after our nine year relationship, he'll feel as though something has fundamentally changed between the two of us. It reminds me of that fantastic movie Steel Magnolias where Dolly Parton's character says, "Never trust a woman who does her own hair."

Today at the Children's Museum of the East End, a nanny asked me to keep any eye on a brother and sister that were sharing the table with my two at lunch, while she nipped to the loo. I asked the inconceivably beautiful boy (think model/air stewardess mother and millionaire father, or the other way around) what his name was. "Noah," he said in a nonchalant voice, blinking at me through his shaggy white-blonde hair with big blue eyes. This kid was already cool and has a whole bunch of coolness in his future, I could tell. His equally beautiful little sister piped in, "And I am Ella. He is six and I am three. We also have a bigger brother who is eight." Me: "Ah, and where is he today? Noah: Nonchalantly (of course), "Playing golf. This is one of the days he plays golf. He plays golf twice a week." Me: "Of course, as one does."

At the risk of generalising (so much fun and so much easier to support ones weak to begin with argument) a lot of women around here, including the mother of Noah and Ella and their golf-playing sibling I bet, are blond. Which of course serves as a painful reminder of how lovely my professionally salon coiffed blond streaked hair used to be before I screwed it up with my DIY crappy raspberry debacle.  But I digress. And they are also very thin and muscular. OK, so I have never been really thin and muscular - which saves a clever anecdotal comparison in this respect. Also they are usually in gym clothes, which may have something to do with a phenomenon, because that's what Vanity Fair are dubbing it, called SoulCycle around here. 

Basically a spinning class in a barn in Bridgehampton, with a sort of hotbox yoga temperature going on. But wait, there's more! The instructor shouts out motivational stuff to you while you are sweating like a madman. Things like: 'Be the same person you are on the outside as you are on the inside!' and 'Buy buy buy, sell, sell, buy!' (OK this last one not really). Apparently everyone gets into this heady psychobabble trance while losing half their body fat and getting buns of steel, and it's the most popular and sought after thing on the planet that is New York right now. And made even more so because as with most really really clever marketing ploys, they make it really really hard to get a place in the class, and really really pricey. Which, let's face it, rich people love. Really expensive and really exclusive. Genius.

Our house is on a busy road, which used to really bother me, but now, amazingly, I find the noise rather comforting, especially late at night. I'll hear a lone car whizz past and I imagine it's driver sitting there in the dark with the lights flashing across his face. A hamburger (cheese and bacon, naturally) on the seat next to him, a large coke in the drink holder, and something like Hendrix, but with a beat, playing on the radio. He is off on some or other cool mission. Like returning to a warm bed and an equally warm and sleepy unsuspecting girlfriend after months on an oil rig. Or perhaps off somewhere to reclaim a piece of land won in a half-forgotten poker game by a long lost grandfather. Yup, you can see I'm really mainlining Americana.

But I do find it comforting. It reminds me of a few years back being in Japan with my husband on the 30 somethingth floor of a hotel and waking up in the middle of the night in the midst of an earthquake. Our hotel was swaying, and the building opposite was swaying, and we were filled with the unquestionable certainty that we were going to die. And then, for some strange reason, I looked down, and I saw cars on the street below. And their lights were on, and they were driving along, and I thought, 'OK, so there are cars, and people driving those cars, so it's OK, we are going to be OK.' Now I realise this 2 plus 2 equals 9 manner of thinking can land you in all sorts of trouble. But you know, in this instance, it was kind of essential if the choice of expiration was between only the potential of being swallowed by a crack in the floor, and the certainty of self induced neurotic heart failure. At least that's my thinking. 

There's been all this talk about this crazy woman dubbed Tiger Mom. She wrote this book and contentious article about how Chinese mothers kick ass with their children which is why they do so much better at school, the violin, chess, etc. Her tone is superior, defensive, and well, crazy, so a lot of people disregard her off the bat. I tried to withhold knee jerk judgement and read the article, and there are bits and pieces that weren't all that bad, in and amongst the borderline abusive crazy that is. I think what stuck with me is that you have to kick a bit of ass with your kids sometimes, to you know, get them to do stuff and develop into human beings with some motivation and aspirations that extend beyond a desire to watch Dora the Explorer all day. And there is something to be said for instilling a work ethic. Even Hemingway, a functional or dysfunctional alcoholic, depending on how your view his work, never drank while he was writing and allocated morning till, probably cocktail hour, where he sat down and wrote come hail or high water.

Another article, by a much less crazy person, supports the well documented and tested argument that children should not be told how smart they are, but rather that tasks are achievable through hard work. In several experimental scenarios, the sample group who are told they are 'smart' lose confidence with increasingly difficult puzzles and don't even want to attempt them because they don't want to risk losing their status as being smart. Whereas the other group tackled the tough tasks with a lot of success. The article also had a massive impact on me (because I am guilty of it) because it discusses how people effectively rob young children of their yearned-for autonomy.

My son, at just over two, is incredibly independent. He will shout and scream if you try and do something for him, "I do it, I do it, I do it!!!" From buckling himself into his stroller, to walking down the stairs, to brushing his teeth, to eating, to well, everything except dressing himself (for now). My daughter at this age was the same. Now some people muscle right over their  kids and do stuff for them anyway, because, well, it saves time and mess, and its done 'right'. And I wonder at what point children have their instinctive independent spirit broken and think to themselves, 'You know, what the hell, it's not worth the fight. Let them feed me/brush my teeth/ put my shoes on.' Fast forward 30 or so years, and people are scratching their heads wondering why their son won't leave home and still asks his parents for petrol money.

I too muscled over my kids a lot of the time until I read the article, and it had such an impact on me that I not only stopped doing it, I have since increasingly encouraged them to do things for themselves. And here's the really cool science bit of it, they are not only up to the challenge but often do stuff that totally surprises me. The other day, without me ever having asked him to, my two year old son got home, took off his shoes, and took them to the hall closet and put them away with all the other shoes. He has done it every day since. My daughter now sings to her brother at night ( they share a room while we are on holiday), which means he no longer gets out of bed like a Jack in the box. Thanks to her  my husband and I have our evenings back - praise the lord!!!

It's like kids have this instinctive need to do things on their own so they can learn and grow, and if you encourage it, they go on to do even cooler things all of their own accord. What a great discovery.

And for those of you thinking I am bragging about my superior insights into children, let me share the following with you: My husband has been travelling back and forth to London over the summer, which means I do the heavy lifting with the kids in his absence. I have a heaven-sent lady who pronounces four as 'faw' and sure as 'shoewa' (I love the Long Island accent) come and help me for a few hours in the afternoons during the week, but the rest I am doing solo. And you know that's fine because let's face it, the majority of the world's population survive looking after their kids and doing housework and it doesn't scar them, well, not too much. 

Anyway, so I am at the beach, it's a Sunday, my husband has flown off to London and I'm taking the kids for some late afternoon fun before we start the evening routine of dinner, bath, stories and bed time. So one of them, my daughter, is on this really precarious (surprisingly so for Über cautious litigious USA that is), climbing frame living out some kind of circus girl/ferret fantasy, and my son is slowly disappearing up a grassy knoll that the local dogs favour for their toilet, while simultaneously, I hasten to add, attempting to take off his nappy.The last clean one I have with me.

Me: "Please don't climb any higher, I have a bad back and I cannot come up there after you. Don't go any further! Dammit, do not walk over there, there is doggy poo-poo. For Christ sakes, do not remove your nappy. No!!! Please get off that bloody thing, you are going to hurt yourself. No, we are leaving now. Come back here, come back here, do not go any further. No! Dont' take off your nappy. For god sakes, will you please stop climbing that bloody thing!"

I am not exaggerating. A relaxed, tanned father stood by with his mouth open in what was obviously shock. I'd like to say awe, but even I am not that delusional. I felt like saying, 'Really I'm not usually like this, it's just well, it's been a long day, and my husband travels a lot, and well, it's really tough keeping an eye on two in a place like this.' But I thought, no, one of these days he will be minus his (very attractive and suggestively dressed, in a cut off jean shorts and small T-shirt-kind of way) nanny, and he will know exactly what I am going through. Or maybe he won't and I really am just neurotic, impatient and profane.

It's the little differences

One of my favourite memories as a child is shopping with my mother. It' so simple really, but it meant that for that hour or two I had her absolutely to myself, while my siblings were at school. It also meant that while she was choosing condiments she could chat with me, and pay me attention, without being totally engrossed with the housework, the cooking and the ironing. Things which managed to be a full-time occupation for her with four children and a stoic refusal to hire help.

I don't take my children shopping if I can help it. They hate it, probably because they so seldom do it with me. In this wondrous time of internet shopping for everything from groceries to shoes, my kids are more used to the Amazon delivery guy than the inside of a mall. I think a 20 minute visit to Tesco to get the daily shop is probably their limit, and only because it usually involves the promise of Hula Hoops or a doughnut. I tried to sell Isaac on the wonders of K-Mart over here, but he was having none of it. He kept pointing to things in the trolley and saying 'Have it peas,'and I'd respond with, 'Why do you want my exfoliating cotton pads?' If I did give in, it involved the inevitable consumption of plastic or cardboard. A bad idea, and one I won't repeat if I can help it. 

My husband is planning a trip to the aquarium in Riverhead with the children this week, which means one thing and one thing only for me: Being dropped off at TARGET!!! I love love love Target. My friend Lori calls is the 100 dollar store, because she says despite the good value of its merchandise, you never leave without spending less than 100 dollars. Think Ikea mixed with a mega Boots, mixed with a Toys R Us, mixed with, well, you get the picture. They have everything and anything at great prices.

I've been trying to find help to clean my house here in the Hamptons and it's proving about as easy as acquiring the holy grail. We had one woman, which our friends here use, come on a Monday and agree with me to come every Monday thereafter. Trust me I would have liked her to come more often than once a week, but desperation made me agree to it. The following Sunday evening I texted her to confirm the time - no answer. The Monday I made two calls and left two messages and to date have not heard back. You might think she didn't like me, but I was in New York City at the time she cleaned my house, so I can't take credit for that. Mysterious. When I asked our friends if they had any ideas,  they shook their heads and said, "Yeah, well, Suzie can be a bit flaky." And that was that.

My friend then sent in her other cleaner, an attractive Eastern European woman. She arrived while I was home and seemed nice enough. She explained that the summers were crazy busy and she wasn't sure if she could fit me in again before we left for London. She did 3 hours, charged me $69 dollars and didn't even manage to make the beds. Her work was, well, perfunctory.

Yesterday I emailed a cleaning agency service that is apparently based in our town and as yet have heard nothing back. I wonder if news from London about my anal cleaning requirements have made it across the pond.

The pool guys arrived on Monday. I know this because as I was making a cup of tea at 8.30am I saw two young men in my yard cleaning the pool with the pool cover only three quarters of the way retracted, and pregnant with rain water on top. I asked them if they had heard of arriving at someone's home and announcing themselves first, you know, the small matter of ringing the bell or knocking on the front door before entering the property through the back gate. They looked confused. Then I asked them if they planned on pumping the water off of the pool cover so that they could fully retract it and clean beneath it. A lot of umming and ahhing as though what I had proposed what a totally novel idea. 

Today I found the local Thai/Mexican nail bar and had a pedicure. The girls kept asking me what different treatments cost in London, whistled through their teeth, and then said something to each other in what I can only describe as a Thai/Mex pigeon language. I tried explaining that the prices I was telling them were those charged by a single beautician that had her own business, but that you could also find larger nail bars that charged pretty much the same as they did.  But they were so fixated with the previous more expensive estimates I had cited, that I wouldn't be surprised if a new price board goes up tomorrow.

I take my children to this fantastic place called the CMEE - the Children's Museum of the East End. It is a haven for the under 5 crowd - full of pretend play stations (a pirate ship, a fire truck, an old fashioned diner where you can pretend pull sodas etc), an art room that anyone can use at any time (stocked with art supplies), and a great outside play area. It's always interesting to observe how kids play, and more interestingly, how parents allow their children to play. More often than not you see kids engrossed in an activity, really focused and enjoying themselves, and then a parent will say in an uber enthusiastic voice, "Come on Kennedy, let's go see something else. Come on, come on, let's go and do X Y or Z!" The child reluctantly stopping what they are doing before being dragged off to the next attraction.

I do wonder if this short attention span by proxy contributes later to children having to be constantly entertained or even lacking the ability to sit still and focus on a single activity for an extended period of time. One of the best bits of advice I got from my a friend when I had my daughter was to not feel the need to constantly stimulate my baby. That it was important at certain times of the day that she was allowed to lie on her play mat with her toys and just play by herself (me being there naturally), not to be interrupted if she was involved in an activity, and to let her figure things out - i.e. not always rush to step in and solve a task she is trying to tackle herself. It was invaluable advice and I think it continues to be important for children of all ages.

There's a very relaxed attitude around here, which probably accounts for the pool guys just entering through the back gate and getting on with their job, albeit in a half arsed manner. And although it irritated me, I also quite like the trusting nature of it. And how I come home and there's a delivery sitting on my porch (I love that word 'porch'), or by the garage, as opposed to that ever irritating note in the postbox 'We tried delivering but you weren't home, your parcel is at *indecipherable scribble*'. It feels like the way the world used to be before it became such a paranoid place, or I became such a paranoid person. Sag Harbor is also a historical town and a lot of the houses here date back to whaling times. The church over the road from us, with the Reverend Michael Jackson in the house, has a secret entrance to an underground tunnel from a front row pew where slaves (freed by the whalers), would duck into when there were raids. When you walk down the street you could be in any era, and it's only the cars that give it away.

A friend of mine came to visit and her opinion is that people here are abrupt. I can't say that's my experience, although there is a somewhat different way of interacting that's, well, different from London. I'd say people talk straight and are quite open and chatty. They'll think nothing to ask you where you are from, what you do, and how the money in that is. Fairly intimate questions given you have never met them before and only happened upon them because your animal-mad daughter is stroking their dog on the street.

My experience of living in London for going on 15 years is that people don't really like to talk about money. It's considered bad taste and leaves them feeling very uncomfortable. It's one thing saying, 'Oh I bought this dress at Zara on sale', and quite another talking about the cost of your holiday to Barbados, even if it is by way of griping about it. Whereas here it doesn't appear such a taboo. 

They have all the back to school stuff on display here, as I imagine the London shops do too, what with school starting in September. I still get a wave of excitement when I see all that lovely brightly coloured stationary. I love it, and it was the single thing that made me look forward to each new school year. My mother would always let me choose new stuff, and then we had to cover our books and the choosing of the wrapping paper or picture for each exercise book was a whole other bag of joy. Yep, times were different back then as were expectations, although Julia is very keen on the idea of having her own pencil case and scissors with her name on.

We like to eat in the local Thai restaurant called Phao. It's really really good, by any standards - NYC or London. Twice now we've had the same waitress who talks and behaves like someone that is more comfortable smoking interesting cigarettes and surfing than serving food. She'll come round and ask you how your food is and before you've had a chance to lower your fork and respond she says, 'Excellent riiiight?' One day, just to see her reaction, I'd like to interject, 'Actually no, it's bloody awful.' 

The weather here has been beautiful. Perhaps three days where it has rained part of the day and one day where it was a rainy day. But in three weeks of vacation, I can handle that. I think I was becoming depressed in London. It's worse when you have small children because there are only so many indoor activities you can do with them including painting, play dough, watching Diego, baking, and preventing them from injuring themselves as they race around the furniture in an attempt to expend all that energy. And yes, there are the indoor play places like Topsy Turvy, but that requires driving to and there are days you just want to plonk them outside with a sandpit and read a magazine instead of schlepping around in rainy London traffic.

I can see it with the little kids in my music class. When the weather is good (hard to remember when that was), they seem more relaxed and focused. When it's been a week of rain or more, its like a scene from the Battleship Potemkin. I spend the half hour shout-singing over the chaos of crazed cabin feverish toddlers and wondering why it is I'm doing this again.

I don't think I'm alone when I say the morbid weather in England has prompted a serious consideration to move somewhere where our children can have a more outdoorsy life. But then I get an email from Hobbs showing their new autumn collection which is stunningly Hitchcock in its silhouette. And then there's the promise of my lovely, sane, and regular cleaner who will be there to take care of our home when we get back. Did I mention regularly? And I think, well maybe, just maybe, I can handle a bit of rain.

And the think that he thunk...

I have a guilty confession to make - I've just purchased one of those wooden board signs that has a little message or mantra on it. You know, the kind that says 'You are the milk in my coffee, the shoelace in my sneaker, the sick bucket when I read this schmaltz.' OK, so mine isn't of that particular ilk, something my high school art teacher would call a definitive example of kitsch. But the one I happened upon has a message on it I liked, and I thought I might get away with putting it in a house by the sea. The message is one I keep coming back to in my own interior musings - the need to simplify. And I like the idea of cooking, or sitting on the loo (I've yet to decide where I'm going to put it), and meditating on those words.

There's something about being on holiday or indeed sleeping on a friend's sofa in a time of need that teaches you an important lesson: You do not need a bunch of stuff to live, and I'd go further and say you do not need a bunch of stuff to be happy. It's often the simplest things that make us happiest, and indeed simplifying the way we live and the way we approach things is fundamental to finding some sort of centerdness or peace I think. At least this is true for me. 

Back in London and keeping with the theme of simplifying, I'm seriously considering getting one of those home organiser people in ahead of our house move next year. You know, the kind you see on Oprah, only less irritating. I want someone to help me organise my house because I feel overwhelmed by all the stuff I have to sort through. I remind myself that the clutter is a direct result of not actually having time on my hands to sort through it regularly, because I have two small children, one of which is a toddler that is not in nursery and who has recently dropped his daytime nap. And then there is the small matter of me having an unhealthy need to accumulate that I don't quite understand. We also have a garage full of things that was previously in storage that my husband is threatening to get rid of en masse. Some of the boxes contain my diaries (a lifelong compulsion to document long before blogs were invented), and there's the usual old household stuff from both my husband and my previous lives etc. But an hour here and there is not going to cut it, I genuinely need a week to deal with it, and then probably some more on top to eBay some things. That's why maybe it might just be easier to get some help - someone who is not going to spend an hour musing over the nostalgia of a pile of old dusty stuff, but just sort it out matter of factly, and hopefully, quickly.

To my credit, I have began to put some things onto a website called Freegle - which allows people to give away or ask for things but without any money involved. Basically a recycling system. If you need a baby stair gate or a table for your garage etc, someone on there is bound to have one they are getting rid of. I imagine there is the odd reprobate that gets free stuff only to go and sell it on eBay, but as with most situations in life I think the majority of people are inherently honest and it's only a handful by comparison, that aren't. I also figure that if someone is really hard up and takes something from me only to sell it and use the money to say, stave off the menacing advances of a muscled debt collector, then who am I to judge right? It all comes down to the same thing in the end - helping people out.

In the last month, my children have started to play together. Not parallel play, but interactive play. My son turned two in May, and come to think of it I remember my daughter moving from parallel to interactive play around that time too. It's a joy, genuinely. For the most part they get on really well - and their play involves her dictating some overly complicated rules which he ignores. But mostly he is just happy to be a part of whatever she is doing. Sounds a bit like the modern relationship between men and women right? Sometimes their play is more wrestle mania than happy families, but they are playing and interacting and I can really see their relationship taking shape. She recently told me that one day she will pay him to be the father of her children. I considered launching into a discussion detailing the downside of doing business with family, but opted instead for an 'Oh really? Well that sounds interesting,' response. I have to confess this is fast becoming my rote response to a lot of the quirkier things she comes up with these days.

I recently watched the film Cinema Vertite - a film about the first reality TV show following a family in 1970's America. A true story. None of the staged rubbish you see today that bills itself as 'reality TV', but genuine documentary stuff, warts and all. And they weren't paid, which I think makes all the difference on both sides of the arrangement. 

Overridingly it's about the breakdown of a marriage and breakup of the family, which was purely coincidental. I.e. at the outset the producer wanted to make a documentary about a typical (albeit middle class) family, and while they are making it, the wife finds out about her husband's numerous infidelities and the marriage unravels in front of the cameras. So it's not exactly cheerful stuff, although there are definitely some lovely moments. What I took away from it was the closeness of the family, especially the children - of which there were four. Whenever I see big families I think to myself, 'Ah, it would be nice to have a big(ger) family.' But (and there's always a but with me when it comes to this), I think I'm done with having babies. Perhaps if my husband and I had met earlier and started having our children earlier, then maybe, but not now.

We are just over the hump of that really tough baby and teetering injury prone toddler stage, and while my son cannot yet be trusted on his own (he has the knack of a bloodhound for sniffing out electrical wires or carefully hidden bottles of bleach), I can now put the children into my bedroom with a bunch of toys or Diego on my iPad and steal a quick shower. Make that a very quick shower. And with them playing together it's even easier. They also now play together while I cook, which is a heaven send.

There are moments I look at the two of them and wish I could bottle this time. A time, while exhausting, where my children are so incredibly loving and cute and in need of me. And while there are days I'd love to just sit and read a copy of Vanity Fair with my feet up instead of managing WW III between them, I remind myself that this time when your children think you are everything, and are desperate for your touch and to be in your company, and to please you, and for you to acknowledge how special they are, and where they ask you to sing for them and sing along with you, and they run around naked, and think it's uproariously funny when you tell them they have smelly bottoms, and well I could go on. All of this, in the broader scheme of things, constitutes a very small window in your life and theirs. And it's wise to acknowledge this, slow down, be present, and enjoy it. The other stuff - the vacuming, the laundry, the magazine reading, the sorting out of boxes - all of that crap can wait. It will be there tomorrow and it will always be there. Whereas this time, this right now, will not.

I struggle even to remember, in a tangible physical sense, my daughter as a baby. I have photos and films I've made, but even those are somehow fleeting and transient, as the moments themselves. It reminds me of a couple of years ago sitting in an airline lounge - my husband and I each with a child on our laps either reading to them or playing dollies. And another family with older children at the opposite table - every family member on a device of sorts - the iPad, the iPhone, the Nintendo - everyone absorbed in his or her activity and not really communicating. The mother and I looked at each other with what felt like a mutual thought: 'That looks like bliss'.

I hear the thoughts of the mothers and fathers reading this who say, 'Yes, that's all very well and fine, but we still need the time outside of our children to do things; work, run a house, study, have an uninterrupted thought etc' and I agree. My son will start nursery come September - three hours in the morning. And you bet your bottom dollar I will be having a coffee with my friends on ocassion, one I will get to finish without raisins being dropped in it, and without having to stop my son from struggling out of his high chair in an attempt to run wild. I will start sorting through my cluttered house. I will start getting my book together and start sourcing potential publishing houses (and anticipate the inevitable rejection letters). I will call friends I have long since deserted. I will reply to emails. I might even sneak in the occasional cookery class. Oh yes, and I will probably get on with work I have promised people and failed to deliver, months, years ago. 

And in and amongst all of this I am also going to try and find a moment to just, you know, breathe. I think that might be interesting.