When my eldest daughter started at her sixth form college, after years of private school, she got labelled “posh”.
For one thing she said “prep” instead of “homework”.
Posh kids say “mummy I haven’t got any prep tonight.” Apparently.
I bought her one of those old school badges you can get in novelty shops that said “posh” on it. She wore it on the lapel of her jacket with pride. It became a bit of a joke in our family.
If you met us you would know instantly that we are anything but posh.
Just over a week ago we got that dreaded call, the one where your child’s school phones to say there has been an accident. “Come immediately,” they said, “we think your son has broken his collar-bone.”
A trip to A&E proved them to be right. The x-ray showed a clean break just by his shoulder joint. D would have to spend the next few weeks with his arm in a sling. He arrived home subdued and pale dosed up on pain killers.
It turned out that the breakage was a result of a few of the boys “playing” rough during break time. D called the game “benching” and, although he explained it to me, I still can’t quite get to terms with exactly how it works. All I know is it involves a lot of pushing and shoving and knocking each other to the ground. From a female perspective, I just don’t get it, but all the men I’ve discussed it with, including my OH, grin in acknowledgement. That’s the way boys play.
Your world is a garden I am waiting to see
Where the sun never sets with your smile laid bare
And time surrenders sweetly to the ebb and the flow
Show me the way through the lavender bushes
All purple and fragrant and vibrant to touch
Our fingers entwined through the long graceful grass
We’ll settle on blankets and lie on our backs
Imagine our days all tickles and giggles and sweet raspberry ripples
My daughter, my blossom, my bright summer’s night
Guide me here, hold me there, keep me close by your side
My sweet little garden where love always grows
So far I have tried to steer clear of politics on my blog. Baking, for the most part, is about escaping and let’s face it the state of the country (which ever one you live in) is top of the list when it comes to that. Unless you really have opted out – and if you have I’d love to shake your hand – you can’t help but be aware that England is having its very own election showdown. Unlike Bush vs Gore this one does not involve Chads (to which we can all be thankful) but similarly involves uncertainty as to who exactly won.
Not being able to vote in this country means I can’t be blamed for it. This is worth mentioning because immigrant status in England means blame for pretty much everything. One advantage to not voting is never having to declare yourself a supporter of any particular party. This is even more pertinent now as none of the parties seem to be offering any real solutions to the country’s woes.
Quite a few people have joked in the last few days how well the country has managed to “rule” itself without any one person or party in power. Which I suppose isn’t too ironic considering the reason we are in this mess is lack of strong leadership. This got me thinking about what would make a good party leader. One the populous would support 100%. An effective manifesto that dealt with real every day issues might help.
This post is for Sleep is For The Week Writing Workshop #22, no 5: Pick an emotion that best represents your state of mind right now and write creatively on that theme.
Be a woman in her mid-forties.
Have a pretty good life. Be fortunate in that way. Know it, but be grateful. People are generous and to the most part let you off the hook. Others will try to break you. Always be on your guard.
Be worldly-wise but ever hopeful. It helps to have a handful (or two) of scrapes along the way. Get to a certain age with the right amount of experience.
Be moody. Have the occasional bout of tears and tantrums. Want to be better. Work hard at improving yourself. Wait and see if things become settled. Call it a blip when they don’t.
Live life on that never-ending treadmill. Make it seem like fun. Have friends who conspire with you. Make sure the only “checking out” you do is at the supermarket. Let life pass you by with a husband, kids and a unfulfilling part-time job.
Feather, Leather, Weather…..those words rhyme with my name. When I was in primary school these words followed me in the playground. The other kids thought it was funny. All the other girls were called Nancy, Susie, Sammie, Julie, and Betsy. They had the “cutesy” names I wanted. It wasn’t fair. Why had my parents given me such a weird name? A name no one else had.
I can count on my hand the other women I have met throughout my life with the same name as me. It has grown in popularity over the years but more in America than in the UK. Funny as it’s a Scottish flower. When I registered my son’s birth in London in 1998, the registrar said in the 25 years she had been doing the job she had never registered a Heather.