Round The Block And Back

I've Moved

2006-09-08T23:54:00.000+01:00

Blogger won't play ball for me so I've moved.

If you're interested in visiting, the new blog can be found here.

Nits As Pets

2006-07-09T23:27:00.000+01:00

Whenever you move to a new country there's always lots to learn, but most of us think of language, culture, manners and other obvious things. Few think of little things like nits.

My girls had never heard of nits before. Norway's a cold country where they don't generally thrive, and while I'm not saying they don't exist, they're certainly not a problem. Whether or not that's just down to the cold I really couldn't say, but as it's not unusual for children to swap bobble hats, you'd think they'd spread like wild fire, wouldn't you?

Anyway, we were living in Eastbourne and everything was, as far as I knew, hunky dory. Until Lise complained of a sore at the back of her head.

Like mothers do, I had a look. What I discovered shocked the socks off me! She had nits! Lots of the buggers! I checked Linn Marie. She had nits, too! Paul? No... he'd escaped them.

"Why didn't you tell me you had nits?" I asked.

"Because we thought you'd make us get rid of them and we thought it was cool having them."

"Cool? COOL?"

"Yes. It was sort of like having pets living in our hair."

You have to hear a lot before your ears drop off but mine were on their way that day!

~~+~~

Big Bum Escaped on The High Peak!

2006-07-03T17:20:00.000+01:00

The more I think about it, the more I realise I've probably spent more time than the average woman flashing my backside at all and sundry.

Until Charlene—a good friend of my daughter—reminded me, I'd actually forgotten about this particular incident. Strange really, because it isn't that long ago that it happened - about 6 or 7 years, at a guess.

It was a hot summer's day so we decided to pack a picnic and drive up to the High Peak. We chose a place in a beautiful corner of the North Pennines down by a beautiful stream known as the Westend River near The Derwent Valley Reservoir. The children could splash about in the water and Poppy and Bella, our dogs, could run free and we adults could relax in the shade of some old pine trees. Bella found a fish laying on the river bead—judging by the rip in its gullet, probably one that an angler had recently thrown back in but that hadn't made it—and had a rather nice time devouring it.

By the time we decided to head back to Partington, where we were living at the time, we'd all enjoyed a relaxing afternoon... relaxing until we started walking back to the car, that is.

I was wearing a pair of thin cotton shorts. Orange ones. I'd had them for years but you know what it can be like with clothes: you find something you really like and you wear it to death. And wear it to death I did. The seam had obviously lost a considerable amount of its strength, and as I climbed over a style, one leg mid-cock, I heard a very distinct ripping sound followed by a chorus of gasps, before a few seconds silence gave way to suppressed giggles. Yes, my shorts had ripped!

Not just a small rip, either. The seam had finally succumbed to the pressures of holding in a size 20 wobbling great arse, and had ripped from the crotch to the waistband. What's more, I wasn’t wearing and knickers!

Now, having my family see my bare bum isn't a crisis; it's not as if they haven't seen it before. Having Charlene—who was about 10 at the time—see my bare derriere wasn't too much to worry about, either. She was practically one of the family, after all. But having the backpackers who were on the path behind us see my naked backside staring at them, that was something else entirely!

I begged Bjørn—my partner at the time—to stand behind me in order to preserve at least some of my dignity, but he seemed to think having my arse on view served me right for not putting my knickers on.

Needless to say, my face was probably redder than a smacked backside that day! Not that anybody attempted to smack mine.

Will I ever learn? I think not.

~~+~~

Stumpen

2006-06-28T14:49:00.000+01:00

Eh? What?

Stumpen: that's Norwegian for... well, Stumpy, I suppose.

We had a cat called Stumpen, y'see. He got the name because where a cat would normally have a long tail, all he had was a tiny stump. And no, he wasn't a Manx.

Stumpen was born perfectly normal. He was one of our Cinder's kittens. She had them in the bottom of a small cupboard in the living room and whenever she felt it was time to feed them, she'd call them all to come back in there.

Obviously, the cupboard door was left open so that the cats could go in and out as they pleased, but one day Paul decided to shut it. And poor little Stumpen just happened to have his tail hanging over the edge at the time.

Ouch! It looked painful but it was a clean cut. Yes, shutting the door had cut off his tiny tail.

I phoned the vet to ask what I should do but was told to leave it, that the mother cat would take care of it. And she did. She kept it clean and within a week it had healed. I suppose you could say he was docked.

The little black cat with no tail became quite a feature in our neighbourhood. Everybody knew where he belonged and most had a soft spot for him. And being a clever cat, he knew exactly how to make the most of his situation. Oh yes... love me because I'm tailless, why don't you?

As for Paul... let's just say there comes a point when you realise that some children and pets simply don't mix. Think rabbit and budgie!

~~+~~

And The Rain Came Tumbling Down

2006-06-25T12:53:00.000+01:00

Linn Marie's going camping with a friend in August so yesterday we got the tent out to check that nothing was missing. Just as well we did! The thing was full of mildew and very smelly!

Why? Well let me explain.

When we first decided to move to England, we came over with the tents and camped here and there while we looked for places we liked and houses to let. For the first week, everything went fine.

Then we arrived at Eastbourne. We found a camping site just outside of town and pitched out tents; two of them, one for Bjørn, Paul and me and one for Lise and Linn Marie. That's the way we always camped. The girls liked to have a tent of their own.

Our first night there was mostly spent in A&E with Paul. He had a dreadful tummy ache but the wait was so long it had passed before we even saw a doctor so off went trotted back to our tents. Well, we drove, actually.

The second night we settled down to what we hoped would be uninterupted sleep. We were all tired after the previous night, after all. I don't think we realised just how tired we were, though.

The heavens opened that night. Rain lashed down!

But did we notice? No! Not until we were woken by the girls in the morning, complaining that everything in their tent was wet.

We sat up, rubbed the sleep from our eyes, stretched and looked around. Sure enough, rain was seeping in through the tent and it was anything but dry.

We crawled out, grabbed our stuff and hung it over the car, our camping chairs, trees, and whatever else we could find that might be used as a drying implement. Then we had a look in the girls' tent.

Things were even worse.

Their clothes were floating! Their air-beds were floating! Their sleeping bags were floating! The rain had come through in torrents, and they'd slept right through it.

There was no way we could spend another night in the soaked tents so we just packed them up quickly and went down to town to find alternative accommodation. The tents were left in the back of the car and forgotten.

Judging by the state of the tent we put up yesterday, it's obvious we'd also forgotten to dry them off and/or clean them when we got home. The tent had been in its bag for about 10 years! No wonder it wasn't a pretty sight!

Still, the girls are getting a new one. A floral one! I just hope Richard doesn't decide to take his son camping because I've a feeling they're going to look pretty silly sitting outside a floral tent!

~~+~~

Borstal Boys Forbidden!!

2006-06-22T14:27:00.000+01:00

I used to have a friend called John. Due to the nature of this post, I won't mention his surname but I'm sure that if he ever stumbles across this, he'll recognise himself. Certain other readers of this blog will recognise him, too.

John was a bit of a tea-leaf. Cars were his thing. He just couldn't keep his mitts off 'em.

God only knows how many cars John stole during his youth, but I can assure you it wasn't just a few. Twenty? Thirty? Probably far more.

Now considering the law of averages, the chances of his getting caught increased with every car he stole. But the fact that he'd often park his stolen vehicles in the car-park opposite his house hardly helped, especially as he'd already been done a few times and was known to the police.

But either John wasn't very bright back then, or he liked to live on the edge. My guess is that the answer lies somewhere between the two.

Eventually John got caught for the umpteenth time and sent to borstal. Gaynes Hall in Cambridgeshire, to be exact. I think I was about 17 by this time, and if my recollection's correct, John must have been 16 as I believe he was a year younger than me. If anybody out there knows different, feel free to correct me.

Because we were pretty close back then, John would write to me from his 'home in the country' as he'd put it. I thought that was quite nice of him and used to look forward to his letters arriving in their plain grey, pretty much non-descript envelopes.

But father thought otherwise. He was convinced that any postman knew that those particular envelopes originated at establishments run by her majesty, and that, as such, our postman would spread the word around the neighbourhood that his daughter had some connection with said establishments. Eh?

Because of father's conviction that we'd be the talk of the street, I was banned from receiving letters from John.

"I don't want everybody thinking you have friends in prison," he said.

Err... but Dad, the truth is, I do have friends in prison. Well, one friend in a kind of prison... one designed for youths.

No amount of arguing changed his stance. John's letters were well and truly banned and from that day onwards had to be sent to me via a friend. I guess it didn't matter what her postman thought!

~~+~~

When Inger Lise Came To The World

2006-06-18T12:13:00.000+01:00

It's Lise's twentieth birthday today so as a way of celebrating I thought I'd share the story of her birth with you.

She was expected to arrive on 26th May but in what we'd later learn to be typical Lise fashion, she hung around for about three weeks longer than she should have done before she eventually decided to appear.

By that time I was getting very tired of being pregnant. Norway was in the throws of a heatwave and I was stuck in hospital—in Buskerud Sentral Sykehus—fed-up and wanting the baby out.

One afternoon, during his visit, Dr. Jordheim—the doctor in charge of obstetrics back in the 90s—found me crying.

"What's the matter?" he asked, as they do.

"I'm fed-up," I replied. "I'm totally hopeless. I can't even give birth to a baby properly. I've been put on drips, given pills to put under my tongue, followed every old housewives' tale going and I'm still pregnant."

Dr. Jordheim sat on the bed and took my hand. "Mrs Jacobsen," he said. "I've been a doctor here for a long, long time and believe me, I've yet to hear of a baby that didn't come up sooner or later. Yours just happens to be later."

Somehow, those words cheered me up. The fact that he also promised that if nothing had happened by morning, I'd be taken down for a c-section helped a lot, too.

That night, after Svend (Lise's father and my ex-husband) had left at about eleven o'clock, I went out on the balcony to sit with some of the other expectant mothers. I can't have been out there more than ten minutes when I felt something happening. It wasn't like the Braxton Hicks' I'd been having - this was different.

In I trotted, found a midwife and asked to be examined.

"No, you've ages to go yet. You're still only on one centimetre." I'd been there for over a week so things didn't sound optimistic.

But the discomfort continued and I was sure something was happening. In I went again and grabbed another midwife. Would she examine me?

"But you've just been—"

"I know, but I want to be examined again. I'm sure something's happening."

Up on the bed, legs apart, midwife has a feel.

"Blimey! You're eight centimetres already. We'd better get you into a delivery room."

Svend was called, he rushed back up, and by the time they'd got me into the delivery room I was fully dilated and pushing. Now it's all well and good for midwives to say "don't push" but when you're body's pushing a baby out, trying to hold back is like trying to hold a tsunami back with a sack of sand! Get real - this baby's coming!

The delivery bed and the bed I'd been on had somehow become hooked together. The midwife and a nurse were shaking them, trying to move the bed away so that midwife could get into position, and suddenly my waters broke. Splash! They went everywhere.

"Don't you ever come near me again," I scream at Svend. "It's your bloody fault I'm in this pain."

"I'm sorry," he's saying, wanting to do something to ease things for me but knowing there's nothing he can do. If he touches me I'll get angry. That's the last thing I want when I hurt.

"You need pethadine," the midwife said.

"No I don't," I argued. We'd agreed that I wouldn't have anything at all. I wanted a completely natural childbirth.

Suddenly she's leaning over the bed with a syringe, sticking a needle in my thigh. I'm frustrated and angry... I punch her! Smack! She topples backwards and lands against the wall.

The baby's still coming. I can feel her head. I tell the nurse. Svend gives the bed one last pull and it comes free. The midwife dashes round, positions herself at the end of the delivery bed and plop! A baby lands in her hands.

It's five past midnight and I feel serene. The most beautiful child I've ever seen is placed on my breast, and she looks up at me with big blue eyes. I fall in love and Svend cries.

The wait and the pain's forgotten.

There's absolutely nothing in this world that can measure against the feeling of seeing your newborn baby for the first time. It's a moment I'll never forget.

This one's for you, Lise. I love you.

~~+~~

There's A Bomb In My Bag!

2006-06-16T16:36:00.000+01:00

Today it's my mum's 70th birthday. Needless to say, there are lots of memories involving Mum but the one that sticks out most right now is the one involving the bomb.

There was a period during the 70s when the IRA were sending letter bombs to English addresses. I can't remember exactly what we were told to look out for but one day, a small parcel dropped through our letterbox and Mum was convinced it was a letter bomb. The writing was similar to the writing they'd shown on the news and with Clancey being an Irish name, she thought we'd be a prime target. I'm not quite sure what he logic was there but, there you go, that's my mum.

If you think you're in possession of a bomb, the sensible thing to do would be to contact the police. And that's exactly what she did. Only she didn't go out to a phone box to call them, she put the bomb in her shopping bag and went off to the bus-stop so that she could take the bomb to the police station.

The bag was held at arm's length in front of her and when she got on the bus, she placed it carefully on the seat next to her and told the conductor not to touch it "because there's a bomb in there." Talk about the nutter on the bus!

The bus Mum was on stops right opposite the police station. Handy, wouldn't you think? But did Mum get off there? No. She took the bus two stops further before she got off. Why? Because she wanted to take the bomb to her own mother's house first.

"I've got a bomb, Mum," she said, on arriving there.

"Well what the bleedin' hell do you want me to do wiv it?" Nan asked. "Don't bring it in here. Take it to the police station."

"But I've just been passed the police station."

"Then you'll just have to go back."

Off she poodled again, back to the police station, bag still held at arm's length.

The policeman on duty was very kind and after putting the parcel in a bucket of sand, told her she'd done the right thing. He obviously didn't know she'd been on a roundabout tour first.

Later that day a policeman knocked at our door.

"It's about the parcel you brought to us," he said. "We had bomb specialists come down and open it. It's a lighter. A Ronson lighter."

Dad had sent his lighter away to be repaired but hadn't told Mum. Why would he? Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't be interested.

All's well that ends well, as they say, but it's a story Mum has never been able to live down, bless her. But every family has to have its stories and let's face it, without them this blog wouldn't exist.

~~+~~

Stung Bum

2006-06-15T09:42:00.000+01:00

All this talk of bare bottoms has brought back another memory. Yes, another time where I wasn't wearing the necessary under garments.

This time I wasn't more than about five. Why I wasn't wearing knickers is a mystery because Mum was always very strict about that - I can only assume that I took them off when she wasn't looking.

Across the road from us was a corner shop. One of the old-fashioned ones that you don't see in London anymore; a shop that sold everything from one egg to a dishcloth. The couple who owned the shop had a son, Timothy.

I used to play with Timothy a lot, and this particular day he'd brought a bunch of empty boxes out of the shop and had lined them up on the pavement out front. He sat in the first box—the engine of the train—and I sat in a carriage further along. He tooted and whistled and the train chugged along. It was all good fun.

But then everything went wrong.

I decided to change carriages. Out I got, walked to the back and climbed into a new box. I sat down and.... arrrggghhhhhh! The most horrendous burning sensation went through my bum!

I ran across the road to my Mum (luckily there wasn't much traffic in our street back in the 60s), clutching my backside and crying like a banshee.

A quick look at the damage told Mum what had happened. I'd sat on a wasp! To make sure she wasn't mistaken, she went over and had a look in the boxes and sure enough, there in the last box was a dead wasp.

Now I don't know about you but I can think of better ways of killing a wasp than by sitting on it, especially with a bare backside. It'd obviously stung me during its death throws, determined to get its own back on me.

Needless to say, sitting down comfortably wasn't an option for several days following that particular event but it did teach me to always look at what's inside before getting into a cardboard box. And after all, that's a piece of wisdom you just never know when you might need, isn't it?

PS: The boy's full name was Timothy Lyons. If you're out there, Timothy, and you recognise this story, do get it touch.

~~+~~

Some People Never Learn

2006-06-11T11:18:00.000+01:00

You'd have thought that the rounders incident would have taught me a thing or two about wearing knickers, would you? But no, at 16 I was still walking about knickerless and getting into trouble because of it.

This particular incident happened while I was staying with my cousin Tina for a week. She lives just outside Great Yarmouth so it stands to reason that we spent a few evenings wandering along the front, chatting up lads and generally having a good time.

One evening I decided to wear a dirndl skirt (for those who don't know, it's a full circle skirt a la those worn during the 50s). Because it was long—calf length—I thought it'd be ok if I went without any knickers on. I mean, it's nice to feel free of restricting undergarments at times, isn't it?

Anyway, off we went, caught the bus to town and arrived on the promenade ready for some fun.

What I hadn't reckoned with was the breeze that was coming off the sea. As we walked along, it was lifting the satin fabric of my skirt and swishing it around my legs. I quite liked the sensation and thought it probably looked quite flirty, too. But then came a gush that lifted the skirt right over my head. And with so much fabric, try as I might, I couldn't get the damned thing down! I was showing everything I had - white arse and... well, my front bottom, too!

Tina thought it was hilarious. Instead of helping, she stood laughing herself silly while I battled with yards of bottle green satin.

Then came the wolf whistles. A gang of lads on the beach side of the road were enjoying the show!

Oh, the shame!

Needless to say, I didn't particularly enjoy that evening in Great Yarmouth!

Did I learn to keep my knickers on? Who knows!

~~+~~

Keep Your Knickers On!

2006-06-08T10:45:00.000+01:00

I was about eight and it was PE day. Not the best day to be at school without knickers on. But then I don't suppose for one moment I stopped to think about that when I waltzed off to school that morning.

I had a habit of going knickerless at that age. It would drive Mum barmy. "People will think I don't buy you any," she'd say. Or "You'll catch your death with the wind blowing up your skirt." As it happened, I rather liked the wind blowing up my skirt. Tut tut.

Anyway, this particular day the PE teacher decided we'd play rounders in the playground. The boy's playground. We were segregated back then. Just as well considering my penchant for going knickerless, I suppose.

We didn't have PE kits - everybody just played in whatever they were wearing but most would come suitably clad, knowing it was PE day. Apart from me, that is. Where most of the other girls were wearing shorts, I was wearing a skirt.

You're starting to get the picture now, aren't you?

Eventually it was my turn to bat. The ball came at me, I swung the bat and wallop! The ball thundered across the playground, hit the tree and ricocheted across to the boy's toilets. All this gave me plenty of time to get a 'rounder', so off I went, feet moving as fast as they could carry me. First base....second base....third base....smack! I felt flat on my face, skirt round my waist and doing a moony.

I got up, ran out of the gates and didn't stop until I was home.

Oh, the shame! Everybody had seen my bare bum! Even the boys!

It was several days before I dared go back to school, and then only because a group of my class mates came to my house to tell me that nobody gave a shoot about my bum and that if it was upsetting me that much, they'd all show their bums too.

How's that for solidarity?

~~+~~

The Death of A Bird

2006-06-06T14:07:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I told you about the rabbit who had an automatic wash. The rabbit was lucky. The budgie we had wasn't.

Before I start, I really do have to reiterate that Paul would never hurt anything willingly. The things he did when he was younger were purely because he didn't understand the consequences. There was no malice and certainly none of the wickedness I've often witnessed amongst some so-called 'normal' children.

Ok, on with the story.

We had a budgie. Once again, it's name escapes me but I remember it was blue. A beautiful pale blue with white flecks to its feathers.

The budgie was very tame so when I put my hand in the cage, it would happily come onto my finger to be brought out for some free flying and time spent pulling my hair. This particular day, Paul asked if he could try to get the budgie out. Maybe it was foolish of me to say yes, but nevertheless I did.

Paul opened the cage door as gently as he was able, put his hand in and waited patiently. Because the bird wasn't used to going onto Paul's finger (even though it would happily land on him once outside the cage), he just sat there, watching; possibly debating, if birds are capable of such things.

Paul's patience wasn't too good when he was younger so after a few minutes, he took it upon himself to grab the budgie in order to get it out. As soon as I saw and heard what was happening -- the squawking and flying feathers gave it away -- I jumped up shouting for him to stop. But it was too late. Paul had grabbed the budgie by the neck and pulled him out of the cage.

The result? One very dead bird.

Paul was devastated. He sobbed until there were no more tears left. He understood that dead meant the budgie would have to be buried and would never again sit in his cage chattering away, or fly around the room, or annoy his mum by pulling at her hair. He understood that while we all die one day, it isn't a good thing to cause another creature to die.

While he's forgotten a lot of the incidents that happened during his childhood, he does remember strangling the budgie. But we don't talk about it because on the occasions it has been mentioned, he's cried again and there's really no point upsetting him over something that can't be undone.

Although the rest of us can look back and make light of it, Paul can't. And maybe he shouldn't, either.

I know it sounds awful that we can make light of it at all. It isn't nice but sometimes that's the only way that families who have had to deal with more than their share of traumatic events can deal with things. They make light of the less traumatic ones. It's some weird kind of psychology but as long as it works, why knock it?

~~+~~

The Rabbit and The Washing Machine

2006-06-05T15:25:00.000+01:00

Writing about washing machines yesterday made me think about another washing machine incident that happened when Paul was about 14, although bearing in mind his profound learning difficulties, his mental age probably wasn't more than about 3.

We had a rabbit. I can't remember its name but that doesn't really matter. He was brown, had floppy ears and was--as rabbits generally are--kind of cute.

Paul was the kind of child who had to be watched every minute of the day. Now I know that probably sounds like an exaggeration but believe me, it isn't. Blink and he'd be up to something! But watching somebody the whole time isn't easy and as I'm only human, there were times when my attention would be elsewhere and Paul would get up to things that, at best would cause me a lot of extra work, and at worse could be damn right dangerous (see this post).

I don't recall why I'd been distracted -- maybe I went to the loo; perhaps the phone rang; possibly there had been somebody at the door -- but whatever it was, during the time my attention had been elsewhere, Paul had started up the washing machine. Ok, so that's not so bad. A waste of water and electricity but no harm done. Or was there?

On closer inspection I saw something brown going round in the drum. Yes, you guessed it. He'd put the rabbit in the washing machine!

I quickly turned it off and unless you've had reason to desperately want to get the washing machine door open, you have no idea just how slowly 30 seconds can take to pass. When I finally heard the click and got the rabbit out, I could hardly believe that he still appeared to be alive and well. He shook himself a few times before hopping off in search of food!

I took him to the vet for a check up and no harm had been done. Thankfully, Paul had put the machine on a rinse rather than a hot wash. I dread to think what the result might have been if it had been the other way round.

One thing that's important to understand is that Paul was never cruel. He wouldn't have deliberately hurt any creature. He'd seen me put his teddies and other stuffed toys in the washing machine and had thought he could do the same with the rabbit. He simply hadn't understood what the consequences could have been.

He was terribly upset once it was explained to him but all's well that ends well.

Rabbits, I concluded, must be incredibly resilient creatures.

~~+~~

Sausages and The Washing Machine

2006-06-04T08:56:00.000+01:00

In 1997 I took a week away from my family in Norway to visit my family in England. It was the first time I'd been 'home' in 7 years. At this point Paul was 19 but with a mental age of about 4, Inger Lise was 11 and Linn Marie was just 9.

Bjørn, my partner at the time, drove me to Gardemoen (what was then Oslo's second airport but is now the International airport) and the children came along to see me off.

As we'd arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare, we went upstairs to the café, found a seat by the big windows that overlooked the aircraft bays and enjoyed a slice of cake or two together.

I'd noticed that Linn Marie was unusually quiet but thought it was probably that she was already missing her mum, knowing I'd be away for a whole week. And let's face it, at that age a week can feel like an eternity, can't it?

When Bjørn left the table for a quick visit to the loo, Linn Marie moved closer to me and said "Mum, I'm really worried, y'know".

Bless her, I thought. She's concerned that the plane might crash or something equally as awful. "What's the matter, babe?" I asked.

"I'm worried about what we're going to eat and whether I'll have any clean clothes for school. You see, Dad only knows how to make hotdogs and I don't think he knows how to use the washing machine."

I couldn't help but smile. The things that go through the minds of little 'uns, eh?

I assured her that she could survive on hotdogs for a week, although I was sure he'd be able to make a few other things, too. I knew for a fact he could make pizza and boil potatoes - it's just that with me around, he'd never had to so she'd never seen him do anything other than heat up the odd pan of hotdogs for supper now and then if I happened to be out. As for the washing machine, she did have a point, but I'd made sure the wardrobes and drawers were full of enough clean clothes to keep them going for the week.

When I came back, I was met at the airport by a smiling child who assured me that everything had been fine. Sure, they'd eaten a good few hotdogs, but they'd also had burgers and mash, meatballs and potatoes and a couple of rice dishes out of a packet.

"From now on, Mum," she said. "If you're not worried about something, I'm not going to worry about it, either."

How's that for trust?

~~+~~

Face Painting

2006-05-29T14:35:00.000+01:00

My friend Carol popped in with her daughter and grandson yesterday. They'd been to a boat show where Kai's face had been painted like a lion. Roar!!! That's the first thing he said when he walked through the door, scaring the living daylights out of me! At 46, I can't take too many scares like that!

Seeing him with his face painted reminded me of an incident that happened about fifteen years ago. Linn Marie was just about two and her sister, Inger Lise, was a couple of years older.

I can clearly remember being in the kitchen, baking a cake, and thinking that the girls had been quite for a just a little too long. It didn't feel right. You know what kids are like: they're noisy even when they're doing so-called quiet activities. I listened, heard nothing and decided to investigate.

They were in my bedroom. Linn Marie was sat on the bed with her sister standing in front of her. I can picture it clearly. We had the most horrendous green crocheted bedspread that Bjørn's gran had made as a present, and that definitely didn't match the pale blue floral wallpaper! Not that the dark wood bed with the deep red velour headboard helped matters much!

Anyway, I stood in the door opening hardly believing what I saw. Inger Lise was painting her sister's face with nail varnish! Not a pale pearl pink that wouldn't notice too much, either. Oh no, she'd chosen bright cherry red! Her forehead, cheeks and nose were covered in it. The only part that hadn't been painted was her chin, but only because she hadn't got that far yet!

I'm sure I don't even need to describe my reaction but let's just say it wasn’t "Oh you sweet little darlings, what fun you're obviously having" or anything along those lines. That my voice rose an octave or two is an understatement and there were probably words uttered that children ought not hear.

I was livid!

The next thing I knew, the bloke who lived below us came flying up the stairs and smashed our front door in! Yepp. Broke the lock clean off!

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouted. "It's two thirty and you know damned well that I sleep in the afternoon when I've been working nights".

"Well, I'm very sorry but what exactly do you expect me to say to my children when they've done something to make me angry? "Don't worry, kids, just carry on as you are and I'll tell you off in an hour?" I don't think so."

But could he understand the logic. Not a chance. So not only did I have a two year old with a face covered in red nail varnish, I was having to explain myself to a neighbour for having a go at my kids during his napping hour! The nerve of some people.

And he refused to fix the lock!

I phoned the doctor to find out what I could do about the nail varnish and was told "Nothing. You'll just have to wait for it to wear off". Great. She'd have to go to nursery with a bright red face. Not that she seemed to care but I certainly got a few strange looks from passers by!

It took about a week for it to go completely, and Inger Lise never ever went near her sister with anything from my make-up bag basket again.

The neighbour? He ended up in a psychiatric hospital. Make of that what you will.

~~+~~

Twins

2006-05-25T23:28:00.000+01:00

My mum's always been up for a laugh, so when we went to Pontin's Wall Park Holiday Camp in Brixham, Devon for our annual family holiday, my best friend Carol and I had no worries about asking her to pretend we were her twin daughters.

I don't know why we wanted to be twins because we looked nothing like each other - I suppose it's just one of those things teenagers do - but Mum was fine with it, thinking it surely couldn't be too difficult. After all, she was used to Carol calling her Mum already.

There was one thing she hadn't reckoned with, though.

One afternoon whilst sitting outside the chalet relaxing with a magazine, the woman in the opposite chalet asked her where the twins were.

"Oh, they'll be off boy-hunting probably," Mum had replied, and was probably right. At fourteen, that was pretty much what holidays were for.

"So what was it like giving birth to twins then?"

"Excuse me?" Mum wasn't sure she'd heard right. Did this total stranger really want her to describe the birth of twins? Yes, she did.

Poor Mum was somewhat flustered when we got back to the chalet. "That nosy old cow opposite has been asking me the ins and outs of giving birth to twins. How long it took, how painful it was, how long it was between babies coming out, what it was like breast feeding two and gawd only knows what else!"

Obviously, we thought that was hilarious, and as it happened, Mum had done a pretty good job of bluffing her way through it, but she did say that next time we wanted to pretend to be twins, could we please leave her out of it.

~~+~~

Going Back Where She Came From

2006-05-21T14:37:00.000+01:00

Paul was eight when Inger Lise was born. Until then he'd had all the attention and, having severe learning difficulties, was a very demanding child.

All through my pregnancy I'd been worrying about how he'd react and although he'd made it plain from the start that he wasn't happy with having the new baby around, by the time she'd turned one, he appeared to have accepted her. After all, she wasn't going anywhere, was she? Or was she?

It was winter 1987. Lise was about a year and a half, and Paul was almost 10. It'd been snowing all down so with nothing else to do, we'd stayed home and spent the morning baking buns.

That afternoon we settled down to watch some cartoons on video, and Paul asked if he could have a buttered bun. Of course he could. I went out to the kitchen, buttered a couple for him and one for his little sister, poured two glasses of milk and went back to the living room.

When I'd left, Paul had been sitting on the floor and Inger Lise had been sitting in the armchair. Both places were now vacant and both children had disappeared.

I looked in both their rooms. Nothing. Looked in the bathroom. Nothing. Looked in my room. Still nothing. Then I noticed that two pairs of boots were missing from the hall. Had they gone outside to play? Surely not. Inger Lise hadn't been wearing anything!

Because the flat was warm, I'd let her play in her nuddy pants (that means the nude). It's good for kids to be free of clothes, and nappies especially.

I looked out of the window but the back yard was empty. There were, however, two sets of footprints leading towards the side of the house, where the gate out onto the street was.

I quickly pulled my own boots on, grabbed my jacket and rushed out. Luckily, it had stopped snowing so even though I couldn't see them anywhere, their footprints were easy to follow. I ran up to the crossroads and followed them round to the left, onto the road that led up to the hospital where Inger Lise had been born. There they were, two tiny figures in the distance.

Although I ran as quickly as I could, I felt laboured by the deep, fresh snow. The temperature had fallen considerably during the past hour or so and was now around minus 10, and my baby was stark naked!

When I finally caught up with them I grabbed Lise, pulled her to my chest and wrapped my jacket round her. Her skin was blue and she was crying. The poor little thing must have been sooooo cold and as anybody who's ever been out in that kind of temperature without proper clothing will tell you, it's damned painful!

Paul looked at me, guilt written all over his face.

"What on earth were you doing?" I demanded to know.

Paul can't speak but he's extremely good at making himself understood through gestures. He pointed to the hospital (Buskerud Sentral Sykehus) and explained that he was taking his sister back. He didn't like having her and I can only suppose that in his mind, if that was where she came from, she could just as easily go back.

Yes, I was angry. What mother wouldn't be? But he didn't understand that taking his sister out naked in the cold could have been very dangerous, or that they could have got lost, or... well, all sorts of things could have happened to them.

But once again, things that could have gone terribly wrong turned out ok in the end, and we were soon back in our flat, eating buns, drinking milk and watching old Betty Boop cartoons.

~~~+~~~
Photo: Jarle Bryn

Tiny Tears

2006-05-20T11:12:00.000+01:00

Do you remember those dolls? They drank out of a bottle, cried real tears and peed themselves?

Like any other 5 year old girl, I wanted one. I begged my mum to buy me one but because money was tight in our house, I always had to make do with just your average cheapo doll.

Until Christmas arrived.

I was ecstatic when I woke up on Christmas morning to find that Father Christmas had brought me a Tiny Tears! I'd written to him specifically asking for one, and when Mum took me to see him at the Co-op on Stratford Broadway, I'd asked for one too, but I hadn't really believed I'd get one. But I did. And I was probably the happiest little girl in my street.

Winter passed and with spring came the kind of warm days that made playing in the front garden possible. My friend Gill -- who lived further down the street -- used to come down and we'd play together.

One day we were playing with my Tiny Tears. I knew Gill was jealous of her but until then I hadn't realised just how jealous. Or maybe it was more a matter of being too young to truly understand the extent of jealousy, and for Gill, too young to understand that you sometimes have to keep your feelings under control.

Anyhow, Gill wanted to be in charge of Tiny Tears and I didn't want to let her (mean cow that I was), so she grabbed her head and pulled it off! Yepp. She beheaded my doll!

Now I don't know about you but to me, a headless Tiny Tears just isn't good enough. And to make matters worse, I couldn't put the bloody thing back on again, either! And neither could Mum. Or Dad. TT was well and truly dead!

My friendship with Gill wasn't too healthy during my period of grieving, but it didn't last too long. TT was just a doll, after all.

Gill and I are still friends today, even though we both left England as teenagers and have led very different lives. Although I think it's that understanding of how the cultures we've lived in have affected us that's one of the foundations of our friendship today.

Rest in peace, Tiny Tears.

~~+~~

Fire

2006-05-18T13:19:00.000+01:00

Bringing up my son, Paul, alone wasn't easy, not by any stretch of the imagination. He has severe learning difficulties and quite honestly, when he was younger it was a matter of blink and he'd be up to something, and more often than not that something would be something dangerous. This particular story is about one such incident.

Paul was about 10 at the time, Inger Lise was 2 and I was about 8 months pregnant with Linn Marie. A friend had been visiting that evening so it was quite late when I finally got to bed having first checked on the children. They were both sleeping soundly. Or so I thought.

I've no idea how long I'd been asleep when the sound of the phone ringing woke me. A quick glance at the alarm clock told me it was 3am and, tired as I was, decided there was no way I was getting out of my nice warm bed to answer the phone. Whoever it was could ring back in the morning.

But the ringing persisted and gradually pushed the fuzziness of sleep away from me, leaving me realising that anybody who phoned at that time of the morning must surely have something important to say. I pulled the quilt back, slid out of bed and padded out into the hall.

The first thing that met me was smoke! Lots of it! I dashed into the living room and to my horror, the carpet and the clothes that I had hung to dry in front of the fire were on fire. The flames on the carpet were moving quickly towards me, cutting off my path to the kitchen and, more importantly, Inger Lise's bedroom so I had to act quickly.

Everything became a haze. I don't remember being in the kitchen getting water, and I don't remember throwing it over the carpet. I just remember kneeling on the carpet, sobbing as a mixture of fear and relief rushed through me, and coughing because of the smoke I'd inhaled.

When I turned around, Paul was standing in the door opening. I knew immediately what had happened. He'd been playing with the fire.

Unfortunately, apart from a couple of electric heaters that I'd set up, the paraffin fire was the only way of heating the flat. And in the midst of a Norwegian winter, heat isn't something you can go without.

Paul hadn't meant to do anything wrong, he just didn't understand the consequences of his actions. He'd got up during the night and been fascinated by the fire. He'd put paper on to it, watched it burn, and then pulled it out again, dropping it onto the carpet. When the carpet started to burn, he'd panicked and gone back to bed.

To this day I'm grateful to whomever it was who called me that night, although I never found out who it was. I asked friends and family; nobody had called. A wrong number? Maybe. I don't suppose I'll ever find out now but what I do know is that without the phone ringing, it's very doubtful that I'd be here now to tell the tale.

~~+~~

The Incident With the Wet Mattress

2006-05-16T12:02:00.000+01:00

Hastings. We had a few holidays there when I was a teenager, one of which was spent at Coombe Haven Caravan Park, a typical holiday park just outside of what was once an old fishing town.

The caravan we'd hired was one of the oldest on the park. It had a rounded roof, no running water, no shower or loo and the beds were stuffed with... well, I don't know but they were heavy and hard. Even for 1974 that was a pretty old-fashioned caravan. Still, the communal tap was close enough to see and the shower/wc block wasn't far away so it could have been worse.

Because I'd hit my teens and hanging around with my parents throughout a holiday was starting to get dull, I'd been allowed to take a friend away with us. Carol, my best friend from grammar school, came along. I think this was probably also the first holiday where I'd had a real holiday romance. Tony his name was and he lived over Brixton way.

I really, really fancied him and looked forward to evenings when we'd meet up and have a snog. Unfortunately, he didn't have a mate with him so I suppose it must have been a bit boring for Carol but she didn't complain.

About half way through the holiday I had a wee accident. No, I'm not going all Scottish on you, I mean I had a WEE accident. I wee-ed the bed! Piddled it. Wet it. Whatever you like to call it. And not just a dot or two, either. It was as if somebody had thrown a bucket of water over the bed!

I was petrified that my mum would find out; she'd have gone bananas, so Carol and I turned the mattress as quietly as we could, trying not to wake anybody. As hard as it is to believe now, we managed it! 2am, the camp's silent, and two girls are trying to suppress giggles whilst flipping a heavy double mattress. How did we do it? I've no idea but as far as I know, my mum still doesn't know about that.

Anyway, that night we went down to the camp's entertainment complex as usual and met up with Tony. What did Carol do? Bloody well told him about my wee episode, that's what! If that's not embarrassing then what is? If ever I wanted the ground to open, that was the moment! Thirteen years old, in love for the first time (yes, yes... I know) and having the apple of your eye told that you'd pee-ed the bed. Cheers, Carol.

Why did she do it? Her explanation was "I didn't think it'd bother you". No, of course not. Perhaps just a little jealously at being the third wheel on the wagon? Who knows? As it turned out, it didn't matter because we carried on meeting until the end of the holiday and then -- as is the norm with holiday romances -- we wrote for a month or so and then life went on as it had before Hastings.

Strangely enough I bumped into Tony again when I was seventeen. He worked near to where I was working at the time so we went out for a lunchtime drink. He remembered the episode and although we laughed about it, I still cringed inside. When you're young, there are some things you just don't want the opposite sex to know about.

Tony and I dated a few times but the old spark wasn't there anymore. Just as well really because I hadn't finished wetting the bed. There are more stories to come!

But not just yet...

~~+~~

When You Don't Know Quite Where You're Going

2006-05-15T00:18:00.000+01:00

After 17 years in Norway, I lived in Eastbourne with my then partner, Bjørn, and my three children, Paul, Inger Lise and Linn Marie, for about 6 months during 1997/98 (I think). For reasons I won't go into here and now, we ended up leaving without any real plan as to what we were going to do when we got back to Norway. In fact, we had no plan whatsoever.

First up we stayed at a friend's house. Johnny in Tranby. A nice bloke but we couldn't put him out forever so after a week or so we moved on. We'd already been to the social but while they were willing to pay the deposit on a flat, it was up to us to find one. There was one available in Hokksund but Bjørn decided it was too expensive so we spent another week in a cabin at Hokksund Camping. The social were paying for that but once they'd sorted out the equivalent of Income Support for us, it became too expensive so we moved to another cabin at Fiskum. The girls started school and Bjørn found a job in Oslo and if only we'd been able to find a flat we could afford, all would have been well.

This particular cabin was no more than two rooms, one big enough for a bench along each side to sit on, a two ring worktop cooker and a tiny fridge, the other with two bunk beds and nothing else. Considering we also had a Border Collie and pet rat with us, we were just a little crowded. There was no running water - we had to go over to a converted barn for the luxury of a shower or fresh water for cooking.

As 17th May (Norway's constitution day) crept closer, the farmer who owned the cabin (and several others) decided he didn't want us there anymore. "This ain't for long-stay guests," he said, "so it's about time you lot moved on."

To where, exactly?

That night we saw an ad in a newspaper. Basically it said that an agency in Bergen could guarantee you a property to rent. Next morning I phoned them and was told that if I sent the equivalent of a £75 cheque, they'd arrange for us to have somewhere to live in a week's time. Hallelujah! It may have been the other side of the country but what the heck! It'd be a place to live and a new start.

The girls were taken out of school again, Bjørn handed in his notice and off we went, over the mountains from east to west, fully laden and arriving in Bergen on the pre-arranged day. We were all looking forward to our new future in the county of Hordaland on Norway's west coast.

But things are never quite what they seem. The broker hadn't promised us anywhere to live at all!

"But you did" I argued. "You told me quite clearly that--"

"No, I didn't. What I said was I'd have a property ready for you to view. Whether or not the landlord accepts you as a tenant is up to him or her."

"Ok, well let's go see this place."

The house was lovely. Yes, we'd take it.

Hold on -- it's not that easy. The broker had sent a dozen families to view the same house and the landlord hadn't yet decided who he would let to. We could expect to here something within a fortnight!

What???? Where we were supposed to live in the meantime?

The next three nights were spent living in the car. A Hyundai Pony. For those who don’t know, they're about the size of a VW Golf. It was cramped and nobody slept properly. How could we?

The situation did have one positive aspect, though. I clearly remember waking on the first morning and being absolutely amazed at the beauty of the sun rising between two mountains and shining down across the Hardangerfjord, one of Norway's most spectacularly beautiful places. I woke the others (this was about 5am) and we all stood by the edge of the water just watching, awestruck! I'd go back and do it again just for those 15 minutes on that beautiful May morning. I don't think I've ever felt such peace since.

Anyway, we found another cabin on a camping site by Bergen's racing track. The girls used to go sit up on a hill and watch the horse races (and, I've since learned, have a sneaky fag) and all in all, things weren't too bad. The future was very uncertain but we were still together and that's something we all felt grateful for. Having each other made it so much easier.

About a fortnight later we were offered a house at Bontveit. It was in the mountains surrounding Bergen, and one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen.

The house itself was old and shabby but the peace of the surroundings and the nice people we lived amongst more than made up for it. There's something incredibly peaceful about going to sleep to the sound of a waterfall crashing its way down the mountain at the side of the house, and eating breakfast whilst watching an eagle fly across the valley. We were only there for four months before things took another dramatic turn and we were once again heading for England, but during that short time we made some good friends, one of which I'm still in regular contact with. Thanks, Britt, for making life in Bergen so much easier for us all.

~~+~~

Smashing Computers

2006-05-09T13:35:00.000+01:00

No, not smashing as in, "boy, aren't they smashing?" but as in "smash the bloody thing!".

We were living in Vestfossen (Norway), in a house we were temporarily renting while getting things together prior to moving to England. Back to England for Paul and I, for the first time for Bjørn, my partner at the time, and for the two girls.

Bjørn and I had been experiencing a lot of problems in our relationship, problems that had been ongoing for... oh, I dunno... about six years at a guess. Things were a bit wobbly before that point but it was around there that they started to become a real problem. How we'd managed to stay together so long that we ever came to England together is pretty much a mystery (although there was some kind of passion between us that's hard to define and I don't believe in giving up on a commitment, especially when children are involved).

Anyway, we were planning our move and Bjørn had promised that he wouldn't be contacting the woman who'd already been instrumental in breaking up our relationship. That's how we'd actually come to live in the house in Vestfossen. We were living in a house we'd built on Ormåsen when he fell in love with a woman in Florida, who he'd never met and who so obviously was taking him for a ride. And all the while he was treating me as if I were something that he'd found stuck to the sole of his shoe. Or worse!

To cut a long story short, he told me to either put up with him spending hours upon hours either chatting online or on the telephone with her, or get out. Rather foolishly I'd allowed the mortgage and deeds to the house to be put in his name alone, so not wanting to go through lengthy court proceedings, I decided a house just wasn't worth anymore emotional pain than he'd already caused me, took the kids and rented the place down in the village.

He came crying, begging forgiveness. This was the second time I'd left -- the first time because he'd hit me -- and once again I took him back. We thought moving to England might give us a new start, a new chance to get our relationship together. A foolish idea, I know, but it seemed feasible at the time. Things always do when you're gripping on to straws, though.

Promises were made but as you've probably guessed, they weren't kept. Several times I woke up in the night to find him at the computer, chatting with Denise in Florida. So that he wouldn't get caught again, he started going down to his cousin's business premises to chat from his computer. People weren't quite as loyal to him as he thought they were, though. The crux came when we invited friends for a barbecue but rather than entertain them, he spent the entire evening in the house, chatting with Denise.

The next day, following a huge row, he promised it would be over for good. He phoned Denise and told her so and even phoned her husband and told him about their online affair. Then he took a hammer and smashed the computer to bits. There were bits of twisted grey metal all over the living room, and shattered glass from the screen, but the thing that sticks in my mind more than anything is my younger daughter turning around in the armchair and saying "I suppose that means we don't have a computer anymore, then?"

She should never have witnessed that.

And it wasn't the end. For Denise, yes. But not for the way he abused our love.

~~+~~

The Old Ford

2006-05-08T23:19:00.000+01:00

Old Ford's a place not far from where I grew up in Stratford, but it isn't the Old Ford I'm going to be talking about here.

The Old Ford I'm talking about is a car my dad used to own. I haven't a clue what model it was because cars have never held any interest for me and I can't actually remember Dad ever calling it anything other than 'The Old Girl'.

This must have been in about 1968, and it was probably the oldest and ugliest car in the street. Hold on... correction: it was the ugliest car in the street! It was black and sort of upright in design with a gaping hole where the grill should have been and a crank handle to start it with. Whether or not there was a key, I really couldn't tell you.

I'm sure there are plenty of people who'd give their big toe and more to own one of those cars now -- it had red leather upholstery and a real wood and chrome steering wheel -- but when one friend's dad was driving a Hillman and another had a Rover, I felt deeply ashamed of the ugly black motor with the gaping hole at the front. Luckily, my friends knew nothing of the crank handle!

I remember having this particular car when we went away on holiday with Aunt Emm, Uncle Frank and their five kids. I can't remember which car they had but what I do remember is the engine of our car stalling every time we stopped at traffic lights. I'd have to get out and crank the handle, jump back in and off we'd go - until the next set of lights. We were somewhere in South London when I jumped quickly back into the car, other cars were tooting us left, right and centre, and forgot to remove the handle. Nobody gave it a thought until we were at the next set of lights and it couldn't be found. Dad, needless to say, wasn't impressed!

Looking back I suppose I ought to have been grateful that we had a car at all. Dad had been made redundant and times must have been hard.

Eventually we moved on to better cars, amongst others an Austin Maxi that I clearly remember Dad being very proud of. But that caught fire. Nan, bless her, thought she could put it out with a cup of water, much to Dad's vexation. A bucket, he'd said, not a bloody cup!

Several Cortinas followed, most of which were eventually stolen. But that's another story.

~~+~~

Jaws, Boys and A Forgotten Parent

2006-04-14T11:39:00.000+01:00

I phoned my mum yesterday and mentioned that a friend and I would be going to the cinema next week. That set her off down Memory Lane, reminding me of a time thirty years ago when she was abandoned by her only daughter outside the cinema in Hastings.

We were on holiday in Hastings, my parents, grandparents, me and a school friend, Linda. Mum wanted to see Jaws but as nobody would go with her and she's not very good at finding her way around strange places, she asked whether Linda and I would take her down there and then meet her outside again when it finished. Sure, no problem! We'd go in a pub during the film (fifteen year olds could easily get served back then - nobody ever asked for ID) and be back in time for 10.00 when the cinema kicked out.

We found a pub in a back street about 2 minutes from the picture house, ordered ourselves a vodka and orange each (or was it a lager and blackcurrant?) and settled down to wait.

That's when it happened.

Two blokes--the most gorgeous looking members of the opposite sex we'd seen so far that holiday--came sauntering over.

"Mind if we sit with you, girls?" asked the tall blonde one, who I later learned was called Phil.

"Err..." Slight cough to clear the throat..."No, not at all. Here, take this chair." I patted the seat next to me, my brightest smile accompanied by wildly batting eyelashes.

He wore a black coat with a fake fur collar (listen, this was the 70s, right?) over a checked Ben Sherman style shirt and brown flares but he was no Jack-The-Lad; this guy was the sort you could take home to meet your mum.

Only I didn't. Take him to meet my mum, that is. In fact, even I didn't go to meet my mum.

Linda and I had become so absorbed in flirting that time flew by and Mum was completely forgotten. As it happened, it wasn't until chucking out time that we remembered we should have been at the cinema an hour earlier!

In the meantime, Mum had been standing outside the cinema, in the pouring rain, becoming increasingly worried for our safety whilst wondering how on earth she was going to get back to our holiday home in order to find out what might have happened to us. When we finally ran round the corner and along the road towards the cinema, a momentary flicker of relief crossed her face before it contorted into something altogether more unforgiving.

"Where the bloody hell have you two been?"

"Err... in the pub. Linda's watch stopped..."

"Don't bloody well give me that one, I've heard it before." She sniffed the air. "You've been drinking!"

"Yes, but we're not drunk and that's not why..."

"Well just get me home."

We walked to the bus stop and before long were back in the cosy confines of our holiday home, sitting in the living room with a cup of cocoa each, giggling and seeing the funny side of it.

Mum's not a bad old bird ;-)

~~+~~

First Time Drunk

2006-03-26T02:09:00.000+01:00

My 17 year old daughter got pissed tonight. This happened before she even got to the party she was supposed to be going to. By 9 o'clock she was back home, balancing on a chair whilst nursing a bucket and repeatedly asking for water "so that I don't get a hang over". Some hope, sweetheart!

But we've all been there.

I'd been merry a good few times but the first time I ever got really slaughtered was on the last day of school. I hadn't actually attended much during the last two years but even so, the last day we were officially free and that meant we could miss school legally. Yippee! If only we'd known! Schooldays are the best days, blah blah.

Yeah, yeah. Less of the lecture. They weren't really. Not for me, anyway. Kids school was good and grammar school wasn't bad, but when Plaistow Grammar became Cumberland Comprehensive... stuff it!

The last day of school was spent in a local park. The Greengate Park in Plaistow, to be precise. Me, Carol (my best friend and fellow bunker-offer), and a few others, although I couldn't tell you who. A group of us would often spend an afternoon in the park, usually sitting in the shelter near the loos, smoking and generally minding out own businesses. Because we didn't cause trouble the park-keeper pretty much left us to our own devices. He'd even warn us if the school board woman was doing the rounds. Wo betide anybody who fell prey to the school board woman, or the "Green Woman" as she was unaffectionately known.

On this particular day we'd all brought a bottle of booze along to the park. Although I couldn't swear to it, I'd probably put a fiver on mine being a bottle of Cinzano. It was my favoured drink at the time, mostly because it was cheap and brought on the desired affect of 'merrydom' reasonably quickly. There was no lemonade though, and definitely no ice and slice.

The bottles were shared so not only was alcohol swallowed down in copious amounts but several types were mixed. Needless to say, it wasn't long before several of us--one being me--were plastered.

From there on the memories become somewhat vague and disjointed. Me dancing on a table in a greasy spoon somewhere in Plaistow. Around the Balham Street area, I believe, although I wouldn't stand up in court and swear to it. Whilst entertaining the other diners I somehow managed to rip the seam of my trousers. It wasn't just a little rip, either. Oh no, this one went from my crotch and right up to the waistband, exposing my rather voluminous backside. Thank God I was wearing knickers! I had been known to forget them, you see.

I was also sick. Violently so. The clever sod who'd decided we should go to a cheap cafe and eat in order to sober up had been right, although I'm not sure vomitting was the plan. After chucking up a portion of fried egg and chips, I felt much better. I still had a problem, though. In order to get into the house "after school" without being caught, I took my t-shirt off (beige with a brown striped collar - I remember it clearly) and turned it around. It must have looked very odd with the back of the collar at the front but what the hell - although I was no longer totally rat-arsed, I was still drunk and drunks care little for such details.

Sod's law and all that, I arrived home to find my father comfortably seated in the armchair facing the stairs. How would I get up to my room without him noticing my condition? My father was--and still is--a stickler for the "old ways". Children should be seen and not heard and all that malarkey. And as far as being drunk in the middle of the day goes, that's his area of expertise and should be left alone by other family members.

I remember almost sliding along the wall, trying to look normal, although what's normal about imitating a jelly fish has yet to become apparent. "Hello Dad. Got a terrible headache so am going up to get some rest." Wonder of wonders, he got up and went into the kitchen to find me an aspirin. I ran up the stairs as fast as my size tens would carry me, stripped off, pulled my pyjamas on and zonked out on the bed.

I think it was a Thursday.

~~+~~

This Is My Life

2006-03-26T00:34:00.000Z

My name's Sharon and this is my life.

No red book, no Eamonn Andrews (showing my age there, chaps) and no fifth cousins once removed showing up to tell stupid stories about somebody trying to make wigs out of pubic hair. Or similar.

It'll be written in no particular order - just a group of memoirs jotted down as and when I think of them. Some amusing, some sad, some thought provoking and some - well, you'll probably think I'm damn right stupid.

I don't expect the world and his bunny to be interested. This is for me, my family and those who know me. If you don't know me but want to read anyway, please feel free.

~Sharon J