Tripaholic

I am forty-five and I am a tripaholic. There’s this evil voice bent on destroying my karma that intones ‘take them to the National Gallery National Gallery National Gallery….’ and before I know it there I am again, sweating under a mountain of coats, hissing ‘You don’t know how lucky you are!’ at my beloveds, who never said they wanted to go there in the first place.

I blame a friend’s advice for the last relapse. ‘National Gallery – no problem!’ she said. ‘I take my three to the computers in the basement. They choose a few pictures and print out their own route. They love it!’ My heart began pumping though my head was screaming ’Don’t do it!’

Alfie rose first. ‘Alfie’ I said, ‘we’re going to do that computer thing at the National Gallery!’ (don’t ask, state). He agreed to come out of pity, providing I guaranteed no workshops, and home by lunch. Then Bonnie got up. ‘Bonnie, do you know what?’ I said, ecstatically. ‘You can go on the computer at the National Gallery-‘ ‘I KNOW ABOUT THAT YOU’VE TOLD ME A THOUSAND TIMES I AM NOT GOING!’ she shouted and put her hands over her ears. Crushed, I was. ‘FINE FORGET IT, YOU SPOILT GIRL!’ I shouted back. Alfie involuntarily took a hop and a skip; this was unbelievable good luck - the trip was cancelled and Bonnie was getting it in the neck.

Ten minutes later and I’m still sulking when Bonnie says ‘I want to go now.’ ‘Well I don’t want to go any more – you’ve ruined it all!’ I said, maturely. ‘I want to go! I want to go!’ she shouted, ‘Mummy, first you say we are going, then you say we can’t go!!’ I wavered, and Alfie realised another U turn was imminent. ‘Can I not go please?’ he said.

‘For God’s sake, I plan a LITTLE TINY trip and TRY TO MAKE IT FUN so you can BARE IT but NEITHER OF YOU really want to go because you’d rather be doing NOTHING. I felt REALLY HAPPY when I got up and now I am EXTREMELY FED UP.’

We did go. I resignedly refereed another journey: ‘Shh you two – people on the bus don’t want to hear your squabbling’ ‘Alfie, I saw that, you shoved her’ ‘I didn’t mean to!’ ‘If I’m good what will you pay me?’ ‘Have we got any sweets?’

The computers all hallowed be thine name, in the basement of the National Gallery were lovely (silence). We printed off our route and I started to breath. But we couldn’t find the most popular rooms in the Gallery with all the Monets, Manets and Van Goghs (although the longest staircase in the place was key to the search). The second information desk we tried revealed that these rooms were shut (SHUT??) for staff training (‘You promised we’d be home by lunch!’). Severe exhaustion had set in by now of course and the children had to hang off my arms just to stay alive as their legs were buckling under them. We spent a half-hour sitting on a bench in silence right outside the door of the closed galleries. ‘Everyone having a lovely time?’ I said, announcing a Burger King reward for future good behaviour. It was grim.

Eventually, the galleries opened and the children made a dash for the selected masterpieces – ‘there’s one – tick it off – let’s go!’ they shouted, not losing speed. ‘Can I just stand still and look at a painting for one second please?’ I grouched.

Fifteen minutes later, all done, we were in the lovely Burger King, where the children stood on their own two feet with apparent ease and stared at the menu for considerably longer than at all the masterpieces added together. ‘Which was your favourite picture today?’ I said (final effort). ‘Dunno. Mummy, she got more chips than me!’

Get Ready, Get Set, Go!

The Historic Palaces Family Membership that I took out with such pride last Spring has been seriously under-used!!! Only one visit to each Palace; repeat visits declined! We should be intimately acquainted with every nook and cranny, every arbour, every stairwell of these national treasures by now!

Our trip to The Tower of London was a flop admittedly. I took Alfie and his friend Tommy (more fun with a friend!) but Alfie came over all poorly when we got there, collapsing on the stone slabs every three seconds. Tommy politely did the treasure trail provided alone, while I growled in Alfie’s ear ‘Come on, stand up, Tommy doesn’t want to talk to me all day!’ Very awkward; we couldn’t get home fast enough.

But Hampton Court went pretty well, what with ‘Henry VIII’ (‘is he the real one?!’) wandering around, and the Maze to look forward to at the end! It was a shame about the torrential rain, forcing us to do the Maze at a sprint, but we strung out the sandwiches in the car with a few word games that got everyone laughing, slightly, and everyone seemed fine about missing the Orangery and going home earlier than planned…

Kensington Palace was great – because of the fabulous designers’ exhibition livening up the rooms - so yesterday, I decided on a return visit, no excuses accepted.

Well first Maddy texts me from her bed ‘Just realised I have three home-works to do today! Really sorry –can’t come!’ I smiled – that girl always puts her work first! - then stomped up to her room: ‘Get up, then!’ Next Josie decides she can no way keep to her GCSE revision timetable, go to Kensington Palace and squeeze in nail varnish shopping. And then Alan pushes Alfie forward: ‘I will come,’ he says, ‘but Daddy and I have to be back for Spurs v Man U by one o’clock.’ ‘OK,’ I said, with gritted teeth, ‘we can just pop in to Kensington Palace for half an hour – that’s the beauty of Family Membership!’

By the time we’d spent three hours getting ready to ‘pop in’ to Central London, the timescale was looking a bit tight. ‘You always drive really really fast, Daddy!’ shouted Alfie as we raced along. ‘I don’t go that fast, son!’ said The Man, chuckle chuckle (‘it’s the testosterone’). ‘You do!’ said Bonnie, ‘and Mummy goes really slowly but she still bashes the car all the time! Hey look!’ she pointed. It was my sister and family, a good twenty-five minutes into their Sunday Walk. ‘See – they go for walks!’ I sniped.

The car spoke: ‘You are now entering the Congestion Zone!’ ‘Oh no!’ said Alfie, ‘How much is the Consheston Zone??’ (he’s a big saver). ‘It’s the ‘Con – gesssss - tion Zone’ Alfie, I corrected: ‘say it after me: Con - gesssss-‘ ‘HOW MUCH IS THE CONGESSSSSSTION ZZZZZZONE???’ he shouted. ‘There’s no charge on Sunday,’ said Bonnie, clever-clogs. ‘Actually my nose is congested,’ she went on ‘and I will uncongest it into my hand.’

All good things come to an end. We parked, and after we’d killed ourselves laughing at the children pretending to be fast asleep inside the car while we froze outside, Alfie got out, did a time-check ‘TWELVE O’CLOCK!’ and put us on our marks: ‘GET READY, GET SET, GO!!’ We ran the mile across the park and were in the Palace by ‘FIVE PAST TWELVE!’, bit puffed. Alfie’s hand was on my back, pushing. ‘Look at that beautiful dress, Alfie – Bruce Oldfield!’ I said, luching forwards. ‘QUARTER PAST!’ he shrieked, ‘Come on!’ Bonnie knew a better way around the Palace than the one in the leaflet, which meant doubling back when we got lost. ‘TWENTY-FIVE PAST!!!!’ Alfie bawled in a frenzy, yanking me by the sleeve from one room to another. ‘Do we have to tear around like lunatics to get back for your cursed football?’ I grumbled. ‘TIME’S UP! WE’RE GOING HOME!’ he replied. ‘RUN!!! OR WE’LL MISS KICK-OFF!!’

We were back home so fast I surprised Maddy with her hands in the kitchen cupboard – not eating the drinking chocolate, but scanning it with her I Touch. ‘Look, Mummy, my I Touch can tell you what this is, and where you can buy it – isn’t that cool?!’ ‘Have you done the homework that prevented you from coming to Kensington Palace?’ I said, deadpan. ‘Because otherwise, you will be scanning drinking chocolate in a supermarket for the rest of your life!’ She looked quite keen on the idea, but got out her books.

Especially for You, Grandma!

Alfie returned from his week at the Outdoor Education Centre, Pendarren, in Wales last week in fine fettle. ‘It was great!’ he said ‘I achieved my challenge!’ (Aah! He went away a boy, came back a man!) ‘What was the challenge, son?’ ‘I didn’t poo all week!’

‘Was it beautiful? Were there mountains?’ ‘Dunno. Listen, we had sausages twice for breakfast, and bacon once!!’ ‘Woah! And what did you do all week?’ ‘Oh, stuff…I was posted down this like letter-box thing in this like cave thing…’ I waited for a little detail on the geological niceties of the River Adventure Walk, the Coastal Visit (ox-bow lakes, cliff slump…this could trigger a life long passion for geography!) but that was the end of the report: sausages, bacon, being posted through a hole.

At bedtime he suddenly disappeared under his blanket and started heaving with grief over the paltry amount of post I’d sent! (one letter, chocolate enclosed).’Everyone else got a letter every day. I only got one all week!’

'But the purpose of going away is to experience separation, independence..’ I protested. But as he nodded, understanding, but crying still, I pictured the little waif, forgotten, watching clouds of love floating from London to Wales into laps other than his (oh oh oh) and I was all of a choke (Poor him! No – poor me! I didn’t know! I do my best!..sort of). I could barely get the words out for Alan downstairs: ‘Everyone else got a letter every day!’ sniff sniff ‘I only sent one!’ sniff.

Things perked up the next morning when Alfie presented me with a gift of Vanilla Fudge from Pendarren (labelled ‘Especially for You, Grandma!’). After a polite but humorous reference to the labelling, I thanked him profusely, fancying myself his favourite. He then presented it to Alan, which wiped the smile off my face, Alan glancing at me nervously, fancying himself the favourite, until I put him straight (‘he gave it to me too!’). Next he gave the coveted fudge to Maddy (he was really enjoying himself now) but she saw straight through him, as wild horses wouldn’t get him spending his own cash on a sibling, especially since he’s still10g of crisps down from when she got a maxi pack and he a multi-pack in the Summer..

As well as Vanilla Fudge and memories of better breakfasts, Alfie brought home with him a spectacularly bad temper (he was wrecked), one run-of-the-mill altercation over the tomato ketchup resulting in blood curdling psycho-screams, a pillow through the air, a shattered light fitting, and shards of lighted glass raining down on our heads (Lord!). I gathered my thoughts (‘sooner or later, someone is going to die’) but that didn’t help, and there wasn’t time to consult my parenting manual about what to do when your child smashes white hot tungsten because his sister won’t pass the ketchup, so, sobered in the presence of lunacy, I chose understatement: ‘Alfie, that behaviour was unacceptable’. This set the psycho-screams off again, so I changed tack and shut up, and Alan and I dropped to all fours, tipping our heads this way and that, trying in the dark to distinguish glass from general flotsam (Everybody don’t move! Put your shoes on! I can’t reach my shoes if I don’t move!). Alfie’s opponent hid in the loo, denying foul play of course, refusing to come out ‘it’s not safe’, all of which distracted us from bickering over the heating (silver lining!) for ‘tis the season to be boiled alive in our house, it being past 1st November.

By the end of Sunday, a hollow-eyed human shock absorber (formerly a mum) suggested a trip to that Mecca for parents who’ve thrown in the towel - The 99p Shop. They were out of safety helmets, which was evidently what we needed, but they did have just the gold spangled Reindeer ornament we were looking for to guarantee a truly great Christmas, and also Poptastic Corn for munching before the TV, which I couldn’t get on quick enough when we got home, faith in family life restored.

‘What about the disco at Pendarren?’ I asked Alfie (nosey parker), as we snuggled. ‘Well some of the teachers were really dancing a lot!’ he said, demonstrating by throwing his arms about violently (I am hoping there are no regrets in that department). ‘And you, did you ask anyone to dance?’ I coaxed. ‘I danced with the Vanilla Fudge’ he said.

A Change Rather Than A Break

Just had a night away with the children, my sister and her girls! Stratford Upon Avon was our destination – ‘Avon’s the river, Stratford is upon the river – so that makes Stratford Upon Avon!’ ‘OK OK Mum, calm down’. We would not only see the outside of William Shakespeare’s house, but also the town’s beautiful river - they were all ears I can tell you. I’d even borrowed simple versions of Shakespeare’s plays from the library to get us in the mood; Julius Caesar went well, but alas when it came to The Tempest, we were in such a knot with Sycorax, Trinculo, Caliban and the rest, the Shakespeare programme died a dry death and the remainder went back to the library unread.

‘This is a great chance to tick off a few jobs!’ I said to Alan, smiling widely and and placing the drill on top of the Sports page; if I was taking three children and one psychopathic sergeant major out of the vicinity – a change rather than a break – naturally he’d want to grab the opportunity to fix all the hooks and rails I’d assembled for his convenience back onto the walls for a bit until they crumbled off again.

At the service station Bonnie realised with a jolt that she’d behaved for thirty minutes, so demanded I buy her a large soft monkey. When I said 'no', she beat me at length about my person with the monkey she had in mind, shaming me in public. I used my various unsuccessful parenting techniques: ‘You really like this monkey don’t you? Maybe you could ask Father Christmas…’; I had a go at laughing it off (ow!); and finally I drew her to one side (‘You’re a thug!’) and wondered if I could send her home by courier. Alfie suggested she save up but it was fingers in ears ‘I’m not listening I’m not listening’ and there was violence. We all silently thought ‘Good!’ while she howled, waiting for me to tell Alfie off, but I said ‘You need to think about your behaviour Bonnie’. ‘No’ she said ‘you need to think about yours’ !!!!!!, which three junctions later, I found myself doing, damn it. I should have bought her the monkey. No I shouldn’t. Yes I should. It was beginning to feel like a holiday.

We followed my sister off the motorway, noting with wonder her uncanny ability simultaneously to map-read, remember how many right angles she had turned her car, and maintain a non-life-threatening in-car environment without resorting to hydrogenated vegetable oil snacking or walloping. We drew up at the suitable lunch spot she had identified, signalled by the rumble of a cattle grid (wehey!) which put the children on red-alert of a walk, but fear not, it was pouring with rain, so we were allowed to eat lunch inside the steamed up cars. There was a heart-stopping moment when Maddy tried to reveal the allegedly stunning view by wiping the condensation off the windscreen with her hand! – ‘STOP!!’ we all screamed, united in adversity: ‘DADDY WILL HAVE TO USE THE CLEAN-EAZIES!!’ He gets very upset about fingerprints.

Onwards for a pretty but soggy walk along the river in Stratford ('I’m not moaning but how long is this walk? About fifty metres. What??!! How long is fifty metres anyway?') Through the town and into the Shakespeare shop where Bonnie, fingering the Shakespeare Fudge, had the brainwave that she needed something to show and tell at school so how’s about it? I came over all generous and purchased a book of Shakespeare Plays in comic-strip style for poor Bonnie who had therefore to be grateful in a pissed off kind of way. ‘You see I do buy you things’ I said.

Finally we were wet and fed up enough to check in to our Youth Hostel accommodation, described as a mansion in the brochure – white pillars and all! The children knew it couldn’t possibly be luxurious if we were staying there, but when we let slip that breakfast was included (compulsory obviously) they could barely contain their excitement; this was the big time...

We played the usual jolly games all night, levelled after a few rounds to allow for age and ability (let’s just say I wasn’t in the top group..) - and we still had the highlight to come – free breakfast, I mean Warwick Castle! The next morning, replete with double hash browns, sausage and egg, we powered up the castle’s towers, round the turrets, along the battlements, and down to the dungeons - bulging paunches befitting a Tudor monarch in fact - and home again to dear Mr DIY and his Tales of Unforeseen Drilling Challenges Mightily Overcome.

Reboot!

‘Autumn half-term already?.. how wonderful..’ I thought. ‘I can spend even more time with the children. Let’s kick-start the fun times with a family outing, and what better place than the Imperial War Museum, especially as Alfie’s ‘studying’ World War Two at school; we can be good parents and support the learning!

I put the idea to him this morning and he was surprisingly keen: ‘It’s really annoying at school; just because we’re like children we always have to learn like what children did in the war – what they ate, what they wore, it’s so like boring...We never get to learn about the killing and the fighting!’ So proud of him.

It did mean taking Bonnie somewhere she hadn’t chosen of course, but we couldn’t always kowtow to her, just most of the time.

An hour later, I was growling ‘BONNIE!! WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?’ and flying after her, laden with coats, sweating, as she nipped in and out of pillars at the museum. ‘YOU!’ she yelled ’YOU ARE THE PROBLEM! OW! YOU’RE HURTING ME! I DIDN'T WANT TO COME TO THIS BORING MUSEUM IN THE FIRST PLACE!’

So instead of engaging with the exhibits, the torpedo sound-effects, The Battle of Britain footage, and Alan’s erudite commentary of course, we were actually engaged in The Battle of Bonnie, who stationed herself twenty metres away, retreating if we tried to capture her, but shrieking ‘don’t just abandon me!’ as loudly as she could, if we walked off. She’d keep this up until we left, or bought her something from the shop.

Obviously you can handle the antics of an eight-year-old when you have forty-five years of life experience, fifteen of childcare, in the bank…it’s only for variety that I hop daily, hourly, between strategies; there’s Ms Calm (hush now, tell me all about it); Ms Feisty (let’s get this sorted!), Ms Easy Going (whatever..), Ms Boundaries (I’m going to count to 3..’), but mostly there’s Ms F*K!!SH*T!!!!

Oliver Sacks advises counter-intuitive ultra-love in cases of really abominable behaviour. We are to offer the miscreant a weekend of early-life close cuddly love to ‘reboot’ the child back into good behaviour (now booting I could do). Something – intuition perhaps? – told me that counter-intuitively giving my child a big bear hug when I most felt like throttling her was not going to sit easily with my sense of fair play, but although a whole weekend of being fake was more than I could stomach, I was up for strategic spurts of ultra love.

I started the first day with a twinkle in my eye: ‘Hug??’ but was given a wide berth, in fact all my overtures the first day back-fired: ‘If you could have anything you wanted for tea, what would it be, darling?’ ‘McDonalds’ ‘Oh, well I didn’t mean going out..’ ‘We never go out, not like everyone else...’

The second day I planned a love-in on the settee, sitting close while she watched TV and slithering down until I eventually, pathetically, laid my head on her lap, looking up her nose, like a dog wanting its’ tummy tickling. I got a bit of a pat, then she said ‘Mummy, I can’t breath, get off me,’ and went to play next door, leaving me alone with Dennis and Gnasher.

Day three and she asked to make ‘cakes or brownies’ with me! Ultra-love was paying off! We were REBOOTING! It was only five minutes until we had to leave for Brownies, but I counter-intuitively agreed to make cakes in a ridiculous timescale, and skidded around the kitchen gathering butter, cocoa, sugar at break-neck speed. We’d just covered the counter in cocoa powder and flecks of hard butter, when she cried ‘This is rubbish, Mummy - there’s hardly any mixture! There are thirty Brownies and they need one each!’ and started sobbing. At this point I realised I’d mis-heard at the outset: she’d said ‘Cakes for Brownies’. So this was not about wanting to bake with Mom, it was about parading into Brownies, platter in hand - ‘Look at me – aren’t I the Bee’s Knees?!’ ‘Oh forget it!’ I said, hurt and disappointed, and chucked the spoon down with more force than I ought, making her jump, and undoing all the ultra-love with a seriously intuitive ding dong of vitriol and self-pity which was neither Ms Calm, Ms Feisty, Ms Easy-going, or Ms Boundaries, just Ms Shamefully Bad.

No, counter-intuition wasn’t for me. I returned to the world of random parenting some time ago. I think it was Ms Unconditional Love who put in an appearance at the end of that museum trip and bought a small gift for Bonnie from the shop to reward her bad behaviour. Or was it Ms Inconsistent...?

Nice Early Start

A childhood of Nice Early Starts to Beat The Traffic is hard to throw off; as a child I can remember getting caught in traffic just once or twice, and that was when something really unforeseen and terrible had occurred to scupper my father's Timetable – say if he lost his propelling pencil - in which case nothing else really mattered...

I still like a nice early start - which is why on the August Bank Holiday I insisted we should set off for Hayling Island with enough time to reach the South of France. 7am and we were on the road, thanks to a very long-suffering husband, and a deal involving Nintendos (which of course I’m going to get rid of very very soon..), handed over when the family chitchat and joke-telling died down at the end of our road - to all except Maddy in the front seat (car-sick) who had free rein with all ground controls, to Pilot Alan’s consummate delight.

We were on the beach before the locals. ‘Ha ha! Nice Early Start!’ I jabbered (‘Seven!’ they were counting my gloats). ‘Just look at the hundreds of yachts on the glistening water! – and the beach is totally empty!’ ‘Exactly!’ they muttered, stamping their feet and huddling together for warmth.

Alan nobly sacrificed swimming time to do a recky of the island’s fish and chip provision. I ran the troops through the hypothermia drill. When he returned he carefully folded the largest towel into a cushion, and sat down in a spot sheltered from the tearing wind with Alfie. The men sunned themselves and discussed whether Beberbatov or Drogba had the best shorts (or was it shots) while the girlie girls greased up for an exhilarating dip in the North Sea.

Alfie and Bonnie shared the one tiny sand-bucket remaining from my latest sort out when I chuck everything that’s not mine, and I curled up with a book while the children played for a few hours in the sand. I lost all sense of time for a few seconds, when would you believe it, one of them deliberately patted the bucket out of turn, so that was it, the sandcastle was stamped on in a mighty act of revenge! There was sand in eyes and I had to offer Alan's sweets around, which got him all upset because he'd given up sweets last New Year, (fine figure of a man, now!) and just bought these for a little treat for himself. Now Bonnie had eaten three of his favourite kind!! ’They were mine’ he blubbed, ‘It’s not fair’. ’We’ll get you some more’ said Bonnie, patting him ‘It’s good to share’.

We moved on to the throbbing heart of Hayling where the crooning of Cliff Richard’s ‘Move It’ drew us to the opening of the new rain shelter on the Prom…And that wasn’t all; when the applause had died down a mixed-ability dance troupe took the stage! But all that jiggling about was spoiling our appetites, so we took our fish and chips and sat on the beach. Alfie balanced pebbles on my head while I munched my cod, Maddy was under a towel, sibling-endurance over-stretched by now, and Alan pretended to be fast asleep in between chips when the phone rang and we all perked up because it was Josie! She’d declined to come on the grounds of destination and travelling party. The door knob she’d thrown across the room the night before because she’d dropped a stitch of her knitting didn’t work any more, so she was trapped in the front-room at home! We tumbled back into the car to rescue her from her predicament. 'You should have come with us, Josie' I said on the phone 'You missed a great day!’

Get Down, Baby!

Cripes - the girls are at a Pop Festival!! With Daddy, though. ‘Oh all right then, I’ll take you to Latitude’, he said, his voice squeaky with excitement, but keeping a straight face. A weekend away with the girls? That must mean serious brownie points! ‘Why don’t you bring a few friends too?’ he said, getting carried away now – but no, this would ensure the girls would want nothing to do with him once he’d shelled out the dosh and he’d be free to get down, baby! Three-day pop festival!! Whoo-hoo!

Both of us insanely busy - him with his big job, me with my whisk - the organisation of the trip left a little to be desired; we’d hatched a plan to think about it later, but later came before the thinking, and suddenly it was time to go! I just got Alan up to speed on his responsibilities (‘child x is having an asthma attack and calls you from somewhere in the festival. Her credit runs out. What do you do?’ ‘um, put some more pasta on?’), threw 48 toilet rolls and a packet of dried soup in the car and they were gone.

Back at the ranch (!) I was up with the lark the next morning, and (absence making the heart grow fonder) I was looking around for little memories of my love. The shrunk shirts (‘thirty degree wash’ he’d said quietly); the massively over-filled cat bowl, for he scolds me for not feeding them – as if there’s a chance, with him leapfrogging the banisters every morning, grasping the GoCat: ‘There! Empty again!’; oh and his tomato puree tubes all lined up: ‘you can never have too much tomato puree!’ Bless.

Just in case Alfie and Bonnie resented being stuck at home with me, instead of camping with friends and non-stop entertainment, I had planned a varied and interesting day: we could enjoy fresh air, ethnic delicacies and the arts too! Blood was drawn over breakfast (something to do with the milk lid) but luckily our lift to football training arrived and it was time for Fresh air and Exercise! I stood on the touchline - I was Dad today! - and aped the other Dads, ‘Push Up! Back! Back!!’ and shook my fist urgently at random players. Was Alan getting any exercise? Twirling the poi? Exploring the martial arts? - one leg cocked, stock still on t’other? Kaftan-clad? Bandanna-ed? He has been under an awful lot of stress lately.

Lunch time approached. I knew for sure that Alan would be stuffing as much chips, beer and jelly-babies as he could without falling over, but for Maddy it would be 'Stop eating junk, Maddy, and try a bean and tofu fancy.' Well, we were going to sample Chinese Cuisine - Crispy Roast Duck in China Town, which I garrotted down the middle before you could say ‘that’s not fair’, so that Alfie and Bonnie could share it without sharing. We were getting along famously so it was time for the sting in the tale: the National Portrait Gallery where I happened to know a match that! We were going to print a T-shirt inspired by the Collection! (‘Mum, can we just go now?’)

But at the desk we discovered there was a misprint in the pamphlet! No Free Family Event! No T-shirt inspired by the Collection! I looked the assistant sternly in the eye – ‘this is really bad’ I said, ‘we’ve come all the way from...London’. ‘Madam, I am so sorry you have wasted your journey but you are holding the Programme of Free Family Events for July 2009. I stared at my 2009 pamphlet and muttered cantankerously that it was nearly the same colour as the new 2010 one.... Alfie spluttered with mirth and relief in equal measure and my phone ding donged a text from Alan saying he’d just watched Michael Bourne’s Swan Lake across the lake at Latitude to which I didn’t reply.

Well we were here now, so we stomped around the BP Portrait Competition 2010, critiquing the art loudly, impressionistic getting the thumbs down (‘that’s really messy!’), Alfie winding me up by pointing at the pictures very very closely (‘ don’t touch!’). There were child friendly captions: ‘This artist was interested in putting patterns side by side! Can you find another pattern in this room??’ ‘Na’ he said, ‘let’s go.’

The texts from Latitude dwindled to nothing the next day...he’s in a drunken stupor or having his hair braided by some young lovely who looks him in the eye, instead of in the stomach and says ‘shift over, I need to get to the sink’. But probably not – he’s too tired, like me.

Getting Off

This half-term my sister and I planned another little Youth Hostel trip, dosing our children up on fresh air and natural beauty whether they liked it or not. This time our destination was Beer in Dorset. We solemnly agreed a suicidal set-off time of 8.30am, which meant that at 6am, with regret, I had to swish open the curtains to let daylight do its work on a sleeping Alan, and get packing.

It is difficult to land a large suitcase precisely onto the unoccupied half of the marital bed, so let’s just say there were a few cross words...but then he had claimed he needed to stay at home to focus on work, so I was doing him a favour really. Only ‘if time allowed’(shaking his head doubtfully) would he be able to devote any time at all to maintaining his handicap on the golf course, though I had overheard the surreptious phone calls: 'Tee off at 9?...nice little pub does steak pie...'

8.31am and my sister pulled up with her three, smiling and sensibly packed. She courteously agreed to lead, since my route planning had been stalled by rolling muddy football boots up in the map book, and of course satnav beyond capabilities. My family were still indoors, the girls downloading music for the journey in their pyjamas, Alfie using the Force to get his shoes on because the alternative was taking his thumb out of his mouth. Bonnie was in the garden with teddies, quilt and pillows, causing rounds of 'that's not fair, I want to take my teddies, quilt and pillow too!' from everyone else. I was screaming randomly.

Finally we were off! A kick in the back from time to time kept me focussed, and their were sundry duties such as dividing chewing gum into four tinsy pieces with hands on the wheel, eating everyone's crusts as no bin bag, usual stuff. On the whole though, the in-car DVD of which I so disapprove but allowed as an experiment only, meant we reached Devon with the shocking sensation of not actually hating each others guts, and wheeled down the beautiful lanes, wild flowers and hedgerows galore feeling quite full of the joys! I threw open the windows, drawing in breath ‘Aah! Lovely fresh air!’ The children fell about gasping ‘STINK!’ at the cows doing what comes naturally. 'That's life!' I trilled, but Maddy, gagging into a hankie, reminded me that whilst inviting in the sounds of the chirruping birds I was actually increasing air resistance, and thus fuel consumption, so I was only allowed to have my window open.

We pressed on to Beer and discovered that the Youth Hostel was set at the top of a number of steep hair-pin bends; the idyllic hillside views came at a price. I cursed our stupid big people carrier, but that didn't change the facts: I had to try, so I steamed up the track, heart thunping, and took the first bend like a hero, laughably misjudged it, and was stuck straight away, wheel spinning, engine smoking. The children all leapt out so I could fall over the hill edge alone. I then performed one of my special thirty-point turns on slippery muddy inclines with a fatal drop right there, which I've been practising for a moment like this, and guess what - I did it!! 'Don't tell Daddy about the smoke, will you?' I said to the children, when they'd stopped laughing.

Fun Run

Our local Fun Run this year marked an extraordinary developmental stage in my life as a terrible mother; I remembered the SAFETY PINS!! with which to pin on the race numbers - first year in eleven!!! Hoorah hoorah hoorah! Previously, we have used needles, pins, blue tac, sellotape, and we've borrowed safety pins from various sad and pathetic people who thought ahead, but never, ever have we had our own.

I’ve done the 10K myself actually (not to boast!) I sourced a running group a few years back (all females – don’t be shy!) which coincided neatly with bath and bedtime. Alan was supportive of the get fit campaign (what with the golf), but a little cool about three runs a week. Nothing was said exactly, but if we’d taken positions it would have been I’m knackered and need a break versus I’m knackered and need a break more, with a subplot of ‘who’s bringing home the bacon/are you saying that’s more important?’. Anyway, I powered on, jumping from foot to foot at the pelicans as you do (don’t let the heart beat drop!), doing that lunge and stretch thing in public places, until I realised I felt so guilty about my absence from home, I was spending more time with the children before and after the run than if I’d just stayed home and ignored them as usual! I hammed up a slight knee-ache into a ‘sports injury’ and resumed faffing about in the kitchen furtively reading a book at that time of night. And I convinced myself that if everywhere I went I walked really really fast, I would get almost as much exercise (but look odd).

Back to the Fun Run, this year's 10K-ers trotted off in their undies, boobs-a-bobbin’, jowls-a-joggin’, ’you’re only as old as you feel!’, followed by the gorgeous tinies, Knees Up Mother Brown, arms akimbo, crying, laughing, a doughnut at the finishing line! Naturally I was far too busy being sycophantic about other peoples’ brilliant children to see my own actually run their races, but then other people were being sycophantic about mine, so it all evened out in the end. Can’t wait ‘till next year – perhaps I'll have a real hamper by then, darling!