5 365 Flimmerings
Posted under Witterings

Posted under Witterings

Posted under Witterings

I need tea by the bucketful, sympathy by the same measure. T-2 sleeps until moving day. Yet another day of chores/admin/tidying/packing ready for the removal company to come in tomorrow to pack us up.
I am bone achingly tired. For some reason I thought a playdate would be fun today, and certainly the boys deserved a treat having had to put up with distracted/too busy to play parents for the past week.
Another Instagram snap. No time to breath today never mind get creative with the beastly D700.
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Waiting for the light…lovely light…perfect light…blaaaahhhh…these are the things that photographers say to each other because, well, with photography it IS always about the light.
But, actually, I think it’s always about the light. I love the house we live in now. It’s hugely too small for us, but it’s so light. many of the rooms have double aspect. Some triple. Some are triple aspect AND south facing. We are drowning in light and it’s such a luxury. I had no idea what an effect light can have on your mood and health, until I lived in a house where I mostly inhabited the basement family room…holed up with two babies. Think…black…
Once we moved here I made a pact with, er, someone that I would never ever live in a dark house again. I know what it does to me. I’m a half glass empty kind of person but I’m not naturally depressive, but that’s what 2 years in the basement room did to me. I don’t ever want to feel like that again. The house we’re moving to is cleverly designed, with all the main rooms south facing and some double aspect. It’s light, it’s airy. Bits are grim and dark but only the servants’ quarters [think: utility room & games room of the future...ie areas where I won't spend much time].
The last few weeks have been a haze of packing and organising all that. I’m exhausted, tired to my bones. But today it all came together and, due to the much appreciated help of neighbours, I had 30 minutes of alone time with nothing to do. And that was the first time in weeks and weeks that such a gift was presented to me. I knew what to do. I picked up my crochet and made for the best light in house, in our bedroom…south facing…warm and bright.
I sat, crocheted and let the light, the beautiful light, bathe me in good spirit.
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Presenting Miss Phoebe, now safely ensconced in our new house awaiting our arrival on Thursday. She’s not looking too happy about it, that much I will admit. She’s terribly terribly shy and won’t be touched or handled. Getting her in a box to transport her is impossible, so we trapped her in her ‘igloo’ cat bed and then taped a big piece of plastic over the opening. Poor soul! Fortunately it’s a 30 second car journey but it wasn’t at all dignified.
She was perched on the window sill of my writing room this morning when I went over to check on her and playmate Parker (who DOES go in a box). She was still there at lunchtime when we went back. But the presence of boisterous Megaboys was too much for her so she’s retreated upstairs, under a bed, right in the corner…looking daggers at anyone who dares even look at her.
Restless…we’re all restless. The boys keep asking how many ‘sleeps’ it is until we move. We have a lot of ‘stuff’ in the new place, and everything in the old place has been sorted/cleaned/tidied/culled and is all ready to be packed on Wednesday. Two more sleeps of our current home looking homely and then, heart sinks, one sleep with everything in boxes apart from 4 plates, 4 forks, 4 knives and all that. I can so vividly remember the last night in our house in London and how utterly depressing it was to ‘camp’ in ones own home.
And then it will be Thursday and finally…finally…we will move up the hill to our new home and, no doubt, will live in chaos for a good while during The Great Unpack.
Restless…I’m restless with this old life, restless for the new. The New Year has amplified it, because I’m so eager to fly at it and grab it round the neck. I’ve got so many plans and so much energy and enthusiasm for it all, but right now I’m all about packing boxes and lists and bills and changes of address. I’m restless to get through this turgid time of just ‘processing’ our lives rather than living them.
It’s rare that I wish time away, but I’m pretty keen to fast forward a couple of weeks and get this dull, spirit draining time done and behind me.
Restless.
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I’m in limbo. We’ve bought our new house, we have the keys, it’s all ours…but we don’t live in it yet. We’ve moved in various bits of furniture which have been in storage for a couple of years, and boxes of photos and books and [oooooh] teenage diaries [mine not MrSpud's, I don't think boys keep diaries do they?].
We’ll move in for good in early January but, for now, we are pottering a bit between both our houses since they are only a field apart. I’m quite enjoying this limbo time, just adapting to the new house and finding out about its quirks, its characters and its limitations…all before we actually move in. We spent the day there today, doing a few jobs, measuring up, pootling about…and one of our cats joined us for a bit! He followed MrSpud up the field and then was manhandled in to the house for an inspection. I think he was a bit puzzled to be in a totally new house with familiar people, but we LOVED it! Felt like it had all kind of come together for a little while.
I am so excited by the house, and how it feels. It already feels like home and I know we have found our forever, family home. There’s a lot of work to be done, and it’s faintly overwhelming to be honest, but the basics are there: it feels like home, its light and airy, its peaceful and spacious. It feels like a happy home and that’s good enough for me.
Mostly, at this early stage, I am giddy because there is masses of storage. This will be the first move I’ve ever done where there is ample room for all our stuff. This will be my 21st house move. That’s a lot of moving. It will be my last house move. Of that I am sure. Until my children cart me off to a home of course but by then I won’t care as the packing won’t be my problem. Ha.
I’m raring to get going with all the work that needs to be done. I’m giddy with plans and hopes and aspirations. But mostly, right now, I’m in limbo. I don’t live there but, in my heart, I don’t live here any more either. Limbo, it’s not a comfortable place…as indeed it was intended. Roll on 2011.
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Diggy, yesterday, just before the start of the nursery Nativity play. Thankfully he was a ‘shepherd’ just like Bertie was last year, no last minute fiddling around with pillow cases and tea towels for a costume for me. Oh no…just a bit of rummaging in the the dressing up box. Job done.
Today Bertie performed in his first school play, ‘The Bossy Christmas Fairy’, that well known seasonal story (?). He was a fairy light. It involved a reasonable amount of sitting on the stage without fidgeting, a lot of singing (loudly and with great enthusiasm) and some dancing. He loved it and took it very, very seriously and told me he’d practiced it ’900 times’.
Diggy also took it very seriously and knew all the words. Sometimes he even took his thumb out of his mouth so we actually had a chance of hearing them. He really got in to Bertie’s play today and went dressed as Superman (you never know) and joined in with all the songs, despite never having heard them, and danced like a pro. Mostly he laughed like a drain throughout the older children’s production of ‘A Midsummer’s Night Dream’ … well, what do you expect with a character called ‘Bottom’? It’s like a 3yo’s idea of comedy heaven.
I wept a bit of course, but mostly I felt very nostalgic for my own childhood productions and, in a second, I was up there as an angel, a ‘green star’, ‘Fanny’, ‘the Prince’, ‘Old Green Grasshopper’ ‘Belinda’ etc etc. I didn’t really get this kick of ‘the old days’ last year as the nursery play is a very low key affair. But the school play is a much more professional affair, on a stage, with two showings on the day…just as it was during my childhood.
I remembered, oh so keenly, how it felt to be on the stage and overexcited, unable resist the temptation to look out at the audience to spot my mother (mostly) and (oh oh oh hopefully!) my dad. Sometimes neither could make it due to work commitments and I tried so hard not to mind. I’d understood from when I was tiny that my parents couldn’t always be at school for ‘events’ since one was a teacher and the other a police officer. But, honestly, it kind of destroyed me to look out and them not be there. Or, very often, neither would be there for the afternoon performance but mostly one of them would make it for the evening performance. And I’d be totally, totally GIDDY for the evening performance. For me, I was only performing for those special one or, if I was lucky, two people. I love the applause and the adrenalin, but what I really craved was for my parents to be there and to enjoy it and be proud. Right now, as I’m writing, I can remember the kick of pleasure I got looking out at the audience on the first night of an opera I sang in and seeing my mother in the audience. I knew my parents were due to come the following evening but, as a surprise, she’d come on the opening night…unable to resist seeing me sing in my first major opera role. Really, right now I can physically feel the JOLT of pleasure. I was 16 so, of course, I had to pretend I didn’t care and that it meant nothing to me…
I watched Bertie on the stage today, assured, confident, calm. But I saw him look out in to the darkness for a minute, slightly anxiously, searching for me. I’d told him I’d be there, and MrSpud for this evening’s performance. He couldn’t see me, although he knew I was there, I was too far back in the crowd and it was too dark anyway. But I watched his face and remembered how it felt. And I wondered how the years have skipped by so fast, how it has fast forwarded like this…so that now it’s ME sitting in the audience and not on the stage, giddy with excitement.
I remembered my First Holy Communion, age 7, standing around the back of the altar in a circle with the rest of my class and sneaking a look in to the congregation. There, at the front, were my parents and my Dad (a non Catholic) was kind of crouching down and not kneeling, head bowed, like everyone else. He risked a casual wave. I didn’t wave back of course, how could I? In church? Noooooooo. But I beamed, I’d had ‘my moment’. I was up there, on show, and my Dad was watching and was proud…and he’d waved. That’s all I needed.
Neither of my boys spotted me in the audience during their plays. It didn’t matter. I was there. They never doubted that I wasn’t, because I am always there. They didn’t see me, but I saw them and inside I was waving. Drowning in my tears. And waving.
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We have snow..blah…it’s really deep…blah….school is shut…blah….it’s really really annoying because I’m really really busy…blah…can’t get off the farm…blah…blah blah BLAH.
So we stayed home and the boys laughed at my pathetic attempts to light the fire. We homeschooled (geography, the Romans, literacy and maths…not bad for 3 and 5 year olds). We made stuff. We crocheted (well, me and Bertie did and Diggy just just up wool). We drew, we coloured in, we made a lot of hot chocolate and when we were all done with that we went for a Snow Day Walk on the farm and tobogganed until we were blue with cold.
And some of our number snapped some crappy photos with their iPhone.
Very cold pigs…
Very cold child (note sunhat…there is a winter hat underneath…he was just ‘trying something’)

Very cold horse water buckets…
Very cold office, where no work was done today…oh, and tobogganing child…
Another very cold child…note lack of gloves…
And then we came in and watched crap telly and all was one in the world.
Please let it not snow not snow not snow anymore. Some of us may have a significant birthday at the weekend and plans to go away without the children for the first..time…ever. The snow can go now. Thanks a lot.
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This is the first photo of the inside of our new house. I’ve had to convert it to black & white to protect the innocent. I’m not sure we’re ready for the moss green carpet. Which is everywhere. Apart from the kitchen (cream/brown swirly tiles) and the bedrooms (dodgy peach carpet). So here are the boys on the staircase. Bertie is obsessed with the curtains since they are all on those fancy pulley system things. I give in 3 weeks after we move in before he’s pulled the whole lot off the wall.
These are strange times. We own the house, but we don’t live there yet. I’ve never done this before, had acces to ‘my’ house before turning up with all our crap and house moving related tension headaches. I’m enjoying just wondering around it, getting used to it, the way the light changes during the day and its little ‘funnies’.
Mostly I’m enjoying getting to know how it feels. It definitely has a feeling to it, a kind of vibe if you will. It’s peaceful, very peaceful…not in a physical sense (although it’s also blissfully quiet, with no other houses visible from the it) but in a calm, grounded way. It feels mature, adult and kind of ‘resolved’and at one. It feels the way I hope I will be when I grow up.
I never met the previous owner, an elderly lady who lived there for the past 30 years or so. I know her daughter pretty well. But I have never got the sense that it was the old lady whose spirit is dominating the house. Perhaps the previous occupants, but the trail is cold for me there. I heard through the village grapevine that the house was initially build by a local builder for his daughter as a wedding present. Is that that couple whose spirit I can sense?
I’m not ‘that’ kind of spiritual person at all, but there’s a certain lingering quality of something or someone. It’s very comfortable, comforting and reassuring. MrSpud, early on, said that house reminds him of the novel ‘Rebecca’ and he’s so right. Not the plot, but the setting and the ‘feeling’ is very Rebecca. Perhaps it’s Daphne Du Maurier, who knows…I’m definitely channeling someone.
Do we leave bits of our souls and ourselves in the places that we live? Or are they just bricks and mortar? Taking the keys for the house from the daughter of the previous owner was a very emotional experience, for her and for me. I tried to reassure her that it was just a house, just the 4 walls…and that people make memories and not places. Deep down I was wondering if these are just platitudes we trot out because so many of my most precious memories ‘live’ in certain places, often precious homes, but are wrapped around individuals.
I’d love to to think that I’m right, that houses are just bricks and mortar and no more than that. But this house, our new home, doesn’t feel like that. It feels like someone, along the way, lined the walls with something of themselves. I can feel it and I love it. Despite the green carpet…
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Bertie has had a serious hairchop. Not really intended, my fault for not paying attention when the hairdresser showed me how much he was intending to chop. His short crop makes him look younger, yet older, more serious, more schoolboyish all at the same time.
Mostly, though, he looks so like my mother. He frequently reminds me of my mother, something in his eyes and his teeth (oddly). There’s no one really left who remembers my mother, or who wants to talk about her. I’d love to really get down in to a ‘GOSH isn’t he like Mum, yes…isnt he…what is it exactly?” type of debate. But there’s no one left. Just me.
So, for posterity, I record here that he is SO like my mother and I can’t put my finger on it. Something in his eyes, his teeth, and his vivacious spirit is ringing all the bells for me. I know she would have so adored our boys, both of them…equally…fiercely. But I do think, very secretly, there would have been something about Bertie that would have rung the bell just a little bit, oh such a little little bit, louder.
One precious moment in time. Mr Bertie with the look of his never to be known Grandmother…and with more than a hint of how he might look as an adult.
xxx (from NanaSpud xxx)
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Do you remember, when you were a child, the aching boredom and anticipation of ‘saving up for something’? And the adrenalin rush when the day finally came that you had ‘enough’ and off you skipped to the shops to induce a retail therapy induced high? I won’t ever forget buying my first Walkman (which was the size of a brick) after a very, long hard summer of saving the whole TWENTY SIX POUNDS that it cost. My Mum used to pay me 50p to tidy the airing cupboard and other sundry chores, my Dad 50p for washing the car. I think a couple of WHOLE POUNDS changed hands for creosoting the garden fence. Bit by bit I saved it up and squirreled it away in my plastic ‘Fred’ Homepride moneybox until the joyous day arrived and off I trotted to Argos. I kind of miss those days of ‘saving up’; I suppose credit cards and a little bit of financial security has knocked that on the head. We save, but for those ‘roof falling off’ type scenarios and for that Great Unknown…’the future’. We don’t have savings accounts for the Megaboys specifically, but perhaps we should?
When Bertie turned 5 a few weeks ago we decided to give him a little bit of pocket money each week. When he’s a little older he will be given jobs to do in return for the pocket money but, for now, he gets the money in return for good behaviour and doing as he is asked. It’s not a lot of money, £2.00 a week, but it’s enough to blow on plastic tat in the toyshop. We use the coins to talk about value, and for simple sums. He seems pretty chuffed with having his own money and likes to keep track of his ‘purse’ and how much he has in it. He’s also developing a good sense of what he can afford and, just in the last week, the sense of ‘saving up’ for something that you really would like. You can see the internal dilemma on his face as he talks about it. He really, really would like a Hello Kitty café (yes, really) but they are £8.00 and that means not spending any of his money for four weeks. Is it worth the sacrifice? I’m trying to encourage him to go down this route, not because I am looking forward to extracting 45 pieces of tiny pink plastic tat from under every cupboard in the house, but because I think it’s good to learn fiscal good sense early in life.
So, I’m expecting my 5 year old to learn about saving but I don’t actually save for him and his future. It’s a kind of double standard unless you take the hard nosed view that children need to learn to stand on their own feet and financial handouts don’t necessarily help them longer term. Where is the incentive to work hard and ‘make something of yourself’ if your parents hand the generous allowance/university fees/car/deposit on a house/wedding of your dreams to you on a plate?
It’s a topic I’ve talked about with various people recently and it makes for fascinating discussion. As parents, we want the best for our children but at what point does ‘the best’ mean foisting them out of their middle class, duckdown anti-allergenic nest and letting them get on with it? What’s the best way to encourage independence, forcing them to pay for themselves once they leave secondary education? Is that fair because, being so ancient, MrSpud and I didn’t pay to go to university and we even got a bit of a government grant to help cover living expenses. So would it be fair not to contribute to our boys’ tertiary education (if they go down that route) in the knowledge that it will saddle them with huge debt at the start of their working lives. Would such an arrangement put them off thinking about university, or would it focus their ambitions on what is financial prudent long term (in terms studying a vocational subject, or whether to undertake any further study at all)?
I have such mixed feelings about it. I want my children to be happy and fulfilled. I don’t want to bring them up expecting to live their lives in the manner to which they are accustomed without a lot of hard work on their part. But, then, I want to let them experience things that MrSpud and I didn’t growing up due to financial pressures. Equally, we didn’t exactly suffer from not going skiing/having a pony etc etc etc.
I know of one couple that decided they didn’t want their son to have debts when he graduated so they paid for all his tuition and living expenses for three years. Unbeknown to them he took out the loans AS WELL and lived the high life on a combination of their generosity and debt.
Others have paid for their children’s living expenses, on the basis that if they were living at home the parents would incur those expenses anyway (er, if they were living at home surely they should be paying board & keep?).
And then I heard of a very wealthy couple that couldn’t decide where the ‘line’ is, the point at which you say ‘that’s enough’ to your children. So they gave a lump sum to each child on their 18th birthday and told them to use it as they wished but there would be no more handouts. The children could use it to party with, or for university fees, or for a car, a deposit on a flat or a wedding. That seems like a sensible idea but I’d be afraid they would blow the lot and I’d be furious.
We stopped making payments in to the boys’ Child Trust Funds recently for just this reason. MrSpud was never comfortable about handing over a large sum of money to the boys without any kind of control from us and, as time has gone on, I tend to agree. But are we being mean? When I was 17 my Dad gave me money from a savings plan he’d taken out when I was born. He’d intended to buy me a car with the money but, um, £300 didn’t buy a car in 1988. So he gave me the money and said I could do as I pleased with it. I’d never had anything like this kind of money before, it was a fortune to me. But I was a sensible soul and spent it on trainfares and accommodation for my university interviews and auditions and I bought a camera. Hardly raving was I?
But what if my boys aren’t so square as me? What if we handed them a substantial pot of savings and they spent it all on beer or worse? Wouldn’t we feel cheated of our hard earned cash?
But, if we save FOR them but only allow the money to spent as we desire are we controlling them? Would I be saving for a ‘mummy approved’ future rather than the ones they hope and aspire to themselves?
I don’t know the answer to any of the questions that I’m posing. I know I need to teach my boys about the value of money and the satisfaction that comes from earning a crust. But how much of a ‘leg up’ do we give them to help them on their way?
In the meantime all I can do is encourage Bertie to savour the joy of delayed gratification that ‘saving up’ for something special gives. And hope that his taste in Objects of Desire improves.
