Bloggering Off

I’m swanning off to South Wales for two weeks. ‘Swanning’ being the appropriate word, since I am trying to maintain a cool, calm and collected appearance on the surface (see my graceful, slender neck gulping back this glass of sparkling wine), but underneath I am working frantically to get everything packed and ready (see my big broad feet thrashing around among the boxes in the loft).
This time we’re off for a week camping on the coast with one of my brothers and his family, followed by a week staying at my mother-in-law’s house. There’s lovely!
The camping should be interesting, since my brother’s family are seasoned caravanners, but have never taken the canvas plunge. I have told them that camping is ‘the holiday the weather can’t spoil’ but for some reason, they don’t believe me. I just don’t think they realise how little there is to spoil.
My emergency camping supplies are two wine boxes, both Hardy’s and both £17.99 from Tesco. One is Cabernet Sauvignon and the other Chardonnay. I haven’t tried either of them before, but since both grape types are generally good ‘crowd pleasers’ I reckon they will be just what we need. If not, I am prepared to slug the lot back on my own.
It is Friday though, so no matter how busy I am, there is always time to pause for the Friday Night Fizz. This week it is a bottle of Angas Brut (Oddbins £7.49) an Australian sparkling wine which has a delightfully smooth and creamy taste that somehow reminds me of strawberries. This is excellent value if you like fruity fizz, and I intend to stock up on several more bottles for the Drunk Mummy Wine Vaults.
In my absence, I thought you might like to read an article I wrote for the July edition of Dulwich Life & Style magazine. I don’t live in Dulwich. I doubt I would be allowed to, since I don't own a single pair of white jeans (unlike Dulwich Mum who was up to double figures at the last count). The article looks a bit outdated now, since it was published at the end of the school summer term, but never mind. Here goes:

A Question of Sports Day

It’s the end of the Summer Term - the time of year when many schools realise that parents can’t possibly have any annual leave left, so they organise a Sports Day.
At my children’s school, which terrorises parents on a regular basis, some bright spark decided it might be ‘fun’ to have some races for parents during this year’s Sports Day.
I have always felt that I embarrass my children enough in public without having to make a special effort, but my daughter had other ideas. She pointed out that I am always urging her to ‘join in’ so she wanted to know why I wasn’t entering the Mothers’ Race. My defence (that I was wearing a push-up bra) was scornfully dismissed, and within minutes I was lining up with assorted long-limbed and athletic mums. There were a few nervous jokes, and the occasional high pitched laugh, but there was no disguising the air of steely resolve.
Now, the race itself seemed to happen in slow-motion, but that could just have been the actual speed I was running. Still, in my mind, I was a streamlined gazelle, bounding gracefully over the grassy plain. The video footage taken by a sadistic parent revealed a much harsher reality. I had been right to worry about the push-up bra.
The Fathers’ Race which followed, proved to be a triumph of ambition over common sense, and no doubt, resulted in months of brisk business for the local physios and chiropracters. The testosterone-fuelled dad who won looked delighted with his victory, and when he faced the cheering crowd, his moment of glory was only slightly tarnished as he realised that he had run the whole race with his flies undone.
Of course, there were other competitive events at Sports Day. The Picnic Display was hotly contested, as parents vied to provide the most nutritionally smug lunch. At one point, a wholesome mother offered me a piece of home-made cake which consisted entirely of chickpeas, yogurt and toddler spit.
Over at the stall selling ploughman’s lunches, there was some Long Distance Queuing. Unfortunately, the line of shuffling participants was forced to witness the disturbing sight of a mother trying to cut a large wheel of extremely ripe Brie into sixty four equal portions. There was some concern about what was likely to crack first – her perky smile or her sanity.
Finally, there was the Pimm’s Bar Relay (a personal favourite), where contestants had to get the next full glass lined up and ready just before they finished downing the last one. In my opinion, Pimm’s should be classed as a health drink, by virtue of its five portions of fruit and vegetables in every glass. It is also a much livelier alternative to a ploughman’s lunch or a picnic.
I seem to remember at some point during the Sports Day, there was a rumour that the children might be running a few races, or something. But like most of the parents there, I was way too busy to watch any of that.

I am off to enjoy the last two weeks of this glorious English summer (cue hollow laugh). I will be back in September.
Cheers!

Going Wild In the Country

We are back from camping in the rugged terrain of the Lake District, and I have finally released my matted hair from the Croydon facelift I have been sporting all week. Oh, the joy of soaking in a fragrant, hot bath! The delight of sleeping in a comfortable insect-free bed! The relief at the absence of ripe Camembert smell when I wave to someone!

I suppose the trip was a big success in that the children avoided contracting e coli, and I have only a mild case of trench foot. In fact, the weather wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be, but that could just have been the combined effects of copious wine consumption and lack of sleep. I also know that if you go on holiday in this country, then there is really no point in complaining about the weather. If the Home Office is short of questions for its ‘Britishness Test’ for citizenship, then they could do a lot worse than include the following:

Where is the best place for a picnic?

a) a shady and sheltered spot to avoid the harmful rays of the sun

b) an area where no wild animal habitats will be disturbed, or fragile eco-systems damaged

c) the car

If you answer c) then you will have captured the very essence of what it means to be British, and should instantly be issued with a passport (which means you can also go on holiday to a country with better weather).

The old-fashioned trailer tent proved to be excellent, and cut our usual tent-pitching time from over two hours to less than one, which matters a lot in the UK monsoon season. It did attract lots of interest from fellow campers, several of whom wandered over to tell H that they had ‘never seen one like that before.’ It’s a long time since anyone said that to him, and being a very friendly sort of chap, he was happy to discuss its various merits. Meanwhile I skulked around in the background, wondering when the other campers were likely to start throwing buns at us.

I had forgotten what sheer hard work camping is. People talk about the ‘slower pace of life’ that camping encourages, but I’m convinced that this is a rather skewed perception. It takes longer to do everything, so you are actually much busier. When we first took the kids camping a couple of years ago, I was surprised to see so many people on camp sites just sitting in foldaway chairs outside their tents, doing nothing. It wasn’t long before I realised that they were relishing a few precious moments of inactivity before yet another round of meal preparation or tidying up the limited floor space.

Of course, the kids loved every minute, because for them it was one long session of playing with mud and sticks, frightening the wildlife, or damaging their retinas by shining a torch directly at each other’s eyeballs.

We did do a lot of cycling, which was great fun, apart from the discovery that my waterproofs aren’t as waterproof as I thought. As with all this outdoor kit, we seem to have spent a fortune on good quality items for the kids, while H and I make do with ancient gear from the days when nylon was considered a high performance material. Being a bit of a softie, the one thing I have invested in is a gel-filled saddle cover for my bike, despite the obvious invitation for ribald commentary that my seat is already more than adequately upholstered. Frankly, neither my under-carriage nor the saddle cover proved to be well-cushioned enough, and I am still walking like a cowboy. I’m not sure how you are supposed to prevent this – it’s not as if you can apply surgical spirit to the area to toughen it up in advance.

Despite the Spartan conditions, H and I did have some quiet, relaxing evenings huddled under the awning, in the romantic glow of the citronella insect-repellant candle. As five sets of waterproofs dripped onto our heads, he would sit cradling his warming glass of Irish whisky, while I would sit cradling my warming 3 litre box of Hardy’s Stamp Shiraz-Cabernet (Sainsbury’s £14.99 down from £19.99, and definitely one of the better wine box reds).

Preparations for bed would start with me slipping (rather hurriedly) into my thermal underwear, laughably called a Superwoman set (I don’t recall Lynda Carter ever looking like this, unless she moonlighted as a mime artist on her days off from saving the world). With just the three additional layers of socks, track suit and fleece, I would be all ready for a snuggle in the double sleeping bag. However, since H was similarly dressed, the only crackle of passion we managed was the static from the bobbly brushed nylon sleeping bag. Any romantic inclinations had to be weighed up against the combustion hazard of electricity and the large quantities of methane gas issuing from the boys.

Back in the cosy confines of the kitchen, I am knocking back a couple of glasses of spicy Lindeman’s Cawarra Shiraz Cabernet (Sainsburys £4.99) in memory of our camping trip. The only problem is that a mere 750 ml wine bottle looks rather tame in comparison with a mighty 3 litre wine box. Maybe there are some benefits to camping after all.

Trailer Tent Trash

I can’t believe I have been so completely suckered by the elements. The recent hot weather lured us into booking a camping holiday for half term next week. I should have realised that, as Monday is also a Bank Holiday, there wasn’t ever going to be the slightest chance that the weather would be good. That now looks like being a complete understatement. I believe the forecast is for torrential rain, gale force winds and temperatures of around 11 degrees – all very character building.

I need to state upfront that camping is not really my idea of fun. In my family though, that opinion puts me in a minority of one. H, the eternal Boy Scout, loves setting up rusty gas stoves and mouldy sleeping bags, whilst whistling ‘Ging gang goolie.’ The kids love running around non-stop for days, unwashed and slightly feral. There is some consolation in that I usually take a wine box (or two) but this is for medicinal and anaesthetic purposes, of course.

We are travelling up to the Lake District, which is one of my favourite places in the country, but the vegetation there is green and lush for a very good reason.

This time, we are taking a trailer tent that we acquired from my brother. This clever contraption folds out to a full, if rather basic, tent in minutes. Unfortunately, in the apartheid world of camping, a trailer tent places you firmly in ‘no-campers’ land. You are shunned by the owners of cosy camper vans and glossy motorhomes, because of your humble ‘trailer trash’ status, and you are scorned by the hardened canvas addicts because you clearly aren’t suffering enough to be camping properly.

Camping is not the most romantic of getaways, either. Despite the fact that H and I have a cosy double sleeping bag, the lack of basic personal hygiene becomes an increasing barrier to intimacy as the week wears on. If smelling like a Greek wrestler’s jock strap isn’t enough to dampen one’s ardour, then the seductive night time survival kit of thermal underwear, track suit, thick socks and a woolly hat is sure to do it. I don’t think I need to elaborate on the additional passion-annihilating effects of having your children sleep near you in an enclosed space.

As a last ditch attempt at some luxury before the austerity, I am opening a bottle of the Drunk Mummy Favourite Fizz – La Marca Prosecco (£5.99 Ocado). I’m wondering whether I should take some of this with me next week - I could always chill it inside the sleeping bag.

Sadly, I will not be taking my laptop with me (it’s not waterproof), so I can’t blog for a week.

Have a great Bank Holiday everyone, and for those blessed with children, have a stress-free half term (ha!).