Creativity in the Face of Insanity

Pandemic. Sounds like something that someone else lives through. Someone in a book or a film. Not us; surely not us. Yet here we all are, four months into a calamitous and daunting existence, socially distanced from our friends and family, watching from afar as livelihoods crumble and people unravel amidst the uncertainty of it all.

I spent the first few weeks of 'lockdown' soldiering through with a calm, practical, maternal mindset. Making sure we had enough food, keeping the children exercised and entertained. When we knew we just had to stay home to keep everyone safe, it was simple and straightforward. Not nice; but easy enough.

Then the rules started to change, and I began to feel a fizzing anxiety creeping in. Suddenly we were allowed to go places again and see people, if still maintaining our distance. But everyone seemed to be responding differently to the new rules, and it felt horribly confusing. Friendships suddenly felt fragile and precarious. The sensation of unknown adventure which we'd managed to maintain at first was quickly fading, to be replaced by the harsh realisation that this wasn't as temporary as we'd assumed. And with that, came a bleak feeling of claustrophobia and unease.

Right now, I am up and down on a daily basis. Some days, the sun will be shining and the kids just being kids in the great outdoors, and everything feels OK. Then I remember I still can't hug my mum, or go to the theatre, or enter a shop without a mask, and the weight of it falls back down on me like a ton of bricks.

The only way I've been able to quieten my frantic thoughts is by channeling my mind into creative pursuits. It doesn't always work, because the motivation ebbs and flows, much like the optimism. But with the help of willing collaborators, I have been able to at least complete a few little fun projects, which feel like an achievement under the circumstances, and will be something to look back on in years to come when we talk about what happened.

The day that we decided to lock down as a family (a week before the official lockdown), I had the idea to start a family podcast, which would record this unusual time for posterity. At the beginning, we were recording our activities and thoughts daily, but as time has gone on and the lockdown has eased, it has become more like once or twice a week. But listening back to old episodes is a reminder that family life has carried on in all its gritty, silly, ordinariness. And that is a comfort. Here's the latest episode. You can click on the title 'Bouncing Before Breakfast' to find the rest.


One of my first video projects was a topical parody of a Gilbert and Sullivan Song 'With Cat Like Tread', which I wrote and produced with the help of members of Eastbourne Gilbert and Sullivan Society:

This was followed by a silent movie style short film, also featuring G&S friends: 

All of this was making me miss performing, and a few weeks into the lockdown, I had the idea to do a play reading with some fellow thesps via Zoom, which I recorded and published as a radio play. It was really fun, so we did a few more. You can listen to them all on Soundcloud:

Rowstar · Radio Drama Recorded During Lockdown

Singing has always been therapy to me, and I've tried to make time to use my voice while stuck at home. Lucy and I enjoyed learning this duet from Patience, and performing together virtually:

I also co-wrote this Covid-themed Mikado spoof with Adrian, although I still don't know why he decided to wear goggles:

My friend Erika (who lives in the US) had her 40th during the lockdown, and requested that people send her videos instead of presents, so I came up with this:

I'm conscious that all of this output seems fairly frivolous in the face of the global situation, and I've been trying to figure out how to express my true feelings about it all, in a more sincere way. I think it's going to take a while to process it, and to find the words to adequately articulate how it has felt, and the effect it has had - and will continue to have - on our lives.

Meanwhile, I hope these small offerings bring a smile, if nothing else. I've taken great pleasure in seeing other people's creativity explode all over the internet over the past few months, proving that although the arts industry may be drastically battered and bruised by what has happened, nothing will stop human beings creating and performing. It may take a long while for life to get back to normal, and for the arts industry to recover, but theatre will endure; it will find a way.

Saying Goodbye to My Thirties

In a few days’ time, as summer officially turns to autumn, I will be reaching That milestone birthday. The one that sounds more ancient than it really is, and always seems to prompt people to ask "how are you feeling about it?" as the date looms. I have pondered this question over the past few months and conclude that it’s not so much the prospect of turning 40 by which I am daunted, but rather the leaving behind of my thirties. Compared with the carefree twenties, being a 30-something brought with it the demands and rewards of responsibility, the deepening and refining of friendships, and new perspectives on life born out of reflection and experience. It was growing up; a most eventful, significant and life-changing 10 years.

Despite the inevitable intoxication, I can remember my 30th birthday celebrations quite distinctly. The theme was School Daze – and guests could dress as school pupils, teachers, or a childhood hero. Ant and I went as Han Solo and Princess Leia (the white nightie version, not chain mail bikini). I will never forget the image of Matty using all his strength (and a fair amount of talc) trying to help Ant on with his riding boots before the party started. They were so snug that they then had to be cut off again at the end of the night.

Since then, we have dressed up as ninjas, Sybil and Basil Fawlty, Lara Croft and Indiana Jones, Karen Carpenter and Frank Zappa (Dead Celebrities), Pagan deities, Disco Pirates, An evil magician and his zombie assistant, Yin and Yang, Village Eccentrics, the French Resistance, Alpine stereotypes, half of ABBA and Olympic Curlers. Will my love of fancy dress endure into my 40s? That remains to be seen.

What I do know is that already life is changing, and as I wave goodbye to my thirties, I can’t help but reflect back on the circumstances, people and events that defined them.

Home

Let’s start at the place where I have woken up most days for the last ten years – home. I was almost 30 when we bought our first flat, up on the hill above Kemp Town in Brighton. Four happy years there, and we made the move over here to Eastbourne, into our little house in Old Town. Goodbye IKEA flat pack (well, almost), hello second-hand G-Plan.

For most of my thirties, home has been a place to be myself and indulge in those things that make me feel more like me - music, food, sleep, friends, and of course, the significant other with whom I share these walls and all that is within. Inside my two thirty-something homes I taught myself to play guitar, learned to be a good cook, drank a swimming pool’s worth of red wine, threw more than a few decadent parties, set the world to rights with Ant and various house-guests, slept through the majority of Saturday and Sunday mornings, and had countless cups of tea in bed. Sure, some of these traditions will continue, but 40-something Home will definitely have a different list of pursuits at the end of it.

Family

Ant and I lost the last of our collective grandparents during our thirties – putting us one step higher up the family hierarchy and a leap further away from childhood. This sense of being propelled into maturity was further fuelled by several weddings of younger siblings and cousins. By the end of my 40s, the children born out of these marriages will be teenagers, some adults. It’s a daunting prospect. The first of my nephews was born at the end of my twenties, then the rest came along in the last few years, giving me the wonderful experience of being an auntie. This is something that really influenced those years, as together, Ant and I relished the joys of caring for and entertaining these special boys, before deciding to become parents ourselves.

Reconnecting with family after my independent twenties was an important factor in many of the major decisions made over the past ten years. We came back to Eastbourne mainly to be close to family, and to ask for their support in our journey into parenthood. The last three years of my thirties has been taken up with the business of adoption – an involved process that resulted in us becoming Mum and Dad to two remarkable siblings. Their presence in this past year has felt like a seal closing the end of one era and a door opening up to a new one. That this has coincided with moving into a new decade of my life seems fitting and poignant. I will be spending the next ten years raising them and this will inevitably affect how the next phase of my life unfolds.

Work

At the start of my thirties, I was working for John Wiley, commuting daily from Brighton to Chichester, to market business and finance books. Soon after, my commute got shorter and the books fluffier, when I joined GMC Publications in Lewes, where I was to learn all one might need to know about the specialist worlds of knitting, stitching and woodworking. There I stayed contentedly for two years, until the opportunity came up to join a start-up social media agency, also in Lewes. This roller coaster adventure has its highs and lows, and unfortunately did not end too happily, but it certainly developed my resilience – a quality that has come in very handy since having kids.

Thankfully the next career venture, and the one which would see me out of my thirties, has been an altogether more uplifting, fun and enriching experience. For three years (the last of which on adoption leave), I have been leading the social media strategy for The Body Shop’s UK operation. It is a brand for which I have had great affection since childhood, and I relished the opportunity to help bring its products and values (back) into the public eye. One of the highlights of my time at The Body Shop was a trip to India to visit one of its Community Fair Trade suppliers, Teddy Exports.

Although I recently decided not to return to work after my leave, I have a feeling that my journey with The Body Shop is not over for good. But for now, when people ask me “so what do you do?” (a question I loathe, by the way), I will tell them “I am doing the most challenging job of my life, raising two children.” This is a big change for me, after more than a decade of nose-to-the-grindstone 9-5 office life. I honestly don’t know what my forties will bring, career wise, beyond the next year or so, but I know that it will never be quite the same again.

Travel

In my thirties I graduated from camping holidays in a two man tent (think Nuts in May) and occasional cheap package deals in the sun, to a six berth motorhome and carefully planned independent trips all over the world. I visited Sweden, Denmark, Brazil, the USA (Texas, California, Washington and New York), Malaysia, Greece, France, Belgium, Germany, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Hungary, Croatia, Italy, Montenegro and India, not to mention many wonderful breaks here in the UK.

I sang Leonard Cohen songs on the rooftops of Harlem, dabbled my toes in two oceans at the same time and watched the famous Skagen sunset, made a 700 mile round trip just to see Camille live, nursed a terrible hangover in the middle of a Mariachi festival in San Francisco, and drove through majestic scenery in the land of classical heroes – to name but a few memorable travelling moments. Although my yearnings to see the world are no less potent, I accept that holidays in my 40s are destined to be somewhat different in nature, with two young children in tow. Goodbye crazy adventures… for now.

Friends

In my teens and twenties, socialising tended to revolve around messy nights out with fleeting acquaintances. It was a time to experiment in many ways. Since then I have learned to love the intimate dinner party, and nursing a pint of real ale while shooting the breeze at my local. The Big Nights Out have been fewer, but more memorable.

In between homemaking, working, looking after nephews and travelling, I was lucky enough to forge many special friendships during my thirties. I won't name them all here, in case I miss someone out and they're offended, but while I am in this reflective mood, I want to extend my thanks and love to those wonderful friends, old and new, who have been there for me in my thirties, and who influenced, entertained and supported me. It is because of these friendships and the love of my family that I can embrace my 40s with confidence and swagger.

So is turning 40 a big deal? No, not really. But being thirty-something was. And I will surely miss it.

What Can I Do To Help? A Guide to Supporting Adoptive Families

Last week I wrote about my journey to adoptive parenthood, in Expecting Without a Bump. I was deeply touched by all the encouraging messages and comments it inspired – from family, friends, and complete strangers who picked up on it via Twitter and elsewhere. Many friends expressed their desire to support us through the next stage of the adventure, when our children actually come to live with us, and asked what they could do to help. As we’re now only two sleeps away from moving in day, I took advantage of a quiet house this evening compose a follow up piece with some thoughts on this very subject. I hope it will be useful to my nearest and dearest, and to anyone else out there who is supporting an adoptive family in the early days.

It will be a challenging time for the kids and for us, as they leave behind their foster carers and get used to their ‘forever family’, and we adjust to being ‘Mummy and Daddy’ to two walking-talking beings after 15 years of DINKY freedom. As well as the obvious basics of feeding, clothing, entertaining and protecting our children, we also need to help them process everything that’s happened to them so that they can move forward and flourish, and to instill in them a tangible sense of feeling properly claimed into their ‘forever family’. A lot of this will come down to love, patience and instinct, but thankfully there is also a wealth of accepted wisdom on attachment theory as well as many useful resources available on child development specifically relating to adopted families.

We’ve used the past year and a half in the lead up to the adoption to take advantage of these, and have done a lot of reading up and thinking about different approaches, to try and identify strategies that resonate with our own values and will fit naturally into our parenting style. Of course we won’t get it right all the time, but we hope that with the help of our support network, we can in turn give our little ones all that they need to thrive. If you are one of our loved ones reading this, or indeed a friend to someone else who is adopting, here are some fairly simple ways you can help…

Be there, but don’t be there

Please don’t be offended if we don’t invite you to visit in the first few weeks or months. It’s really important that we spend most of our time just with the children, bonding with them on their own, and forming the all-important attachment with them. We still need your help, though – so do drop us a line or call us (in the evenings!) to see how we’re doing. We may feel very isolated during this time. If we happen to bump into you in the park or supermarket, it's fine to say "hi" casually, so don't feel you have to scamper past.

Cuddles and Comfort

When you do eventually come to visit, or we arrange to meet up with you, we’d ask you not to be overly affectionate with the kids. To begin with, things like sitting on laps and comforting cuddles is reserved for Mummy and Daddy. This may seem strange (especially for close family), but this is to help them understand that we are the most important adults in their lives. In the nicest possible way, please re-direct them back to us if they seek you out for comfort and affection.

The Etiquette of Gifts and Treats

We know that you’ll be excited to meet our new kids and might want to help them feel loved with welcoming gifts, but we’d ask that you check with us before handing over treats. Too many new things can be overwhelming for children who have never had many possessions of their own, and it’s important that they value love and security in the home over material items. Appropriate gifts are small things that can be enjoyed by all the family together and can help with our bonding.

Support our parenting style

Because of their backgrounds and the things that have happened to our kids in their short lives, the way we parent them may seem different to how you might approach parenting a birth child. For example, we won’t use the naughty step or time out, because these methods can be traumatic for a child who has experienced neglect and abandonment. We’ve decided not to use reward charts either, as they can reinforce poor self-esteem if never ticked. You can help by accepting and supporting the way we parent and discipline our kids, even if it seems a bit alien.

Help build their self-esteem

These children have suffered loss and will need a lot of re-assurance. We've been reading up on ways to reinforce children’s self-confidence, and these are some of the key things we've discovered:

• Be specific with praise, and praise effort over skill (e.g. instead of saying “hey, that’s a great picture you drew”, say “wow – look how carefully you chose the colours for those flowers” or “I can see how much effort you put into making those lines so neat”). Children accept this type of praise more readily, they trust that you mean it, and it encourages them.

• Engage with their intellect over their physical appearance. In particular, please try and resist the temptation to say to girls when you greet them “you’re so pretty” or “look at your lovely dress/hair/shoes”. We’d like our daughter to grow up valuing herself by more than looks. Ask her what book she’s reading or what crafty things she’s made lately instead.

• Try not to label them – Our kids will have already attracted labels just by virtue of their situation in life, but we will try our best not to add to or reinforce these. This means never saying in front of them things like “oh, aren’t you the bossy one” or “wow, you’re such a fussy eater”. Kids with low self-esteem particularly will take on board such statements and model their view of themselves on this. Better instead to adopt a positive model that states what you want them to be: “It’s great that you’re so confident, and because you are kind and caring as well, I am sure you’ll let your friend have a say” or “It’s good that you ate all of your peas tonight…you’re an enthusiastic eater!”.

Avoid play that involves pretend abandonment or rejection

It may seem like a harmless tease to run away from a child or enact putting them in a bin, but games like this can unhelpfully reinforce feelings of being unwanted and unsafe. Being a big scary baddie may not go down too well either for kids who have been exposed to domestic violence or chaotic households.

Acknowledge inner truth and show empathy

Sometimes our kids may get overly upset about things that seem trivial (as indeed all kids do), but it’s really important not to dismiss their feelings or say things like “it’s nothing to be upset about”. Every opportunity to explore what’s on their minds is valuable as part of processing what they have been through, and their tears may be about something other than whatever actually happened in the moment. So if they seem distressed by something little, ask them “I can see you’re upset. I’m wondering what that’s about?”.

What not to say

Please don’t tell our kids ‘you’re so lucky’ or ask them how they like their new family – it may seem to you that they are fortunate to get adopted by us, but actually none of what has happened to them is at all lucky, and it’s OK to accept and acknowledge that. You can help them to accept and trust us by demonstrating that you do.

Never introduce them to other people as our ‘adopted kids’ or refer to them as such – they are just ‘our kids’. It’s OK to talk about being adopted with them if they bring it up (as they will always know they are adopted), but we’d like to avoid them being labelled and feeling stigmatised because of it. Likewise, don’t refer to their birth family as their ‘real family’. They will always have two families – a ‘birth family’ and us, their ‘forever family. Both are very real.

Social Media and sharing

Sorry, but however cute they are being, we won’t be putting photos of our kids on Facebook, and for fairly obvious reasons, we need to ask the same of you. Please don’t ever share any details or photos of our kids online, talk about them by their actual names to people we don’t know, or discuss with anyone else information about their history and circumstances that we may share with you in confidence.

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It’s also important to say that just because we’ve suggested some specific steers around the needs of adopted children, it doesn’t mean you have to treat our kids any differently to any other kids in your life for most of the time. Above all they are amazing little people who want to have fun and feel safe and loved.

If you’re interested to dig a little deeper into some of the above theories, I can recommend some really accessible books on the subject that we’ve found particularly useful:

Attaching in Adoption by Deborah Grey
How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk by Adele Faber (all parents should read this – it’s genius!)
Creating Loving Attachments by Kim Golding & Daniel Hughes

And some good articles:
10 Things Adoptees Want You To Know
10 things adoptive parents wish their friends and family understood
Adoption in the UK: 9 common misconceptions
17 Things Never to Say to An Adopted Person 

Finally, to anyone from our social circle and extended family who is reading this, THANK YOU. You have all already been so supportive and wonderful through our journey to adoption, and we are truly grateful for this and for all that is still to come in the biggest adventure of our lives. Bring it on.

Ode to Poppet

Poppet came into our lives five years ago when we liberated her from the Raystede animal rescue centre near Ringmer. Out of all the beautiful and charming cats needing new homes at that place, I was drawn to her intense one-eyed stare which seemed to say "take me away from this place and I will reward you with love". She came as a pair with Marcel, who, it soon transpired, was her nemesis rather than her companion; they were a classic double act in the Tom and Jerry sense. She would chase him down and beat him up daily, but I do think he eventually came it enjoy it and would even occasionally venture a retaliation. 

When we first arrived back at our flat with the two furry beasts, Poppet strutted straight in and staked her claim on the place, while poor timid Marcel hid under the bed and various other bits of furniture for two weeks before being gradually coaxed out. A creature of many moods, Poppet was by turns the most affectionate, spirited, cross and characterful cat I have ever known. She'd sit on you and purr for an entire evening and be most put out if you needed to get up - and heaven help anyone who tried to move her when she didn't want to be moved; the memory of that rage-fuelled "leave me alone" hiss still sends shivers down my spine. Her voluminous ginger fur seemed to change colour with her temperament and could be anything from deep amber to bright strawberry blonde. She was magnificently beautiful, and she knew it.

At the risk of sounding like a mad cat lady (and honestly, I don't care if I do), I have loved my mogs as if they were my children. When you get to my age and have yet to breed, your maternal instincts have to transfer somewhere - and I am not ashamed to admit that mine have been poured wholeheartedly into the two dear creatures with whom I have shared my home, my bed, my heart these past few years. They have been my constant companions, providing warmth, comfort and entertainment throughout happy times and bad. Poppet in particular would always be waiting behind the door for me when I got back from work, looking up with that "where do you think you've been?" glare, demanding attention - which I was only too happy to give.

When a lump on Poppet's neck was diagnosed as an inoperable tumour a few weeks ago, I was devastated. At first she soldiered on as normal, but gradually the growth in her mouth made it more difficult to eat, and last weekend we had to make that most awful decision to have her put to sleep. I have lost many family pets over the years, but this was the first time I'd been responsible for making that choice and to have been present while it was carried out. I held her in my arms as she slipped away, felt her heartbeat fading under my fingers and her so familiar body go limp; It was the saddest, hardest, most heartbreakingly harrowing thing I have ever done.

Losing Poppet has left a massive hole in my life, but I have no regrets about bringing her into it. She gave back as much, if not more, than I put in and though I'll never get to stroke her soft fluffy coat or watch her chase an excited Marcel down the garden ever again, I know she'll always be around. Thank you, darling Poppet, for all that you were and are to me.

When the Twit Hits the Fan

If you follow me on Twitter you may have been party to an unfortunate 'twincident' recently in which I had to apologise to a neighbour who'd taken offence at a couple of my tweets complaining about his sound polluting activities. Admittedly, my comments were on the scathing side, but if he had ever bothered to get to know me, my neighbour would have realised that the barbed humour on which he found himself at the receiving end is not generally to be taken seriously. Even my closest, dearest friends are accustomed to being insulted on a regular basis - it is just the nature of my humour. In fact the language to which he took particular offence was a quote from a TV programme we were watching at the time - which just goes to show that you should never jump to infer an insult from a statement without knowing its full context.

I'll make no secret of the fact we don't get on with 'them upstairs' - things started out cordially, but far from warm, and lately we've been lucky if we're acknowledged in passing with as much as a grunt. We tried to make the effort in the early days, but our social invitations were never even acknowledged and attempts to be friendly, unrequited. And it's not the first time we've come to blows over noise levels - sometimes it's like living inside a drum, and every now and then they properly drop the bomb. Our attempts to deal with these incidents in a rational, friendly manner have always incurred the most defensive and indignant responses. They have made it quite clear - stated it to our faces, and in company so loudly we could hear it downstairs - that they have no respect or consideration for us.

It was particularly unfortunate that on this occasion they had caught us during an already stressful weekend; for deeply personal reasons which I shall not go into here, we were both feeling extremely on edge. So when the music started thumping out, accompanied by loud stamping around on the ineffectually insulated floor/ceiling that divides us, we threw out a couple of frustrated but hardly serious tweets. Why? Because we know from bitter experience that an hour can very easily lead to eight, neither of us could face another confrontation, and we both needed a decent night's sleep.

In hindsight I admit that my Twitter outburst may have seemed OTT, but was it really any worse than the insults we've often over heard them throwing our way during previous domestic disputes, just because it was published online? If they'd been nicer and more considerate neighbours to begin with, it would never have come to this. Based on our previous interactions, I'm sure they won't see it that way, and of course there's a good chance they'll be reading this and fuming.

It is not my intention in writing this to further aggravate the situation, but I would like them to see it from our point of view. Not content with blitzing our domestic peace on a regular basis, they're out there, reading this and every other online utterance we make, anonymously stalking our every move - when they can't even bring themselves to talk civilly to us in person. We find this disturbing. There's not a lot we can do about it, but I only hope that when and if they read this, they'll realise how completely unreasonable they have been, and we can begin to get back on cordial terms. Once, we had hoped to build friendships, as we have with many other neighbours here and elsewhere over the years. Now we just want a bit of peace and quiet, and not to feel threatened in our own home.

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With huge thanks to Ant for his contributions to this post, and for the ongoing moral support without which everyday life would be much more of a trial.

My Favourite Room

My bedroom as a teenager was a proper hippy den - an attic room, customised for occupation in true Stanfield set-building bodgit-and-scarper style by me and my dad and decorated in wacky colours (complete with oh so classy handprints) by me. Batik throws and an assortment of hangings and mobiles adorned the sloping ceiling, while one wall was completely covered in photographs of me and my friends in various states of inebriation. Incense would invariably be burning whenever I was in residence, as if the overwhelming smell of Body Shop White Musk perfume (at least it wasn't Mango) wasn't enough. I adored this small but cosy space, in which large chunks of my adolescence were dawdled away - listening to the Cure, Sinead O'Connor or one of many compilation tapes made in those days, writing my diary, reading trashy novels, daydreaming, or shooting the breeze via the now vaguely retro seeming medium of the land line telephone. Not much has changed in the bed half of the loft at my mum's house, and I always sleep up there whenever I visit. The photowall has been dismantled - with the intention of putting all those classic shots into an album someday - but many of the trinkets and decor remain. Even my old tabby cat still makes the hike up the ladder to sleep there with me.

I've never moved on much in terms of style since this formative period, and have always aspired to re-create the ultimate shabby-chic daydream den in the front room of mine and Ant's Brighton pad. I can't be doing with uber-designed living spaces that tell you nothing about the person who lives there; houses without books especially creep me out, because, honestly, how are you supposed to get the measure of someone without having a decent nose through their library and preferably stealing a book or two?

Ant is by nature a hoarder and clutter-freak, so our tastes have happily convened over the years to create a naturally evolved space that says a lot about us as individuals and as a couple. It's full of stuff we've picked up on our travels, inherited heirlooms and treasured gifts, as well as a decent combined library that is fast overflowing into other rooms. Other than the yellow paint on the walls (which we had leftover from our previous flat) we've never made any conscious design decisions about the space, and yet visitors often comment on how soothing they find it. Almost everything has a story behind it - from the box of percussion instruments to the two wooden cats - and it gives me great pleasure to recall the histories of all our bits and pieces - whether for the benefit of others or my own sentimental indulgence.

Every now and then, I get an evening at home alone in which to recapture my contemplative teenage years, and will sit and enjoy the comforting sanctuary that we have created. This evening I was doing just that when it struck me to compile an anecdotal itinerary of the room, to photograph it for posterity, as I wish I had done with my bedroom in Eastbourne before moving out. In the interests of authenticity, I didn't change or tidy anything, just picked up the camera (which is always handy) and started shooting. If you look closely, you will see that I have even caught one of the cats unawares and in a rather undignified pose.

So there you have it: the museum of me, the anatomy of a lounge, the entirely self-indulgent story of us as told by our front room. A bigger version of the above collage can be seen on Flickr; the stories, however, are kept in my head, ready to be served on demand along with tea and cake to our honoured guests.

A Fond Farewell: Hettie Miller, RIP

Growing up is something I've mostly been trying to defer, but sometimes life just catches you by surprise and suddenly it can't be helped. Last week was one of those times, when we said goodbye to Ant's beloved Grandmother Hettie, aka Gaggy, who passed away peacefully at the ripe old age of 95. Having lost the last of my own grandparents some years ago, I'd adopted Ant's Gran (the last of his) as my own and had grown to love her as such over the last decade. The presence of grandparents always made childhood feel somehow more accessible, and the acceptance of adulthood now seems increasingly inevitable without them.

Final farewells are never easy, but unlike so many of the funerals I've been to - which mourned young lives cut short - Hettie's was a celebration of a full life well-lived. Of course it was still a sad occasion, but our tears were purely selfish; we felt sad because we'll miss her, not because her death was unfair. In this case, death came as a welcome relief from a life that had quite simply run out of steam. A mercifully short decline had given way to the kind of dignified departure to which most of us would aspire: surrounded by loved ones at home, ready and willing to go.

I'll always remember Gaggy as a gentle and inspiringly stoical lady, holding court at family occasions and never missing an opportunity to offer a wry opinion or crack a witty quip. Truly the grand matriarch, she was eternally proud and supportive of her three kids, eight grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. I was touched to witness two of my contemporary in-laws, both expecting in June, comparing bumps at the wake afterwards. Soon there will be another two little lives added to Hettie's generous legacy: one generation making way for the next as the circle of life continues. Dauntingly, this also means that our parents are now the oldest generation and we have moved up one branch on the family tree ourselves. It certainly feels like the end of an era, but quite what the new one holds in store, I have yet to determine.

Snapshot of a Weekend

Seven o'clock Sunday night: We're huddled in the lounge - the only warm room in the house - fire blazing away. It seemed sensible to switch off our central heating earlier when the boiler started rattling like there was a malicious pixie in cloggs lurking inside. We've been putting off getting the thing replaced for months, knowing it was on its last legs, but reluctant to stomach the cost and inconvenience of having a new one fitted.

Freakzone is on the radio as I move from place to place around the room, trying to pick up a weak wireless signal. Another domestic job we have failed to accomplish lately is the installation of our own wi-fi router, and while my new MacBook Air(I know, far too cool for me) is both stylish and practical, its sleek design leaves no space for an ethernet socket, so this is the only way to get online at home for now.

I realise it has been nearly a week since I last blogged (apart from for work), but then I have had little of interest to report. It is my general policy not to blog about work (apart from occasional anecdotes about office Christmas parties), and working is pretty much all I have been doing for the last couple of weeks. Not that I'm complaining; I've been in my element learning all sorts of geekery for the new job, and it's fun in it's own way, but I do need to let my hair down once in a while.

A girls' night was on the cards for Friday, followed by a dinner party at ours on Saturday (all work and no play makes Ro a grumpy girl), until I was struck down with the lurgy and had to cancel my playtime plans. I haven't been out properly (house parties don't count) since my birthday bonanza back in September, and am just itching for some dancefloor action. Cue major sulk on my part.

So instead I spent Friday night at home and most of Saturday curled up on the sofa watching DVDs. Today we did venture out briefly - for Sunday lunch at the Juggs and a wander round the Antique shops of Lewes. We bought a new bookcase for the bedroom from the Flea market, and were very nearly tempted by a 1950s Danish teak table nest that we didn't need, but really really liked.

7.54: Ant has stopped reading The Rough Guide to Germanyand is now shooting Germans on his laptop(I'm hoping there isn't a direct link between the two activities). Freakzone is nearly over, reaching its usual climax of weirdness right before the end. Leftover curry and a final Wallanderepisode await; gosh we're so rock 'n roll. As if to purposefully compound my party yearnings, 'Rhythm Is a Dancer' kicks off Dave Pearce's Dance Anthems show. Memories of Kerry and me larging it at the end of the pier circa 1992 come flooding back. Sigh.

8.13: Time to microwave that massala and find out what mysteries are in store for the brooding Swedish detectivethis time.

*******

11.00: I'm brushing my teeth, listening to the news on Radio 2. Tony Hart has died. The sound of his voice and the music from 'Take Hart' - so warmly evocative of my childhood - bring tears to my eyes. I break the news to Ant as I get into bed and we spend a good 20 minutes reminiscing about the man who gave us 'The Gallery' and Morph, and made us all believe in our own creative potential. Ant remembers most fondly the string of art school assistants who appeared with Hart - invariably willowy young ladies with floaty hair, a different one for each series. I remark on the hitherto overlooked similarity between Tony Hart and Doctor Who...

One of my art teachers at Ratton, Mr Rowe, claimed to have been a college contemporary of Hart's - certainly both men shared a sweet gentlemanly demeanor and charmingly non-ironic love of cravats that sprung from a bygone era. Strangely, Ant was given a 'Make Your Own Morph'set for Christmas; he resolves to do so at the next available opportunity. I switch off the light; the weekend is ended.

Further reading
Tony Hart's Obituary in the Guardian
Official Tony Hart Website
Twitter Tributes to Tony Hart

Nine Years of Togetherness

Yesterday was the ninth anniversary of my first date with Ant, and an excuse (as if we needed one) to drink Champagne (well, Prosecco actually) and reminisce about our courtship. It all began back at Waterstone's in Brighton, where we were both working in the summer of '99 - me on the ground floor in Biography and he right up the top in Computing. It's no secret that I thought he was gay when we first met - the bleached hair, loud shirts and obsession with shoes seemed to suggest as much. But after he returned from walking down to Cornwall for the eclipse, newly shorn, tanned and buff, I was eager to find one way or the other, and initiated some flirty chats over cups of tea in the staff room.

It took him a few weeks to ask me out, and even then it was a casual 'I've got a couple of passes to this magazine launch with free gin, fancy coming along?' I was living in Eastbourne at the time, so arranged to stay with some old friends in Hove, and agreed to meet him at the Ha Ha Bar, opposite the Pavilion. It was the one and only time he arrived before me for a date, and I can still picture him sitting casually on the back of a bench, wearing a green Komodo shirt and his pea jacket, grinning as I walked up to greet him. Bombay Sapphire was flowing (literally) freely inside - I don't even like gin, but on a bookseller salary you couldn't afford to turn down free booze, and I think we were both in need of some Dutch courage. There were no seats available, so we found ourselves a cosy windowsill to sit on, and stayed there chatting until closing time.

Mobile phones were still a novelty back then, and we used that as an excuse to exchange numbers. I seem to remember he had a shiny silver one and mine was a burgundy housebrick with big rubber buttons - I still have it in a drawer somewhere. The only conversation I remember distinctly was a debate over what sort of dog the Littlest Hobo was (it's a German Shepherd, in case you're wondering) - which resulted in a bet being waged by which the loser had to treat the other to dinner at Al Fresco. Clearly this was some sort of cunning plan on his part to ensure that we went on another date - though I don't think we ever did resolve the dispute, so one of us must still owe the other a meal.

Not wanting the night to end, we took advantage of guest list places on offer at the Honey Club, and wandered down to the seafront via the Lanes. Our first kiss was whilst dancing on a podium together; my stomach still flutters to remember it (too much gin perhaps). After the club we sat on the beach until we really couldn't put off going home any longer (we both had work the next day), and I floated off back to Hove, while he headed for his place on Whippingham Road.

A few more dates ensued before it became 'official' - around the same time that he left Waterstone's to start a job working in New Media in London. We moved to London together the following February and spent a year living in Streatham before the lure of the sea brought us back to Brighton, where we have remained ever since. Like any long-term couple, we've had our ups and downs, but when I look back over our relationship it's mostly laughter and adventure I recall. So many fun holidays - India, New Zealand, Sweden, France and Belgium (to name but a few), all those illustrious parties, getting married and buying a flat, adopting our lovely mogs; the list of happy memories is a long and ever-growing one. I'll drink to that!

Dawn Inspiration

It wasn't the first time I've walked into the kitchen of a morning to the sight of a fox on the lawn outside, but today's encounter was a little special. This particular fox is a regular visitor to our garden (Ant took this picture in January last year), easily identified by his unfortunately shabby coat, which is largely absent from about half way down its back. Frusrated at not being able to tend to this poor creature's malady, I have tried before to approach him with catfood and milk, but clearly of a nervous disposition, he always runs away. Even Marcel, the most timid cat in the world, appears unphased by his presence, happily trotting past him this morning as he sat curled up right in the middle of the grass. The Ted Hughes poem Roe Deer sprung to mind as he rasied a sleepy head and held my gaze for what seemed like several minutes, until with a stretch and a skip, he was off back over the fence. In Hughes's (far superior) words "the curtain had blown aside" between our separate worlds, suspending us in a magical moment, before returning him to whatever it is foxes do in the day (hang out in their dens, presumably), and me to the usual morning routine of tea-making and cat-feeding - "Revising its dawn inspiration...Back to the ordinary".

Why Breakfast In Bed?

It occurs to me that I've never actually explained the reason behind the title of this blog, other than in the About Me section, which I only added recently. So I thought it was about time I set the record straight. This is not a blog about Bed & Breakfasts, although I do get a lot of hits from people looking for accommodation recommendations. I may mention the occasional noteworthy hostelry in the context of writing about my various travels, but you won't find any B&B listings here, no sir. So why 'Breakfast In Bed'? Well, around the time I started blogging (early 2006), I'd been listening to a fantastic compilation CD called Super Seventies Reggae, on which one of the stand-out tracks is Breakfast in Bed by Lorna Bennett. Originally sung by Dusty Springfield as a bittersweet ballad, Bennett's version, released in 1971, is altogether sexier - oozing with seductive Caribbean charm, it puts one firmly in the mood to be waited on from under the comfort of the duvet. This song was stuck in my head when I was thinking about what to call my online offering, and it also seemed to reflect the sort of things I imagined writing about - namely life's little indulgences.

It should be said that making breakfast in bed for oneself does lessen the pampering factor rather, what with having to actually get out from under the duvet in order to prepare said feast, but let's face it, the chances of it happening any other way in our house are slim. I do get the occasional cup of tea delivered to my bedside on days when Mr M has to be up before me, or has been prematurely awoken by his bladder or an obstinate ginger cat - and even this is a most welcome indulgence. I'll admit to feeling slightly disappointed that it doesn't happen more often, especially since a precedent was set right at the beginning of our relationship - when I was brought not only breakfast, but the weekend papers (for which he had actually got dressed and gone out to the shops) - the first time I stayed over at his place. You could call this being lured in under false pretences, but I'm not one to complain (much). These days I am content to be spoiled a couple of times a year - on birthdays and anniversaries - and to find other ways to treat myself in the meantime. So whilst I do write about all those things here - music, food, books, socialising, travel - breakfast in bed remains the ultimate aspirational indulgence - the motivational icing on the metaphorical blog-cake.

Photograph courtesy of Romantic Home on Flickr

Disclaimer: This post is by no means intended as a hint.

Sham and James Get Hitched

Closet Romantic

I always cry at weddings. In spite of my sometimes cynical attitude towards the marriage institution, I find the sentiment behind two people making a heartfelt public commitment to each other deeply moving, and that little sparkle of romance left in my soul invariably swells up via my eyes, even more so since I tied the knot myself. I've reached that stage in life where every summer brings another two or three weddings, more excuses to buy new frocks and hats, and a chance for me to have a little cathartic weep as yet another pair say "I do". This weekend I shall be attending my first ever gay wedding. I refrain from using the term 'Civil Partnership', as to me it sounds rather formal and boring, and if I know Sham and James, their bash will be anything but dull. I am excited for lots of reasons - not least because they have asked me to sing at the ceremony, something I haven't done for a few years. From the ages of about 10 to 15 I sang in the choir of St Philip's Church Eastbourne, and was even Head Chorister for the latter years (I know, I can hardly picture it now, either!). As well as our usual Sunday duties, the junior choir would make a bit of extra cash by singing at weddings on Saturdays, for people who presumably didn't happen to know any good singers to ask. I've sung a couple of times at family weddings too, most recently at the reception of my cousin's big do in the Lake District last summer. But the last time I actually performed during the ceremony must have been for my Godmother Jood's marriage blessing, back in the early nineties. I remember it was on New Year's Day, so everyone was hungover, and it was freezing cold in church - not the ideal circumstances for singing - but I gave it my best, and it meant a lot to contribute to their special day in such a personal way. When Sham asked me to sing at his wedding to James, I had a feeling they would want something less traditional than I would normally choose for my voice (classical/sacred music is my forté), and so I had fun putting together a list of potential songs, mostly jazz standards, for them to pick from. These included 'Making Whoopee', 'Someone to Watch Over Me', 'Can't Help Lovin Dat Man' and for kitsch value, 'Nobody Does It Better'. Unsurprisingly, they went straight for this, clearly the campest option, which, although not really in my range, will be fun to perform. The lovely Brian will be accompanying me on piano, which makes me feel a lot more confident about the whole thing, and of course the fabulous full-length frock I've bought for the occasion will really help me feel the part. I'm also hugely excited because I've never been to a same-sex ceremony before, and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling that British law has finally granted gay couples comparable rights, and the opportunity to express their love more openly than ever before. We've come a long way, and the added significance of this will be sure to make these particular nuptials even more poignant than usual. Let's just hope I can get the singing out of the way before I start to blub.

(Picture courtesy of Gino Ginelli on Flickr)

Down with Daytime TV

I've been home sick for the last few days, and am starting to get bored. Ant's been off too, but with a different ailment - I had a stinking cold and he had a 24 hour stomach bug. We're both fed up, but at least we've had each other's company. Today I had to go for a blood test for anaemia, as that might be the reason I'm getting ill so often. I'm under pressure at work not to be off sick anymore, and am anxious to find out why I seem to catch eveything going, when I lead a pretty healthy life. The doctor said I looked pale, but he wasn't my usual doctor. I just want to be well.

We've been watching Smallville Season 4 on DVD, which is excellent. But more than 4 episodes in a row can get waring. I've joined LoveFilm.com, as part of my mission to be more cultured this year. We should get our first DVD through the post tomorrow. When I'm back to full health, I'll think about booking some theatre and music gigs.

I'll probably try and go back to work tomorrow. Daytime TV sucks.

Running Hot & Cold

Woke up this morning full of cold and with swollen tonsils. My heart sank. I've managed to avoid getting ill all winter and have been feeling generally quite fit and well. I blame the combination of a tiring week last week, lots of germs flying around at work and two nights in a row down the pub. Damien's birthday 'do' was in the Queen's Arms - how original - and it does get horribly smoky in there once it fills up. We didn't stay long, but I am afraid the damage was done.

So I've spent all day in my pyjamas, running hot and cold and filling myself with various remedies. Ant went out on a mission for Neal's Yard tincture, fruit and other good things to help me get well. I wrote a book review (see my other reviews blog) and tinkered on the laptop while he was out. When he got back we watched the DVD of Lion in Winter, which we've had for a while but couldn't bring ourselves to watch before the play. It was a very mixed bag - poorly cast - especially Richard, played by a wooden and distinctly un-attractive Anthony Hopkins, complete with dodgy stick-on beard. Ant was rather heartened by this, as he was SO much better and much more handsome. It was very odd watching the film version which was almost identical in dialogue, but played very differently by almost everyone.

We were meant to go over to Eastbourne this evening to see Nat and the new baby, but obviously I didn't want to spread germs. So we stayed in and got a curry and listened to folk music. Dad emailed me the review of Lion in Winter which was in yesterday's Herald. It was better written than the average Berald piece and praised our production in almost every way, under the heading "More Soon, Please". Very gratifying.

Ant has received the first issue of 'Make' magazine, which I subscribed him to for his birthday, so is happily reading and planning geeky endeavours. Poppet is looking very comfortable sitting on him, gradually sliding down between his legs, she doesn't seem to care.