Dear Dad... | What Father's Day Means to Me

Father’s Day. A stream of gushing Facebook posts dominate my feed, in heartfelt appreciation for fathers past and present. A pang of guilt washes over me as I realise I have neglected to send any kind of greeting to my own Dad, a feeling accompanied by a deeper sense of regret that I haven’t seen enough of him lately. Life is hectic, and since my kids’ father is away for the weekend, I’d not even clocked that this Hallmark Holiday was upon us. 

Aside from birthdays, I’ve never been much of a fan of the ‘appreciation day’ culture - Valentine’s, Father’s Day, National Doughnut Day (yes, it's a thing); as an adoptive parent, even Mother’s Day is a far from straightforward celebration in our family. But when everyone else is so publicly on the ‘yay dad’ bandwagon, it seems somewhat callous to abstain. I could have dashed out and bought a last minute card, but it is hard to find one whose sentiments accurately reflect my relationship with my dad, and frankly the football-and-beer-themed “best dad ever” selection is just not going to cut it. So I decided instead to attempt a more authentic exploration of what he means to me…

More than anything else I have inherited from him, it is Dad’s offbeat, mischievous sense of humour and love of comic poetry for which I am most grateful. I can remember him reading me Spike Milligan, quoting the Goons, and teaching me practical jokes at a young age, and those influences have stayed with me into my adult life. I like to think I also have something of Dad’s practical nature and problem-solving skills; I have always admired these qualities about him.

Christmas time at Dad's place in the 80s

Father’s Day sentiments are complicated for me and Dad, because I don’t actually remember a time when he was living at home. There are a few hazy memories - Christmas morning in Mum and Dad’s bed with the textured orange throw, and Dad’s retro dressing gown; the chaos of him redecorating the kitchen while mum was in hospital having my younger sister - but not much of the day-to-day. I am thankful that my parents stayed good friends when they split up, and Dad was around, if not a constant presence. Both he and mum were active CND members in those days, and I can recall being taken on protest marches as a child, and riding on the CND carnival float alongside a giant model missile that Dad had constructed - one of many such props that made our childhoods all the more interesting and eccentric. 

That CND carnival float

Having a stage manager for a father has definitely had its perks. As well as the intriguing theatrical cast-offs that made their way into our playroom, Dad could always be relied upon to fix things (albeit with gaffer tape and a prayer), build things and generally provide DIY support services. I have taken to heart his motto of “if it doesn’t work, use a bigger hammer”, and am never without several rolls of gaffer tape with which to tackle any domestic emergencies.

Mum and Dad met working in the theatre in the 60s, and it was Dad who persuaded me into my first summer job on followspots at the Hippodrome in 1992, when I was 15. This was undoubtedly an influential milestone in my life. I spent 10 or more summers working there, as well as pantomimes at the Devonshire Park, forging life-long friendships and learning a useful (?) repertoire of old songs from the various veteran acts who performed there. For some of that time, I was working alongside Dad as well as other Stanfields, and it is a time I remember as being one of the closest we have shared.

Backstage crew at the Hippodrome - early nineties (Dad 3rd from left)

Another of those times was when I was away at university, and Dad would come up and visit me from time to time. I will be forever thankful to him for helping extricate me from an awful shared housing situation, rocking up with his campervan while my house ‘mates’ (who had been systematically ganging up on me for months before) were away for the weekend, and helping me move, in stealth, to a little bedsit in Barnes where I stayed for my final year. Whereas mum has always provided (and still does provide) the emotional support and physical comfort, it is this type of practical gesture through which Dad has shown his love. 

As a younger man, my dad was partial to a jive. I have distinct memories of him busting some impressive moves at various family occasions, and although I have never mastered the genre myself (there is still time!), I have an enduringly fond association with its music. Just yesterday I was at Michelham Priory’s Home Front weekend, watching a Lindy Hop group give a demonstration, and thinking about Dad’s love of dancing, while tapping my feet to the infectious tunes. I can vividly picture his younger, rock-n-rolling self of the 1950s, based on the colourful anecdotes of his youth that he has painted over the years. He is a spirited raconteur, and has inspired me to try and continue the tradition, passing on the family folklore to my own children.

Dad, we may not have the most conventional or consistent of father-daughter relationships, but as you can see, you have influenced me, and I love you. Thank you for Spike, Elvis, Brubeck and gaffer tape.

He Started School - The End of an Era

My little boy started school last week, and like any parent sending their youngest off in uniform for the first time, I have been awash with a jumble of emotions. The overwhelming feeling has been one of pride for my son, who has come so far and achieved so much after a difficult start in life, and who walked happily and confidently into his new classroom on the first day. But there is also an undeniable sense of loss on my part (and maybe his) for the end of a magical, transformative time, which seems to have ended too soon. He only became my little boy two years ago through adoption, and for all of that time we have been immersed in the business of bonding, nurturing, healing, developing and adventuring together. We made the decision to defer his entry into reception, as he had only been with us a year by the time he was due to go last year, was only just four, and wasn’t ready emotionally or developmentally. I knew he needed more of me, and more time just to be a free spirit, so I put my office career on hold and officially made parenting my day-to-day business. I wrote this post at the time, about becoming a full time parent, after deciding not to return to work when my adoption leave came to an end. It was a big leap, but having seen the incredible progress of my child during that time, I have no regrets. I know I will at some point be able to drop back into the world of paid employment, but children are only tiny once, and he needed me. And it has been so worth it.

Deferring Summer Born Children

During the process of applying for permission to defer our boy from school, we were challenged by certain parties about our motivations, and told that we’d be “holding him back” by keeping him out of school for another year. Then, as now, I maintained that it was more about helping him get ahead than slowing his progress. However wonderful and progressive a school, it can never provide the same level of nurture and care as the one-to-one attention of a loving parent. And this above all was the greatest need of my child at the time. Far from holding up his education, every day that we have spent together has been filled with opportunities for enrichment and learning. There are so many things he can do now that he couldn’t 12 months ago, which I know will help his transition into formal education. Just a few that come to mind…

• Hold a pen and make identifiable shapes with it
• Hold and use a pair of scissors
• Recount events and tell made up stories
• Play make-believe/role-play games and use his imagination
• Build simple Lego vehicles
• Play turn-taking games
• Ride a balance bike
• Swing himself on the swings
• Make meaningful friendships and play happily with other kids
• Recognise all the letters of the alphabet and a handful of sight words
• Count to ten
• Cut up food with a knife and fork
• Go to the toilet independently and have very few accidents
• Speak in sentences longer than four or five words
• Be confident in new situations and when meeting new people
• Tell you all about medieval history, especially the Battle of Hastings

These may seem like run-of-the-mill achievements for an average five year old, but behind each of these accomplishments are fundamental executive and motor skills that will underpin my son’s school life, and allow him to make progress without the need for any major intervention or support. Had he gone to school a year ago, he would still have needed to acquire many of these, as well as coping with the demands of everyday school life. I am glad to see the option to defer summer born children becoming more straightforward for parents, and would encourage anyone (especially adoptive families) in doubt as to what is right for their child to embrace the opportunity to spend more time together.  Even though it hasn’t always been straightforward or easy, I feel truly blessed to have had the chance to invest in my son wholeheartedly for an extra 12 months, and I would happily do it all over again. 

What Next?

Coming home after dropping him at school, the house feels hollow and eerily quiet. I miss his little footsteps padding about the place, his many questions (to which I try and respond with more questions) and irresistible requests to “play with me mummy?”. I already miss the beat of our little routines - his hand in mind walking round the corner to playgroup, the games we’d play to make supermarket shopping fun, exploring castles, woods and beaches together. Without him here to entertain, I find myself a little lost. “What will you do with yourself now?” is the question on everyone’s lips, and right now I don’t feel I can answer it. Parenthood - for all its ups and downs - has changed me, sent me down paths I had not considered before, and I am not sure I can go backwards from here. Certainly I am not rushing to sit behind a desk again. So for now I am taking a breath, a well-earned break, while I figure out what comes next. 

Don't Call Me a Stay-at-Home Mum: Reflections on Becoming a Full Time Parent

When I think back to my childhood, I feel lucky to have had constant love and security, and to have grown up in a fun-filled, happy home. On paper it may not have seemed like a perfect lot, and like any family there were ups and downs, but most of my memories are good ones. This is largely to do with the unwavering presence of my mother, who raised us pretty much single-handedly, but was steadfast, nurturing and kind. She chose not to work during our infancy, and so my siblings and I benefitted from a great deal of one-to-one attention. I was taught to read and write before starting school, and was initiated into the complex world of social interaction through the supportive and regular circle of friends with whom we would spend time.

Me in the 70s, in my happy place.

From this experience, I can personally vouch for the advantages of having a full time parent, although I am by no means against the idea of working mums. It is such a thorny issue, and one that I have recently wrangled with myself, as I started my own journey into parenthood. On the one hand, I wanted my kids to have the same advantages that I had, but what about my career, my needs? I had worked solidly for 15 years before my children came along, and I couldn’t imagine giving up all that I had achieved to become a housewife. I had planned to take my full year of adoption leave and then return to work when my youngest child started school (which fortunately coincided with the end of my leave).

But adoptive parenthood is far from straightforward, and as it turned out when the time came, the summer-born little one was not quite ready for school. We were thankfully able to defer him for a year, after applying to the local authority for permission (for more on this subject, visit http://summerbornchildren.org), then I was faced with the choice of what to do about work. I really loved my job and was truly torn, but I knew in my heart that the right thing to do was to give my son a little more of me. I had already missed three years of his childhood, and our first year together had flown by in a blur of emotions and adjustment. Now I had really started to get to know him, I wanted to build on this intimacy and trust. So I took a deep breath and gave myself over to motherhood, 100%.

Our family, as depicted in Lego by my seven year old daughter.

I can understand why many women need or want to return to work after having a baby. Parenting is tiring and confusing, and you pine for an environment in which you feel confident and valued. You miss the mental stimulation and adult company. Not to mention the salary. But when it comes to making that choice about whether to go back, I do believe most of us know instinctively what is best for our child, in our individual situations. There is a balance to be had between one’s own well-being and the needs of the child. And for those babies lucky enough to be born into a safe, loving home, with strong attachments to their parents, there may be no long term detriment to having some time apart from the mother. I think women should be able to choose the path that works best for their family, and to feel it is a valid choice, without being judged either way.

Leaving behind a lucrative and rewarding career to be a full-time parent may seem like a huge sacrifice, but I see this time less as a career break, more as a new venture that will ultimately enrich my arsenal of life and work skills. Certainly, bringing up my two special and complicated little people is no less challenging or stimulating than marketing books or beauty products, and I embrace the new skills and knowledge that I’m acquiring along the way. I’m learning more than ever before about negotiation, persuasion, time management, planning and teaching, and I’m changing as a person with every new parenting experience. Far from distancing me from vocational aspirations, it is opening my eyes to new possibilities and future career paths I may not have otherwise considered. I do miss bantering with colleagues, but I'm making new friends through the children, building lasting connections with others who are in the same proverbial parenting boat.

So why do I still feel awkward and like I have to justify myself when people ask me what I do for a living? Maybe it’s because of the labels associated with being a full time parent. There needs to be a better description for this life choice than ‘Stay At Home Mum’, because that makes it sound so boring and restrictive, and doesn’t come close to encapsulating all that full-time parenting entails. For me it’s also technically inaccurate because if I can possibly help it, I’m rarely At Home with the kids. We prefer to be running free in the woods, paddling in rock pools, climbing trees or scooting down the seafront. So how should I describe myself these days? Free-range mum? Progressive parent? Adventurer in Chief? Seriously though, you wouldn’t write ‘Sitting At A Desk Person’ on your CV, so why shouldn’t full time parents have a title that better defines their role? Perhaps it’s because parenting is in fact more than one role – it’s like running an entire company. A really weird and hectic company with tiny, shrill little customers.

Surely I can put 'Expert train track and marble run constructor' on my CV?

And this is partly why I don’t feel intimidated about returning to the workforce at some point down the road - because I’m keeping my brain ticking over by doing what is arguably the most significant and varied job in the world. As was ever the case back in the office, I want to do my best and make a success of this role. I take the job seriously, and as I only have another ten months at home with my boy before he starts school, I need to make every second count. Yes, there is monotony and repetition (do I really have to run the washing machine again?), not to mention the snot, tears, mess and angst, but there is also magic, wonder, adventure and love. And that’s not something that you get in the office every day.

Waving at Strangers from Trains and Other Childhood Joys Rediscovered

I was travelling back from a meeting in Guildford today, getting frustrated by technology (Macs. Argh.) and staring out of the window, when suddenly I was seized by a compulsion to wave at passengers on a passing train. I can only assume that my inner child was fighting its way out, urging me to break free from the shackles of work responsibilities, if only for a moment. And what a moment it was when after 30 seconds of bemused looks and uncomfortable shifting in seats, someone finally waved back.

From the grin on his face and enthusiastic flailing of arms, it was clear that my fellow waver had also been possessed by, and was utterly embracing, his inner child. It was a good feeling to have passed along a little joy and shared an uncomplicated interaction with a stranger, and to know that there are others out there who still want to act like kids occasionally, too.

It got me thinking about other little things we do that recapture the simple pleasures of childhood. Like the other morning when I arrived at work to observe a colleague slowly collecting and contemplating conkers from the path up to the office. He's six foot four and beardy, but for those few minutes he projected all the calm simplicity of a five year old enthralled by the wonders of nature and the possibilities of conkers. It was heartwarming, truly.

Intrigued by the notion of simple childhood joys, I asked some friends* how they like to release their  own inner child; the responses were prolific and most entertaining. Here are my favourite suggestions, which I encourage you to try (go on, let go a little. You'll feel better for it, I promise). Feel free to add your own.

Top Ten Ways to Stir Your Inner Child

1. Waving at strangers on a passing train
2. Collecting conkers
3. Eating cake mix
4. Shouting really, really loudly
5. Writing 'BOOBIES' into a calculator
6. Turning down the TV and making up dialogue for the actors
7. Asking "why?" repeatedly
8. Running (or even better, doing roly-polies) down a steep hill
9. Splashing in puddles
10. Making up stupid poems or song lyrics (and saying them loudly)

*Thanks to Nick, Ben, Roger, Katie, Karen and others for their contributions.

Photo by Minusbaby on Flickr

A Drunk in a Midnight Choir

“Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free” Leonard Cohen

As a devout young choir girl (head chorister no less), I used to take umbrage at the hoards of ‘Christmas Brigade’ punters who would rock up at midnight mass having not seen the inside a church all year except possibly for weddings, Christenings and funerals. It seemed unfair that I should be there every Sunday doing my bit while they just got to saunter in for the fun part once a year. Little did I imagine that one day it would be me rolling drunkenly into the back pew for a sing-song on Christmas Eve.

But why would a confirmed agnostic/pantheist indulge in such institutional religious rites? A sentimental attachment to old times is partly to blame - my spiritual life may no longer be tied to the church, but I still find immense comfort in the traditions and surroundings that were such a big part of my childhood and early adulthood.

The other main attraction is the music. Having been trained and immersed in it for so many years, my singing voice comes alive to sacred music, particularly the good old Christmas carol. My heart does not belong to Christmas until I have belted out the soaring descant to Oh Come all Ye Faithful by candlelight. The past few years I have been exercising my lungs on Christmas Eve at our local church, St George’s in Kemp Town, where I get an extra thrill from knowing that some of my favourite performers have also sung there. But it’s not just about sentiment and singing.

Christianity may have appropriated many of its festive traditions from the Pagans and Romans, but Christmas is Christmas now (not Yuletide or Saturnalia) and there’s no getting away from it. So whether you believe in Jesus or not, it only seems fitting to pay one's respects to the tradition that gives us that precious time off work to argue with family, max out our credit cards and over-indulge on rich food and booze.

Joking aside, I may not be religious but I am a sucker for tradition and ritual and there’s nothing like candlelit mass for conjuring ceremonial magic and summoning the festive spirit (figuratively speaking of course). So call me a hypocrite, but come Christmas Eve I’ll be there giving it all I’ve got in my once a year pseudo-spiritual seasonal devotional. And pious choir girls, please don’t hate me for it.

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Nothing to do with midnight mass but suitably festive, the above video is from this year's Wainwright/McGarrigle family Christmas show, 'A Not So Silent Christmas' at the Royal Albert Hall. I recommend the CD or DVD of the occasion as excellent festive listening and have also picked out a few other favourite alternative Christmas albums for fellow music lovers. Enjoy...

Bring Back Trevor and Simon

Whenever confronted about my 'unconventional' sense of humour, I tend to blame the Dada comedy on which I was raised - Monty Python, The Bonzos, The Goons and co. These guys certainly gave me an appreciation of the surreal, but the drollery and sarcasm can be traced back to a much more contemporary source - those legends of Saturday morning kids' TV, Trevor and Simon.

During my formative teenage years, Trevor and Simon punctuated the weekends with their sardonic sketches and eccentric, often manic or contemptuous characters. Say to anyone of my generation "swing your pants" or "let's roll on the floor" and it's guaranteed to raise a smile of nostalgic recognition. We loved Trevor and Simon because they were the least patronising children's "entertainers" of the time, and best of all, because they ripped the piss out of many an annoying celebrity on Going Live and Live and Kicking. I was such a fan that I even went to see them live - at Brighton Dome in 1991.

Looking at the more offbeat character-based comedy shows of today - Mighty Boosh, Little Britain, Mitchell and Webb - all written by and starring 30-somethings who grew up in the 80s and 90s - it seems obvious that they owe a debt (whether conscious or not) to Trevor and Simon's silly Saturday antics. But whatever happened to our deadpan childhood heroes? By the late nineties we were all off at university and sleeping in on Saturday mornings and they seemed to have disappeared into obscurity; the much-loved Stupid Video started gathering dust on the shelf. Occasionally I would hear of other projects they had going like the Circus of Evil at Edinburgh Festival, but they never seemed to find another niche outside of their original territory.

Then just the other week, Ant came home with amusingly windswept hair and a sporting new goatee, when suddenly Trevor and Simon's World of the Strange popped into my head. Of course I went straight onto YouTube to substantiate the comparison, and found myself heading off on a right old trip down memory lane. This in turn led to a string of other online discoveries, including the revelation that Trevor and Simon were on Twitter (why had I never thought to look before?). But best of all, I found their blog, on which is published a Trevor and Simon podcast.

Having listened to the latest podcast in the series, I am pleased to report that the duo have lost none of their bantering chemistry and are still as waggishly witty as ever. It was a delight to find myself immersed in a world of strange tangents and acerbic rants, delivered by the comfortingly familiar voices of my childhood heroes. The other five installments I am saving for an upcoming roadtrip Up North. All power to the duo for taking the task of a Trevor and Simon renaissance upon themselves - welcome back boys, we've missed you!

Links

Latest Trevor and Simon podcast.

Trevor and Simon's blog (you can also download the other podcasts here)

Simon Hickson's blog

Trev and Simon on Twitter

Simon Hickson on Twitter

Trevor Neal on Twitter

Looking Back with New Eyes

It’s been a curiously nostalgic and reflective week, thanks to a string of out of the blue, blast from the past encounters.

The first was a random Facebook chat with an old High School friend - someone with whom I’d had a passing but happy acquaintance before changing schools in the second year. Our bonding at the time may have had more to do with a sense of solidarity over the fact that we both had unusual names than anything else, but this is as good a reason as any to be friends when you’re 12.

Looking back at those days tends to make me feel slightly uncomfortable. I always considered myself an outsider, never having the right clothes or attitudes to be one of the gang, but also never wanting to compromise my convictions to fit in. That in mind, it was touching and somewhat heartening to be told by someone who knew me then that they’d always remembered me for not having followed the crowd, and now respected my then alien opinions.

Apparently I once told her (though I don’t remember this) that it was far better to be proud of getting a bargain than to show off about how much you paid for something. In the materialistic climate of the 1980s, this was revolutionary thinking indeed; these days it doesn’t seem so radical.

The very next night, another chat window popped up from one of my old theatre cronies - someone I’ve known for going on two decades. We shared many a crazy night back in the day, but were never really what you’d call bosom buddies. I was a few years younger than most of the crew at the time, and always felt that they tolerated my presence rather than embraced it. So it was nice to hear that he apparently thought my youthful pontificating and feminist views endearing.

How strange that the lingering insecurities of youth can be so easily dispelled by such spontaneous and unexpected conversations.

The nostalgia trip continued when on Thursday night I was in my local, getting ready for pub quiz, and in walked a face I haven’t seen since Sixth Form. We exchanged the usual ‘how’ve you been?’ ‘what are you doing now?’ formalities, then quite unprompted, he uttered the three magic words: “you’ve aged well”. I could have kissed him right there. As if that delicious little ego-boost wasn’t more than enough to make my night, Ant and I rather embarrassingly went and won the quiz with our team of two. And we hadn’t even done any research.

That night I slept marvellously and dreamed that I bumped into a friend from university with whom I have sadly lost touch. That is one era from which I don’t have any particular hang-ups in need of resolving, but it would be nice to see her again all the same. Sandra Borra, if you’re reading this, come out from hiding and join me on my trip down memory lane; it’s turning out to be really rather enlightening.

Remembering Paula

It hardly seems possible that ten whole years have passed since my dear childhood friend Paula lost her fight with cancer, just months after giving birth to miracle baby, David. Today is the 10th anniversary of her death, and I have been honouring her memory in my own way - thinking about times we shared, playing music we liked and talking to other people who knew and loved her. Last night, reading my sad diary entries from that terrible time in 1999, all the grief and heartache came flooding back. Even up to the very end, she was such a forceful presence; sometimes I still can't really believe that she's gone.

Today I have been trying to focus on happy memories, as I know she would have wanted. Some of my fondest childhood recollections are of being with Paula and Natalie - at Guides and in St Philip's church choir together, running around playing games of (and swooning over) Robin Hood (Michael Praed* era of course), making up stupid stories, giggling in the cinema and generally perpetuating The Madness. One time I particularly remember was when Paula and I camped out in her back garden and were terrified by rustling noises outside the tent in the middle of the night. Taking various kitchen implements as weapons for self defence on the second night, we later disovered that our tormentors were nothing more than a couple of inquisitive hedgehogs. It became a longstanding joke between us ever after.

In what was otherwise a retrospective and somewhat melancholy day, I was delighted to receive from baby David's father some recent photos of his and Paula's now strapping 10 year old boy this evening. Seeing her unique spark twinkling on in his eyes brings immense comfort - she would have been so proud to have seen how wonderfully her little boy turned out, against all the odds.

*The copy on this website is genius

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.

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

Legwarmers!

My friend Harriet loves legwarmers. I mean she honestly hardly ever goes out without wearing them. She says it's because her ankles are too skinny, but I think there's more to it than that. My theory is that they are a kind of comfort blanket - an endearing idiosyncrasy that says "This is me: Legwarmer Girl. What about it?". Harriet loves birds too (don't get her started), and is a self-confessed nature geek, but I'm not sure if the two passions are connected. Perhaps the legwarmers could double as emergency sleeping bags for injured wildlife - I can't rule out the possibility that she may have at some point considered this. I must remember to ask her. The other night we were at a party where two other girls were also sporting and espousing the virtues of legwarmers. Much girlie bonding ensued and I must admit to feeling rather left out.

To me, legwarmers will forever be associated with dance classes and childish aspirations to be a ballerina, though of course they were also quite popular as a fashion accessory during my schooldays in the Era That Taste Forgot - the 80s. I do remember getting a rather splendid maroon patterned pair for Christmas, possibly the same year that I got my first pixie boots . I grew out of wearing them on a regular basis after their popularity declined and they disappeared from the shops, which was also around the time that I gave up ballet lessons. The last time I actually bought any for myself would have been a couple of years ago when I was thinking about dressing up as one of the Kids from Fame for a fancy dress party, but then never did. One of the pairs I bought was bright garish pink, and have now been donated to Harriet's collection; the other (black) pair, which I have kept, do come in handy on occasion - like when there's that annoying gap between sock and legging, or if I have particularly chilly ankles.

Today it rained here in Lewes, and my shoes fell apart while I was walking about at lunchtime, so that the sole of one was literally flapping around. What's left of them is now drying on the radiator along with my soggy socks. Thank goodness I happened to be wearing my legwarmers, which are now acting as temporary socks and stopping my toes from going numb in this freezing weather. And very cosy they are too. So today I say, "yay for legwarmers" - now I know why Harriet loves you.

N.B. The legs in the above picture are not Harriet's legs (though hers are very nice too). These are actually from a photo by Stellae et Luna that I found on Flickr.

Dandelion & Burdock

Legend has it that St Thomas Aquinas invented this curious drink from the first ingredients he found when wandering the countryside after an intense night of spiritual reflection. To me, it is a deeply evocative taste associated with childhood, when it was a favourite beverage, along with other popular 70s/80s fizzy drinks like Tizer, Cream Soda, and various Corona 'fruit'-ades. Corona were the best because they offered a 10p bounty on returned bottles, with which you could then buy yourself a decent sized bag of candy sticks or some other lurid confection.

Dandelion & Burdock disappeared off the scene for a while, becoming something you would only find in healthfood shops, by virtue of its supposed detoxifying properties. It's been making a subtle comeback recently, popping up alongside ginger beer in more upmarket pubs and cafés. I found this Fentiman's-branded version at the Blackboys Inn on Sunday. Though it lacked the syrupy texture of its undoutedly additive-laden ancestor, the robust herbal flavour was as strangely alluring as ever. I've never tried using D&B as a mixer, but would be tempted to try it with something aniseedy like Sambuca or even Absinthe - is that wrong? I think the reason this combination springs to mind is that I automatically associate Dandelion & Burdock with another distinctive childhood flavour, Army & Navy Sweets. Again, these are something you don't see around so much these days, except in vintage confectionery shops where they still sell sweets from jars by the quarter.

Recapturing Childhood Magic

When I was a child, we used to get taken on these big jolly picnics with a whole gang from the amdram crowd, including lots of other kids. We'd hike down the steep path from Beachy Head, little ones on shoulders, to a secluded sandy beach under the cliffs and spend long summer Sundays playing rounders, swimming, and going off exploring caves and rockpools while the grown-ups sunbathed. I once even found a fossil there. They were happy times, and I've held that beach in my memory as a place of childhood magic ever since.

On Saturday I finally went back there, hoping to recapture those carefree days and to share it with a few special friends. Contrary to all forecasts, the weather was perfect, with just the right amount of wind for kite-flying, and the place itself was just as beautiful and magical as I'd remembered it. Apart from the odd passing hiker or two, we had the whole beach to ourselves all afternoon, and time seemed to stand still as each of us soaked up the wonderfully tranquil atmosphere. If it hadn't been for the incoming tide, we could have easily sat there all evening - I don't think anyone wanted it to end.

Dragging out the day as much as possible, we stopped for a game of frisbee on the cricket green on the walk back - although the combination of cheap frisbee and a gathering wind made it a little frustrating. It was especially satisfying to pause and appreciate the sea in all its sparkly glory, away from the cheap distractions of Brighton promenade. I even had a brief pang of nostalgia for Eastbourne, as a crystal clear view of the town spread out below us. Sitting in the back of Olly's estate (perfect for picnics!) on the drive back, I was overcome by a severe case of the warm fuzzies, and an immense affection for my fellow passengers. It had been a truly lovely day.

Life Through a Lens

Last night, on my way back from a big photographic exhibition in Birmingham, I popped in to see my brother in Sutton, also hoping to catch my three-year-old nephew before his bed time. After an initially frosty reception from the little boy - "I'm not talking to her" (he can be a bit of a drama queen sometimes - no idea where he gets it from...), I managed to lure him in by producing a camera (grown-up toys are always so much more interesting), and had the honour of teaching him how to take his first ever photographs. He soon got carried away, announcing, "I'm going to take a picture of daddy's hand...uncle Ant's nose....this wall...etc. etc." and the results were amusingly abstract, but he was totally mesmerised by the experience.

I can distinctly remember the thrill of capturing a moment on film (nowadays I guess it would be on screen) for the first time - when I was given a (sadly soon to be obsolete) Polaroid camera at the age of nine. The instant gratification of this format was particularly inspiring, and I can recall enlisting members of my family, often with various soft toys or long-suffering pets in tow, to pose for me around the house. Restricted by the cost of film for this type of camera, I soon moved on to the classic long thin 110 model - I think I had two of these - which served me well on family holidays and the like for the next few years. When my Nana died, I inherited her 126 Kodak Instamatic, which made a satisfyingly mechanical clunk when you took a picture, and required a separate disposable flashcube. Although this was in many ways a more retro model that either of my 110s, I loved the chunky shape and solid feel of it, and best of all, the cute square prints that also had a wonderfully vivid quality, much like the 'lomo' style, that is currently experiencing something of a renaissance. On my 18th birthday, my brother bought me a Nikon compact - my first 35mm model - which was my main camera for over ten years, and took some fantastic shots. I'd rarely go out without my little Nikon, and as a result have an unrivalled record of my times among my peers - earning me the title 'archivist of things you actually would never want archived' on a Facebook group of ex-theatre colleagues recently.

It wasn't until my mid-twenties that I discovered 'proper' photography, when I was given a second-hand Olympus OM10 SLR as a birthday present. Already a a prolific picture-taker, I now had the power to not only capture a moment on film, but to really get creative with my shots - and it was like a little light switching on inside me when I realised the possibilities. Last year I had to finally replace my trusty Nikon point-and-shoot (still handy for taking on nights out, and when you don't have time to faff about with focusing and metering and such), forcing me kicking and screaming into the digital age, I chose a Canon Powershot as it looked and felt the most like a 'real' camera out of the wide variety of models on offer. Whilst I have grown to appreciate the immediacy and money-saving aspect of digital photography, I really miss the thrill of taking in a film to get developed, never quite knowing what to expect. Many times have I sat laughing to myself on a bench outside Boots as I flicked through the evidence of a drunken weekend, prompting memories which would have otherwise been lost. Which is why I will keep the OM10 going, even though I now also have a digital SLR - a Nikon D40x. It's quite refreshing to be able to go back to the mechanical simplicity of a film SLR after tackling the seemingly endless functions and intimidatingly huge potential of its digital counterpart.

I hope that my nephew, Isaac, will have as much fun with photography as I have over the years - from his initial enthusiasm and impressive dexterity (for a three-year-old) last night, I would say there is a fair chance he'll take to it with the same gusto. Like his exhibitionist auntie, Isaac also enjoys posing in front of the camera - which I maintain is all part of the process of learning to take better pictures. And that's not just me trying to justify my propensity to pose (honest) - feeling comfortable on both sides of the lens allows one to empathise with the subject, and helps build a well-rounded relationship with the camera that can prove invaluable, especially in people photography. Already I am researching 'My First Digital Camera' options, (even though the boy's birthday is not until September) and am amazed at the choices on offer. As the excellent BBC4 series, The Genius of Photography recently demonstrated, we've come a long way since the first permanent photograph was made back in the early nineteenth century, and it's good to know that amongst all the technology and inventions available to today's generation, the good old fashioned (even in its advanced era) camera still has the power to excite and inspire.

A selection of my OM10 shots: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar/sets/72157600364795694/

Some photos from my pre-digital, point-and-shoot era: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar/sets/72157594561981195/

My first foray into compact digital photography: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar/sets/72157600238724322/

A recent set taken on the Nikon D40x DSLR: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar/sets/72157603558215940/

A Pixie Revelation

I spend almost all of my lunch breaks just pottering around Lewes - popping into its many excellent charity shops, and such eccentric local institutions as Mays General Store, Bill’s and Tizz’s, where one can easily waste a good 20 minutes window shopping. Very occasionally, I will venture into one of the few *shock horror* high street shops that are actually a rarity here, where many of the businesses are, amazingly, still local and independent. Yesterday I was in one of the high street shoe shops, harbouring a vague notion about new boots (don’t get your hopes up Ant), when I was amused to discover that pixie boots are back in fashion. I can distinctly remember my first pair of these 80s classics, as it was also the year (1985 I think) when I discovered that Father Christmas was less flesh-and-blood actual being, more parentally-executed benevolent concept (or so it was rather sweetly explained to me by my kind and inventive mother). I discovered this because those much-coveted pixie boots (black suede, with tassels, oh yes), delivered as I thought by Santa, all the way from Lapland, had to be exchanged in a high street shoe shop in Eastbourne, thanks to my ever-expanding 10 year old feet. My suspicions had of course already been raised by playground rumours and an ever-developing sense of cynicism, but this was the moment when the penny finally dropped and I resigned myself to the disappointing truth. So I will always associate pixie boots with the end of childhood magic, and the beginning of rational adulthood. Rather ironic when you think about it.

1987

I found my first ever diary, from 1987. It was the year I left junior school and started secondary school. It's not very interesting - mostly just accounts of events without much insight, but a few telling comments made me laugh and even shed the odd tear. I think I gave Ant a pathos overload attack when I read out a bit about our leaver's disco at Stafford, which said: "The boys all laughed at me when I danced, so I didn't dance." I felt sad at first remembering being unpopular and an object of ridicule, but then it made me glad that through it I learnt to be resilient and strong. I suppose it's made me be more picky about my friends and probably a better judge of character, too. These days I wouldn't stop dancing if I was being laughed at, which I'm sure has happened on occaision. I'd probably even hoik up my skirts (metaphorically speaking) and go for it even more.