Expecting Without A Bump

About a year ago, I asked my eight year old nephew how he’d feel about getting another cousin. His eyes lit up, and instinctively flicked to my tummy, then back to my face, with a questioning smile. Having witnessed his other auntie pregnant twice, and been fascinated by the development of each bump, and the little friends that eventually materialised, I could see in his beaming face the excitement of what he assumed would be about to happen again. I almost felt sad to have to break the spell in order to tell him that this time it would be a bit different; there would be no bump.

I had picked my moment carefully to talk to him about this, because he’s incredibly important to me, and I wanted him to feel completely involved and comfortable with my journey to parenthood. “Do you know what adoption means?” was my next question; there was less recognition in his expression, but his inquisitive nature kept the impetus of the moment alive, and I began to explain. He was remarkably relaxed and accepting of what he was being told: that Auntie RoRo and Uncle Ant would give a home to a child or children whose parents couldn’t look after them anymore.  His inevitable concerns were: “will it be a boy?” and “will they be older than me?”. Since then, we have talked about it in an open and matter of fact way, and he seems to be looking forward to the event.

The day I told Isaac we were adopting.

I have had the same, if slightly more sophisticated, version of this conversation, with many of my friends, family and colleagues over the past few months. All of them have been excited and encouraging, too, but I sometimes get the sense that their initial well-wishes are couched in an underlying sadness on my behalf. I suppose it is (and rightly) assumed that if you are coming to adoption, there must be a sad reason that you could not conceive naturally, and that adoption is somehow second best. This is not at all how I feel about it.

At this moment in time, just weeks away from becoming a mum, I am as joyful and expectant as any parent-to-be. I am nesting, putting child-proof catches on cupboard doors, making regular trips to Mothercare, and all the other usual things that pregnant women do. The only differences are that I am also preparing myself for the unique challenges of being a parent to an adopted child, I don’t have to pick out names, and I’m not carrying round an ever-growing bump for all to admire. I am bursting with love for my two almost-children, and grateful to fate, karma, or whatever you believe in, for bringing them into my lives. This pregnancy is of the heart.

Several of my colleagues at work have also been expecting over the past year, and have been very considerate in including me in their conversations about imminent parenthood. But it has thrown into contrast again the differences in reaction between physical pregnancy and adoption. When one of the girls announces they are pregnant to the rest of the office, there is group merriment and a surge of shared emotion. The words “congratulations” and “wow” are used a lot. This usually happens just after the 12 week scan, once they are into the “safe” stage, but with adoption, there is no such milestone around which to stage a big announcement. We have been filling in forms, meeting social workers and swotting up on child psychology for months, and the process of telling people has been very gradual during that time. It’s only in the last few weeks, when we’ve known who our actual children would be, that the real excitement has been evident. I suppose until then, with no bump, it is just not as tangible an event.

As we approached our panel date recently (the moment when we were officially approved to become parents to the children with whom we’d been matched), I’d been pondering on how to celebrate the (hopefully) good news. Like any expectant parent, I wanted to be able to share my excitement with friends and family, and to involve them in my children’s lives before their arrival. It felt much like that 12 week scan moment, only much closer to the arrival, and there’s no picture of a foetus to put on Facebook. So I started looking around for ideas – perhaps other people had come up with a way to share the news – but everything I found was from the US, and largely to do with international adoption. I found photos of couples holding a globe or map showing the country from which they were adopting, but nothing from this country by parents who’d adopted from here. It seems people are reluctant to shout about the fact that they’re adopting, like it’s a dark secret they have to conceal from the world. I find it hard to accept this, and I think the lack of open celebration about adoption probably contributes to the ongoing mystery surrounding it.

Photo by cambodia4kidsorg on Flickr

Increasingly I get the sense that the very concept of adoption is intimidating to most people. As a nation, we are remarkably ignorant about it – and I’d have included myself in that up until recently. I have begun to think that if there was less mystique about the whole process, and if we knew more about the children waiting for new families, we would be less inclined to produce more of our own biological offspring,  and more likely to embrace the idea of bringing up someone else’s. And if it were more commonplace, maybe we would celebrate news of an adoption in the same way that we swoon over a pregnancy. But we are afraid because we know that adopted children can be difficult. We know that they might reject us, might not look or behave like us, worried that we won’t be able to love them. 

I know it won’t be simple or straightforward, but I am filled with conviction for the task ahead. I have been given the opportunity to turn two little lives around, and I mean to embrace it wholeheartedly. Alongside this determination is a growing need to enlighten others about adoption and to make them feel more open to the idea. My nephew’s unaffected reaction was the right one – if someone’s parent can’t look after them then it makes sense that another adult would naturally want to help them.  In some cultures this is the case, and there is no concept of children waiting perhaps years to find a new home. Having had the urge myself at some point, I can completely understand the need to produce at least one biological offspring, but why have two or three more when there are children already out there without parents?  In 2013, there were over 65,000 ‘looked after’ children in the UK, and only 4,000 or so adoptions. If only a fraction of the 700,000 people who had given birth that year had adopted instead, all of those children in care could have found new homes.  To me these are startling, even shocking, statistics.

Perhaps the main reason more people don’t come to adoption proactively, and that there aren’t any common customs for celebrating with those who do adopt, is that we don’t talk, or even think, about it enough in society. It’s an uncomfortable truth; something other people do. We teach children about safe sex and the responsibilities of parenthood, but many of them will never come across adoption unless they happen to know someone who is adopted, or have friends who are adopters. And even then, there are no accepted conventions for exploring the subject.

The past year and a half has been an incredible learning journey, during which I have become increasingly enlightened about adoption; I have found the process to be in equal parts fascinating and emotional. I’m academically stimulated by the books on child psychology and therapeutic parenting techniques, but constantly affected by the shocking case studies of real children who have been neglected, abused and un-cared for.  Having known a few adoptive families throughout my life, I considered myself fairly well informed, but I now realise there was so much I never knew, or even considered, about adoption. I find myself eagerly sharing my recently gained knowledge with anyone who shows an interest, wanting to spread more understanding. My friends and family have readily engaged with this, and the questions that people ask, and the assumptions they make about adoption, have made for interesting discussions. I've welcomed the opportunity to dispel a few myths along the way, for example:

They’re only babies – surely they won’t remember anything from before? Firstly, there are very few babies available for domestic adoption these days. Since the stigma of unwed mothers and underage pregnancies has become less intense, hardly anyone relinquishes babies any more. And as for not remembering, there is a lot of evidence to suggest that even children who are adopted at a very young age carry baggage from their life before – whether that be fully formed memories or primal, sensory ones. Nancy Verrier argues in her book, The Primal Wound, that children separated from their mothers will always bear the scars created by that fundamental, life-changing rift. On top this, most adopted children have also been exposed to some form of neglect or abuse which will have affected their very blueprint for operating in life. To try and sweep that history under the carpet is like ignoring a lump – it may seem easier not to confront it, but you know deep down that it will be worse in the long term if you don’t. Everything I have been learning is about unpicking the past for these children, while helping them to survive and thrive in the future.

Why does the adoption process take so long? People don’t have to go through all that to have birth children – it’s ridiculous. No, but birth children come to you fresh and unsullied. You can rely on your instincts to parent them, protect them from harm in the world, and raise them with your own values and habits. Adopted children have already been imprinted with tragedy and loss, and your job in parenting them is more challenging, less intuitive. I have been grateful for the time to prepare, and do not in the least resent having been subject to a thorough screening process that is entirely in the interests of both parents and child. And in fact it doesn’t take that long these days – at least it shouldn’t if things go smoothly. It only took us six months to get approved, and a further nine to find the right match – which is about the same as an average physical pregnancy if you count the time of trying to conceive.

When will you tell the child he or she is adopted? There is no big reveal - it will be something we always talk openly about. We’ll create a life story book for the child, so that they can learn about their birth parents as well as us, their ‘forever family’. We’ll try our best to answer their questions and proactively help them to come to terms with their unique journey.

What will you do if your child tries to find its birth parents later? Most adoptions these days have some form of ‘contact’, which means their birth parents will be present in some capacity all along. Usually this is in the form of annual letterbox contact between birth parents and adoptive parents, although sometimes there is direct contact, if this is deemed in the best interests of the child. I welcome this, because it takes some of the mystery out of it for the child. I don’t want them - like Orphan Annie singing “maybe far away, or maybe real nearby” - day dreaming about the fantasy mum and dad who will one day come and sweep them up. Better that they should have a realistic picture of their birth parents, and that they come to understand why they needed to be adopted. If one day they decide they want to get to know their birth parents better, I will do all I can to support them, and be there to help them through the likely emotional fall-out.

You’ll probably get pregnant as soon as you’re placed with a child – that always happens. I find this a difficult one to respond to, because I know people mean well in saying it, but this belief undermines my own acceptance of the journey to parenthood that I have chosen. If you are struggling to know what to say in response to someone’s adoption news, the best thing you could ask is “what can I do to help?”.  More than any cursory encouragement you’d offer a new mum, extend your sincere promise of practical and emotional support for the person who will be facing the daily, perhaps all-consuming, challenges of parenting an adopted child.

For me, the journey of adoptive parenthood is just beginning, and I’m sure there’ll be many more outpourings of words, opinions and emotions to come. This is a moment, a standing-on-the-edge-of-something moment, where I cannot help but reflect on all that brought me here and all that lies ahead. If in sharing my thoughts I have inspired even one other person to open their eyes to the realities of adoption, and to feel more comfortable about celebrating it, I am content.

***

Should you be interested in learning more about adoption in the 21^st century, there are some useful resources on Adoption UK’s website, and I would highly recommend the book 20 Things Adopted Kids Wish Their Adoptive Parents Knew by Sherrie Eldridge, which gives a voice to the great unheard.

I Wanna Take You To A Wine Bar, Wine Bar

It's only mid July, but I feel like summer has been around forever already, and it's one of those summers that you look start to back on fondly even before it's over. It feels distinct as an era that kicked off with being Mabel and has sprawled into long laid back evenings of rosé and repartee. New friendships have been formed, and old ones cemented; I've soaked up the rays in Greece, India, Paris and Eastbourne, and even on the odd rainy day, I've had enough sunshine under my skin to see me through to the next blazingly good one.

Galvanised by this enduring feel-good factor, last night a gang of us took the train to Lewes, in search of a mini adventure and in celebration of several birthdays. We spent most of the evening in Symposium, a swish off licence-come-wine-bar, where you can sit and enjoy all sorts of hand-picked and unusual wines at retail price (plus corkage) and nibble on local cheeses and other treats. There's nothing like this place in Eastbourne, and I'd recommend it as a nice change from either pub or restaurant. The service and atmosphere were both excellent as we made our way through three distinctive bottles of red. After bottle two, I decided it would be a good idea to start vlogging, and this was the result...

If you enjoyed my boozy Lewes vlog, I've also made little films of my recent travels to Athens, The Peloponnese, Wales and Stockholm.

The Peloponnese: A Land of Wonders Ancient & Natural

Olympia. Corinth. Sparta. Mycenae. These are place names that command reverence, and fuel the imagination with epic scenes of ancient warfare, industry, poetry, philosophy, athletics. The Peloponnese could be called the birth place of Western Civilisation, such are its unrivaled historical riches. But it's also a place of breathtaking natural beauty: fearsome mountains, idyllic beaches and spellbinding horizons; a place in which I found myself weeping at the majestic marriage of landscape and legend.

I've explored the Greek Islands many times in the past, and fallen in love with their quaint cosiness and warm-hearted intimacy. When I thought of Greece, I'd picture dinky whitewashed houses with splashes of vibrant blue, straggly cats trotting down cobbled streets, lemon trees in tiny tavernas. But in the Peloponnese I found an entirely different vision of Greece, one that has stamped itself firmly on my heart. Every day of our road trip held new delights; each rambling ruin or zigzagged mountain road more spectacular than the last. And the sun shone almost constantly. And the food was amazing. It was one of the loveliest holidays, and I hope I have captured in our vlog some of the magic of the place. But if you haven't already, you really ought to go and see for yourself.

If you didn't see our Athens vlog, read the post and watch the video here.

Sleeping & Eating in The Peloponnese - The Best Places

Gemelos taverna, Ancient Corinth
Stone cottage in Olympia via AirBNB
Flisvos restaurant, Koroni
Chillbox frozen yoghurt (chain)
Farm Stay AirBNB near Gouves
To Omorfo Tavernaki, Nafplio
Villa with a view near Nafplio

Long Weekend in Athens

Like many large European capitals, Athens is a city of contrasts: between ancient and modern, cultural and pragmatic, real life and tourism. But on my first visit to this ancient metropolis last month, I found it to be even more strikingly diverse than most. I was lucky enough to be staying out of the tourist centre in a friends' apartment - always a good start to a great adventure - and was charmed as much by the everyday people and places as by the more obvious historical attractions. 

At the historical heart of Athens sits Plaka, all higgeldy piggeldy streets, charmingly crumbling stone steps, and crowned by the Acropolis and its legendary temples. We found our way up to the top by a roundabout route, taking in the residential backstreets and peeking into tiny tavernas along the way. It would be churlish to say I wasn't impressed by the ruins in the Acropolis, but in all honesty they stayed with me less than other parts of the weekend. The view from the top is amazing, though, and it's well worth climbing onto the rocks opposite the site entrance to soak it up. We ended up returning to Plaka to eat and drink a few times, and loved this stepped street of bars particularly 

Outside of the picturesque centre lies a sprawling concrete jungle, the result of extreme unplanned growth in a short space of time. But look past the less-than-pretty buildings and you will discover, as we did, a city full of character, warmth and charisma. It is a place to eat well, drink enthusiastically and wander aimlessly.If you love history and museums, this is one of the greatest cities to visit, rich with an ancient and proud heritage. The national archaeological museum is particularly impressive, but other hidden gems are dotted around everywhere, including in tube stations and along side streets. 

Our adventures took us to some unlikely suburbs - easily found on the straightforward metro system - including leafy Kolonaki, busy ferry port Piraeus and chi-chi yuppy hang-out, Kifisia, where bar-lined streets and leafy people-watching spots were plentiful. In just four days there, I really felt like we started to get under the skin of the place, and honestly was sad to leave so soon. Have a watch of our Athens vlog to see what else we got up to on the trip. We also carried on to the Peloponese, and there'll be a separate post/video of that soon, too.

Some of the places mentioned in the video:
Nice & Easy restaurant
Old Fashioned cocktail bar in Psiri
Diogenes Taverna, Plaka
Chillbox frozen yoghurt (all over the place)
Alexandrou Pavli St in Panormou
National Archaeological Museum
Turkish baths (and Folk Museum)
Temple of Poseidon, Sounion

First Night Reflections - Pirates of Penzance with Eastbourne G&S

Tonight is the opening night of Eastbourne G&S’s Pirates of Penzance, and I shall be playing Mabel – the leading lady. I joined the cast after someone else dropped out, only a month or so ago, and have crammed like mad to learn the part. It’s been 20 years since I performed in a show (not counting the odd concert or wedding) and I find it hard to believe where the time has gone. In those years (since Die Fledermaus with EODS in 1994), a lot has happened. I’ve been to university, had four different partners and married one of them, moved to London, Brighton and back to Eastbourne again, I’ve worked in bookshops, publishing, social media and beauty, lost two close contemporaries to cancer, become an auntie, bought a flat and now a house, and travelled to dozens of countries. But amongst all that, I have missed singing. I should say, I’ve never actually stopped singing – to myself around the house, in the car, while out shopping, and jamming with friends – but there’s nothing like the thrill of a paying/willing audience to reward one’s efforts.

As I warm up my rusty vocal cords this afternoon, I'm doing my best to channel Ben and Rose - my great-grandparents – who met as opera singers in the D’Oyly Carte. Thanks to them I have grown up with a love of Gilbert & Sullivan - having the hits sung to me by my mum, and learning many arias myself to perform in festivals and concerts. With all that familial sway, it amazes me that I have reached my thirties before actually performing in a full-blown G&S show. But here I am, limbering up for a week of piratical adventures, complete with tongue twisting lyrics and breath-defying cadenzas. I’m excited and nervous in equal measure, but wasn't that always the case?

Ben & Rose Williams

If you’d like to witness my theatrical comeback, tickets are on sale from Eastbourne Theatres and we are performing from tonight until Saturday, with matinees on Weds and Sat. You can sneak a little preview by watching the video above, of a promotional sing the cast did in Eastbourne town centre last weekend.

Five Days in Stockholm: ABBA, Vikings, Shopping & Buns

Flying into Stockholm at sunset is a rather magical experience; the jagged patchwork of islands glowing beneath you, bathed in a phosphorescent pinky-yellow that you only seem to get in the Nordics. I’d last been to Sweden ten years ago, on the way to the Roskilde Rock Festival in Denmark, and before that to visit a friend in Gothenburg, but never to the country’s capital.

Our long weekend was largely spent shopping (Stockholm has a good range of boutique/vintage and unfamiliar high street clothes shops), eating cinnamon buns, eating generally, and bimbling around the different islands across which the city is spread. There were occasional bouts of culture (if you can count ‘ABBA the Museum’ as such), and some very special time spent with family in the leafy suburbs, but mostly we were there to relax and soak up the atmosphere.

Before going to Stockholm, I’d had a vision in my mind of a sparkling and elegant city, with sparkling and elegant inhabitants. It is certainly a smart city in places, but turned out to be a lot shabbier around the edges than I’d expected, largely due to extensive ongoing building work around the place, and a slight grubbiness which may well have been a symptom of the time of year we visited: not quite in the bloom of spring, but falling out of the mysterious darkness of winter into a more exposed state.

But it was an easy place to be. Our apartment was on a quiet street in Södermalm (apparently the hippest part of town), and only a short walk across the water in the Gamla Stan (Old Town) and on into Östermalm – the chi-chi city centre whose extravagant department stores make John Lewis feel downmarket. It was in one of these that Ant managed to finally replace the beloved Stetson Hatteras hat he’d lost some time ago on a train, and where I had to have words with myself about the practicalities of transporting a fabulous-but-enormous light fitting back in my little wheelie suitcase.

One of the highlights of the city for me was the surprisingly dinky cathedral, which is tucked away in the Old Town. The interior was smart and light and not at all oppressive (which many grand religious spaces can be), sporting stylish light fittings and some old artworks that were well worth a look. I was also rather taken with the foodie culture of the place. We managed to eat very well, especially at Rival (which I am told is pronounced ‘Reevaal’), the restaurant in Benny from ABBA’s swanky hotel which was just around the corner from our flat.

On the last day of the trip, we travelled a short way north of Stockholm to visit Uppsala, a significant historical site which you may recall, if you have been watching Vikings, as the setting for sacred pilgrimage, debauched festivities and gruesome human sacrifice. All that is left of such legend now are an impressive 250 barrows (burial mounds) and a 12th century church which may have been built on the site of the fabled Norse temple that is believed to have once been at the centre of these dark rituals. The freezing weather on the day we visited only added to the chilling atmosphere of the place, which even though boxed in by roads, a railway line and housing estate, manages to maintain an eerie ambience. No doubt his was fuelled in part by my own fascination with Viking culture, which has lately been re-ignited by the terribly silly but compelling TV series.

Much of the trip is captured in this little video diary we kept along the way, which ends a bit abruptly because we forgot to film a final entry when we got home. But have a watch if you fancy seeing a bit more of Sweden's capital. There are lots of cakes and it gives a good feel for the different parts of the city.

The Annual Pentacle Drummers’ Wassail (aka Ro’s gloriously self indulgent prog fest)

My love for prog rock and psychedelic folk is not something that often gets indulged outside of private spaces like home, headphones, or car. I do appreciate that prog especially is not to everyone’s taste; some of my friends even go so far as to express an active loathing for the genre, and so unless I’m in musically-likeminded company I don’t tend to subject others to this particular section of my record collection. In the past I've gotten away with sticking the odd proggy track into the midst of a more crowd-pleasing DJ set or party playlist (Hocus Pocus by Focus is a staple), and I do recall one Green Man festival when I danced the night away to some extremely esoteric tunes spun by Freakier Zone’s Professor Justin Spear, but it’s a rare thing to be able to jump up and down to this type of music in a public place and to be among people who enjoy it as much as I do. Last night I felt like a very lucky girl when I was allowed, nay encouraged, to play a whole evening’s worth of folky-proggy goodness at the Pentacle Drummers’ Wassail.

For those that don’t know, a Wassail is a pagan festival where mulled cider is drunk and apple trees are blessed in the hopes of a good crop from the next harvest. Although an ancient ritual, this particular event - held at Stone Cross Nurseries - is still in its infancy, having started up only last year. The first Pentacle Drummers’ Wassail in 2013 was a magical night, made extra sparkly by the timely snowfall that turned the torch lit procession to the newly planted orchard into a scene from Game of Thrones (minus the raping and pillaging). This year the weather conditions were entirely less frozen, but equally extreme. “Bring your wellies”, we were told.

As the punters started arriving in the early evening, I eased them in with some gentle (some might say accessible) folk, including First Aid Kit, Imagined Village and Iron & Wine. The mellowing effects of these soothing tunes were then spectacularly undone by the invigorating opening performance from the Pentacles, whose primal pagan drumming is about as far from the sunny Samba scene as you can imagine. They were followed by belly dancers Tribal Unity and the fabulously attired Steampunk Morris, until it was time for the procession.

Sadly there was no bonfire this year, but given that the field was one big puddle due to the relentless rainfall these past few weeks, this may well have been problematic anyway. Nonetheless, the excitable atmosphere swelled as we tramped like Vikings through a bog, fiery torches in hand. A little girl in front of me squeaked “I love all this muddy stuff” as she skipped through the mire, and I had to agree that it did lend a certain dramatic something to the occasion, albeit more Waterworld than Narnia.

At the orchard we sang songs, heard prayers to gods ancient and new, had a little dance in the mud, and shared apple cake and cider from last year’s harvest (although not from these saplings, which are too young to bear fruit). As the crowd began to disperse, I dashed on ahead to line up some rousing music to welcome them back inside, choosing Led Zeppelin’s 'Immigrant Song', followed by some Yes and Yellow Moon Band. People (including, but not only, me) were up and dancing. Noone was shouting ‘get this nonsense off'. I was relieved.

Next was the raffle – all for a good cause and with some fun prizes (Linda and I were disappointed not to win the Witch Weekend in Glastonbury; maybe we'll go anyway) – but a little bit of a mood-killer, just when we were getting into the swing. But Greg’s witty raffle repartee kept us merry, and then it was time for more drumming and dancing, but not before I’d snuck in a couple of tracks, including Tame Impala’s ‘Elephant’, to which the drummers rather brilliantly started tapping along.

This may have been around the time when I drank the 8% farmhouse cider that ruined me, since the rest of the night is something of a happy hazy blur. I do distinctly recall grinning like a loon at a seven or eight year old girl with rainbow face paint, who was moshing around with us to Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s ‘Hoedown’, and thinking what great musical taste she had for such a young thing. The headline act of the evening was a very entertaining goth-rock band from Totnes called ROxIRcle, who enabled my frenzied flailing (one could hardly call it dancing) to continue.

I knew I wanted the night to end with Focus (as every good night should, but rarely does), and I managed to sneak in playing ‘Syliva’ to the departing hordes before packing up my things and calling a cab for me and my cohorts. I cannot tell you what a joyful experience all of this was for me. I may never get to have such a wonderfully self-indulgent night of DJ-ing ever again, but I will always have the memory of this Wassail. Even the monster hangover was worth it.

If you've been reading this thinking "that selection of music sounds like my worst nightmare", you probably won't want to listen to this Spotify playlist I made of my DJ set. But otherwise, knock yourself out. And don't forget the cider.

The Best of 2013 - Looking Back at The Year

There's no escaping it, I've been terrible at keeping up with my blog this year. In fact, it's been slowly neglected since its peak in 2008, when I published a mega 122 posts. In 2013, I'd written exactly one post, with this last minute one taking it up to a grand total of two. I feel bad about it, because my blog was somewhere I would capture all the interesting things going on in my life, if only to aid my own reminiscence in years to come. I've let my future self down.

Blogging has also been a welcome non-work related outlet for my writing over the years, although in recent times, since my job has largely involved creating non-stop content for others, I must admit I've struggled to find the discipline to sit down at weekends and churn out any more words. I do think Facebook and Twitter are also partly to blame, providing a handy platform to share bite-sized accounts of holidays, events and the like, so that sometimes a whole self-indulgent blog post can feel a tad superfluous.

But what the hell, I have had a lovely year on the whole, so here it is in one long vainglorious digest. Even if you only skim over and look at the pretty pictures, I'd say it's worth a look. I would promise to try harder in 2014, but I have a feeling I'd be kidding myself and you.

January

We spent 1st January in Slapton, Devon, recovering from a night out in the village pub the night before with Harriet, Lewys and their friends. Our gentle New Year's Day involved a rather picturesque walk around Slapton Ley and down to the beach, before driving back to Eastbourne less than 24 hours after we'd arrived.

We may not have had a White Christmas in 2012, but the snow arrived in time for the annual Wassail ceremony in January, lending the event a little extra elemental magic. This atmospheric procession of fire and ice led us to the traditional blessing of a new orchard and back again to raise a glass of hot spicy cider to the apple trees.

Our first proper cultural outing of the year (not including Panto and the infamous Cod panto - as seen above - which is performed every year by the crew), was to see One Man, Two Guvnors at the Theatre Royal Haymarket. I don't think I have ever laughed so hard at a show before, and I honestly thought Jordan might wet herself when the waiter fell backwards down the stairs. Tears were rolling down our cheeks.

February

The end of January and most of February were socially and culturally sparse, thanks to me being laid up with a trapped nerve that made work difficult and any kind of strenuous activity (including driving) impossible, but I did manage a couple of gentle outings during the rehabilitation period. My first gig of the year was Boo Hewerdine at the Greys in Brighton. Little did I know then that he'd be back again to play at my local pub, The Lamb, in October. A double-Boo year is a good year.

I am very grateful to the friends and family who accompanied me on restorative walks and comforting cake missions during my sick leave, including Jo and Nancy who came over for a bit of both during the February half term. Nancy could hardly bring herself to eat this beautiful rainbow cake, made by the lovely ladies at Neate's.

March

This little nephew braved the elements with us for an Easter trip down to Devon in Kiki the campervan, and saw his first waterfall during a magical walk around Lydford Gorge. We also visited a wild and windswept Tintagel, and discovered that Nutella and custard is an outstanding topping for pancakes.

Having succumbed to the hype, a gang of us went to see Matilda the Musical in London, which was excellent for a children's show but not quite as subversive and edgy as the critics would have you believe. If anything, I thought Dahl's anarchic brilliance was somewhat tamed by being set to music, but it was a fabulous day out which ended with drinks at my old favourite theatrical dive, the Phoenix bar.

April

More outdoor adventures happened in April, when the weather was kinder, and we camped out in Graffham with Kiki and her best friend Olive (and Olive's keepers Steve and Linda). No campfires allowed in this woodland site, but it was a splendid base for an all-day walk with a pub lunch along the way, and several games of Kubb.

May

I've always wanted to dress up as Abba with my sister and our other halves, and what better occasion than the Swedish-hosted Eurovision in May? An evening of international snacks, key-change drinking games and endless wig-swapping ensued.

After a night of all-out campery, sometimes one needs to reset the balance with an injection of wilful geekery, and we managed to combine some of this with a day out at Michelham Priory with Andrew and Amy, where we spent at least an hour talking to a couple of skilled flint-knappers who were there as part of an ancient crafts fair.

A visit from the in-laws prompted us to visit Glynde Place for the first time, and to have lunch at the Trevor Arms for the first time in a while. Both were most pleasant, as was a trip to Bexhill in the sunshine, where we found some sort of exciting boat race going on.

June

At the end of May and into the start of June, Kiki and Olive reunited for a trip to the Welsh mountains, for the tiny and wonderful Fire in the Mountain Festival. Red kites swooped overhead, the sun beat down for three days straight and all kinds of music poured out of every nook and cranny of the little farm. We learned Appalachian flat foot dancing, sang in harmony with our fellow festy-goers, bonded around camp fires and ceilidh-d our way through the weekend, but Ant's highlight was a morning spent in the woodcrafts area, turning a new stick to replace a broken one in our Kubb set, so that we could teach more new found friends how to play. 

This photo (my favourite one of the year) was taken at Rubjerg Knude Fyr in Denmark, on one of the sunniest days of our Nordic adventure at the end of June, just before we reached the very top of the country. Having driven up through The Netherlands and Germany, we explored most of Jutland and Odense and discovered stunning beaches, fairytale castles and heart-breakingly magnificent midnight sunsets. Of all the delights Denmark had to offer, though, I was most affected by its very tip - Skagen - where the distinctive light has inspired many generations of artists including the troubled but brilliant P.S. Krøyer, and where you can stand (as we did) with one foot in the Baltic, and one in the Atlantic, watching the two seas gently crash into each other. I have never been so transfixed by a painting as by Krøyer's Midsummer's Eve Bonfire on Skagen's Beach, which captures a community of painters, fishermen and poets gathered together for the midsummer festival, their relationships and emotions exposed by the haunting glow of the fire.

July

Sometimes after going to far-flung places, you need to remind yourself that there's no place like home. This pretty little spot just down the road at Cooden Beach was the scene of a few mini getaways over the summer; the perfect place to escape to on a Friday night to watch the sun set, cook a barbecue supper, walk along the sand, camp out in Kiki, and even one time, to watch a seal dancing about with the morning tide.

The day after this particular idyllic evening, we went on one of the shortest-lived but most memorable picnics ever; our Brighton friends struggled through traffic diversions to make it just in time for the heavens to open literally ten minutes after we'd all trekked up the hill and sat down to eat. But nevermind, because the communal soaking led to much retrospective merriment, as we all dried off and warmed up with cups of tea back at our place.

July was also a good month for gigs, with Ana Silvera at The Vortex in London, and Regina Spektor at the De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill both soothing us into the height of summer.

August

Photo by Paul Spink.

August is the month of open air Shakespeare in Eastbourne, and this year's EODS offering was The Tempest. I've often thought that they should use the seafront setting to its full advantage and put on this shipwreck/desert island drama, and was so happy to see the minimal set incorporating the natural backdrop of the sea. To see my brother in law in a frock was an added bonus in what turned out to be an excellent production. I'd recommend you read James's review which sums it all up rather well.

A family camping weekend near Bodiam castle and a trip to its medieval festival was another highlight of the summer holidays. I especially loved seeing one year old Axel relishing The Great Outdoors as an opportunity to test out his newly toddling legs. I'm not too sure how impressed he was with this medieval monk, though.

September

The End of the Road Festival is so called because it claims to be the final festival of the summer, happening as it does at the end of August/beginning of September weekend. I've been a couple of times before, in 2009 and 2010, but it had changed a bit in the last three years. For one thing, there was an extra stage for the main acts, which took them out of the cosy walled garden and into a less intimate open field. It's still a small festival compared with many others, but I did find the cuteness has slipped somewhat. Nevertheless, it was an excellent weekend, with some memorable gigs including David Byrne and St Vincent and Ed Harcourt among my personal favourites, not to mention our own outstanding performance as the cast of a five minute production of The Wizard of Oz, which you can see for yourself above. 

Ant also experienced his first silent disco, at the end of our absinthe-fuelled final night. If you've never been to one of these, you should - it's truly hilarious. Especially when you take your headphones off and hear everyone singing along out of tune as can be witnessed here. Pure joy!

September brought a third Mini Maker Faire in Brighton, after months of preparation and promotion. I got to interview Maggie Philbin (yes, she of Tomorrow's World fame) and Bill Thompson among others as part of my live reporting duties - have a listen to the podcasts here. 

It was also the most colourful month of the year, thanks to a visit from Neel (who now lives in Melbourne), at whose Colour Block party I was one of only a few who chose to dress in green. Interestingly, pink and red were the most popular colours, and we discovered that far too many people base their knowledge of the rainbow on the children's song (which has the colours in completely the wrong order) rather than any useful acronymic reminder.

My birthday weekend was a special one spent eating cake and playing games with loved ones, and catching up with old friends at Paul D's 50th party on the Sunday. It's rare you get to see the theatre crew decked out in posh clothes (frocks are far more common); they don't scrub up too badly at all.

October

As the nights started drawing in during October, we finally (after three years of living here) got around to decorating our bedroom and living room, ridding them of our predecessors' wallpaper and replacing the dreaded peacocks with far more soothing stripes. On the cultural front, there was an outing to see Cabaret at The Congress, my abiding memory of which will always be the overheard conversations of bemused punters who'd come expecting Pop Idol style jollity and were apparently upset to be confronted by harrowing holocaust themes. "I preferred The Bodyguard" was one classic comment.

My favourite film of the year, Le Week-end, was also in October. The touching and intentionally uncomfortable story of an ageing couple celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary in Paris, it starred the master of pathos, Jim Broadbent, elegantly foiled by Lindsay Duncan as his beautiful but jaded wife. 

November

November was a momentous month for us, because after almost year of assessment and preparation, we were officially approved to become adoptive parents. We celebrated the day with an ice cream on the beach and a trip to Brighton to collect Bobbie and Anna's G-plan sideboard (now in pride of place against the new stripy wallpaper in our lounge). This photo was taken on the weekend before panel, on the Downs above East Dean.

It was also an important month for Doctor Who, which celebrated its 50th birthday with a feature length spectacular that was shown in cinemas as well as on TV. It so happened that our Who-mad nephew and his mum were visiting that weekend, so we of course took them to see it in 3D at the Crumbles after loading up on pizza.

December

This is my favourite snap from Ant's birthday soirée last week, capturing as it does the camp insanity of the evening. The theme was Fanlight Fanny's Festive Frolic, and festively frolic we did. And yes, that is me in the turban; what of it? I've spared Ant the humiliation of posting a picture of him in drag, although if you ask him nicely, I'm sure he'll be persuaded to share.

I haven't mentioned work at all in this post yet, although it's obviously taken up quite a lot of my year. That's not because I don't enjoy what I do (because I do), but unless you're also a social media/digital type person it might be a bit dull. One work thing of which I am really proud this year, and that I think you might enjoy, is this animated Christmas ad I conceived and commissioned for The Body Shop.

Christmas itself was spent Up North this year, and after 300 miles of battling through wind and rain, we managed to relax for a few days of quality time with the Miller clan, even making it as far as The Lakes for a family gathering in a soft play centre.

I expect there are many other highlights I've neglected to mention (please, do remind me of them), but these are some that stick in my mind as special and memorable occasions. Thank you to everyone who has helped make 2013 a very jolly and fulfilling year; I really am a very lucky girl.

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So on the last day of 2013, I'm sat here reflecting on the past 12 months, and contemplating the year ahead. It certainly looks set to be eventful, if not for the same reasons as this year and the ones that went before it. I hope I'll be able to find time to show my blog a little love in the months ahead, but if I don't, you'll know why.

Happy New Year, one and all.