Present or correct

Here we are at the start of February, having seemingly skipped winter altogether. The weather in Yorkshire's been a long wet autumn and the garden's still flooded.  It may not be the drama and catastrophe of the Australian fires, but our weather pattern is deeply messed up. The water in the poultry drinkers has only frozen 3 times. It used to be a regular occurrence.

My plans of a wildflower meadow may be doomed this year - having carefully collected yellow rattle seeds in August, the bottom of the garden has been either sodden or actually under several centimetres of water and we haven't had the succession of cold snaps needed to germinate the seeds.

Less a garden, more a swamp

Yellow rattle is a semi-parasitic plant that draws much of its energy from hijacking the roots of grasses, so it's a useful tool when wanting to diminish a lawn's vigour and allow native plants to flourish. I was so pleased to find some in a meadow to harvest, in the hopes of making the garden a more wildlife friendly habitat. Ah well, we'll see how it plays out.

My wildlife camera has been a bit of disappointment so far. Plenty of action, almost all of it Gonzo. Just the occasional clip of Isaac, or rain heavy enough to trigger the motion sensor. I'm hoping spring will bring a little more variety.

Not the wildlife we were hoping for

Ballet Weekend rolled around again and if anything it surpassed itself. On Friday I took myself to see the uplifting and delightful Come From Away. It's basically a hug in theatre form. Saturday afternoon I treated my Very Excellent Mate Bon to her first trip to see Hamilton. New cast for the third year, so I got to see some different interpretations of the roles, and Bon was (obviously) absolutely smitten. It was brilliant. Then Bon treated me to The Red Shoes at Sadler's Wells. I actually enjoyed it more this time - having never seen the original film I was a bit lost on our first viewing. All in all the weekend was a wonderful break in an otherwise challenging month,

Sitting in The Room Where It Happens once again

I confess I loathe January and am glad to see the back of it.  It's got too many birthdays. Typically, I've used up all my gift ideas (and money) at Christmas. However from December 23 to January 29th I have a stretch with my father-in-law, daughter, eldest niece, younger niece, brother, mum and son to buy for - and celebrate with - where appropriate. Mum's birthday was difficult but at least we're past it now. Zach's was lovely - deferred celebration until his mock exams were over, and he has such a lovely gang of friends.

So here we are, the plethora of birthdays over until the April cluster (me, Dad, Luke) and the days lengthening enough for the hens to start laying.  This is good. Spring's not far away, and everything is better in the spring.

Something odd happened last week. I was fannying about on an internet forum - OK, Mumsnet; I came for the radical feminism and stayed for the craziness of the AIBU board - and responding to something about mothers, I wrote "My Mum loved that too."

Loved.

Past tense.

That's the first time I used the past tense without having correct myself from the present. It jolted me. I've been saying "Mum's got those shoes; Mum hates risotto; Mum sews her own clothes; Mum likes musicals but not opera so much..."  for months now. Yes, obviously I know she is dead - and I had to write to the people who hadn't heard when the Christmas cards to "Kate and Bri" arrived. But I hadn't  - oh hell, I don't know - adjusted to it? Acknowledged that she's in our past not our present, maybe? Each month that takes me further away from her feels like a betrayal. I'm not sure by whom, her for dying or me for living.  Grief isn't terribly rational.

But suddenly there is was, a past tense. An admission that Mum's not here, that it's memories not current events. I think it's probably healthy. I'm sure it's normal. But I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.

Dear Zoo

Happy Birthday!

I've passed my half century, along with my First Ever Best Buddy Beth, Cerys Matthews of 6 Music, and the Open University. Balloons and cake to us all!

Like your typical eight year old fifty year old, I made the excellent decision to take a picnic to the zoo.  I say zoo, I mean the Yorkshire Wildlife Park in Doncaster which is a friendly and excellent place.  It functions partly as a normal zoo and partly retirement home for animals no longer in the zoo breeding programme. It's one of my favourite places and somewhere all five of us enjoy.

Feeling pretty lazy, I bought a pack of fondant fancies to serve as a mini birthday cake. Feeling hungry, I made spanokopita to take with us on the picnic.

Leeds used to have a place called Salt's Deli, and their spanokopita was to die for. They vanished some years back and I really had a hankering for the lovely spinach and filo pie. As usual, I turned to Felicity Cloake of The Guardian for recipe advice. I roughly followed her recipe here.

I reduced the spinach from 1kg to 750g and would recommend increasing the feta to 350g. Chopping and massaging a tablespoon of salt through the fresh spinach did work, but I had to put it in a colander with heavy weights on to help remove the excess liquid.

It was a pretty easy recipe and I highly endorse it - it was delicious and kept me in lunches for several days. My VEM Kirsty had a taste and went home to cook it herself.

We had a brilliant time at the Wildlife Park. The baboons were busy with new babies, and freaking out about a male mallard that was somehow terribly threatening as he swan serenely around the pond. There were fights over a stick, brawls over getting too close to the babies, sibling jealousy, male posturing and female impatience with all this crap.  Pretty much like the rest of us. Except for the mallard phobia, obviously. That was just weird.

The painted dogs were remarkably laid back in the face of their neighbours' noisy chaos. I'd swear one of them was rolling her eyes, but anthropomorphising is too easy. 

One of my great delights is visiting the polar bears in their 10 acre playground. Polar bears are HUGE. Really, really huge. Not "gosh, that's big" type of beast, more "Holy Geez, look at the the size of him!" It's hard not to want to go in and give them a cuddle, even if they'd eat you - they are gorgeous and hey, a bear's got to eat. You don't get to be the world's largest land carnivore without a heck of an appetite. This is beautifully demonstrated by the sign on the staff entrance to the bear enclosure "Do You Know Where The Bears Are?"

Victor is my favourite. He's a behemoth of a bear - old, wonderful, father of 10,  grandfather of many. He had a lovely swim in his lake and spent a lot of time blowing bubbles because he can.  

I love the capybaras and the maras; if a rabbit and a deer had babies, they'd be maras. For my 40th birthday my Best Woman SJ bought me a hutch and two guinea pigs (Lola and Lotta because they were small and very funny) and it's hard not to see the capybaras as giant free-range guinea pigs, happily bimbling around and dozing in the sun. They *definitely* want a cuddle and a scratch on the back.

Guinea pigs on steroids

We were delighted to see the tiny baby anteater, Licky Minaj, having a cuddle with her mum then having a little wander in the outside world. She's ridiculously cute. Top work crowd-sourcing the name, YWP. No Anty McAntface for you.

Our big surprise of the day was discovering that armadillos go jogging. Watching them trot in opposite direction around their well-worn circuit had us transfixed for ages. Sure, the marmosets were cute, and it was exciting last time when they escaped, but jogging armadillos are adorable.

After our picnic, a visit to the tigers and giraffes, total failure to find the Amur leopards and a pause to admire the black rhino standing to attention, we met with Elvis the Emu. Elvis is under the misapprehension he's an ostrich. No one wants to hurt his feelings, so he lives in the African enclosure and hangs out with the female ostrich who's too polite to say anything. Maybe it's in the name.  We adopted a hen called Elvis from my good friend Lisa recently. She and her lads all refer to Elvis as "he" despite Elvis laying eggs daily.  Emu, ostrich, boy hen... Live your best lives, Elvis.

It was a lovely day spent with my best people. Dinner at Salvo's and home again to indulge in another birthday treat - watching the live-action Peter Pan from 2003, which remains one of my favourite film.

Over coming weeks I've a series of workshops, courses and performances to enjoy as I continue my bid to make this a year I look outwards rather than in. Textile printing, glass work, sewing garments, seeing ballets and shows... 50 has a lot to look forward to.

I'm handsome and I know it

Talk is cheap (but remarkably effective)

Loquacious. Verbose. Garrulous. Gabby. Gobby. Can talk the hind leg off a donkey.
Have you met me face to face yet?

I talk all the time, to pretty much everyone. Actually, I talk to non-people too. The animals (obviously) the plants (Aren't you doing well! good on you), the appliances ("Don't you DARE burn my bagel, you rotter"), the timer ("Oh, belt up, I heard you the first time!). 
I started as a chatty toddler at an extremely early age and haven't shut up since. This can be useful, friendly, charming, wearing, crass, irksome or bloody annoying depending on one's mood and temperament.

On Thursday, my Best Woman SJ, my Very Ace Mate Kirsty and I went to the RHS Show at Chatsworth. The sun was shining, the flowers and gardens were glorious, the picnic was extensive and delicious. It was an absolutely wonderful day - as are all my days out with SJ. 

There's always a section of food and drink stalls. For the last 5 years gin kiosks have been A Big Thing. (Before that flavoured vodka, before that whisky, and the “new” thing on the rise is rum).  As usual we have a fair few tiny samples (Mason Gin from Yorkshire does a lovely Lavender gin, and I don't generally like floral stuff. There was a lovely baked apple and almond moonshine as well.)

Moving ahead of me as I tasted a mature cheddar (a bit dull), Kirsty called me over to see the product on a stall a few metres along.

It was a Scottish gin in a really beautiful ceramic jug. Lovely stoneware, a real heft to it. I went to look, and a couple of women already there were making a purchase. They told me to definitely try it, it’s lush.
I said it was the gorgeous bottle that attracted me, and we chatted a bit about the things we'd sampled while the seller got the card payment ready.
Paying for their gin, they were offered a free empty bottle “to use as a vase or make a lamp”
They said No
I asked the salesperson “how much is it for one of the empty bottles?"
She did a snooty face.
“One is free when you purchase a bottle of gin” (you ghastly peasant)
Oh, ok.
My new gin-tasting friend said “I’ve changed my mind. I’d like an empty, please!”
As the salesperson passed it to her she said “I’m sharing the happiness “ and passed it straight to me, smiling broadly.
The salesperson looked like she’d sucked a lemon. I was chuffed to bits.

When I showed it to Kirsty she started laughing. "How does this happen with you? This never happens to me, and it happens to you all the time!"
She's right, it does.
I talk to people. I chat away, all friendly and open. Sometimes it's annoying, sometimes people are abrupt or ignore me, but mostly people are friendly back. On the whole, I think people like an opportunity to connect. Sure, not everyone likes an extrovert but enough people do that it's worth being friendly.

I also got a photo with Joe Swift, my absolute favourite of the Gardener's World team. (They were filming for a segment on the programme.)
We saw him around and about while we were enjoying the show.
Clearly the RHS aren’t a selfie crowd, but lots of people were taking surreptitious photos.
A little later we saw him by a stand, waiting while the crew were sorting the technical bits.
I said to him and the production assistant “while you are still setting up, could I possibly have a quick photo with Joe? Would you mind?”
She said “no problem “ and Joe said “what do you mean?”
I took that as a yes.
(Of course I did!)
She used my phone for a photo. Joe said “OOOOOOHHHHH. Setting up! Of course! I thought you said ‘sitting up’ and thought I’m not that old, of course I can sit up!”
I laughed and said, “while you can hear me, Hiya Joe, I’m Jay and I’m delighted to meet you.“
“Lovely to meet you too, and enjoy your day”
As I rejoined Kirsty and SJ I noticed some people in the crowd shooting me funny looks - it seemed a bit "how dare she," or at least "how rude." But heck, I saw a nice person I wanted to meet, he was standing at a loose end for a moment and I asked politely.
Y'know, using my words.
And that worked.

Chatting. It's an under-appreciated skill.

The happiness of being a fan

I am a fan. A proper, fully-fledged, deeply uncool and overenthusiastic fan.

I get all excited  - during the trailer for the new Mary Poppins film I actually squealed out loud in the cinema because I saw Lin-Manuel Miranda.  I have release dates for telly shows and books in my calendar. I fall in love with things at the drop of a hat.

Mark is not a fan. He likes stuff - sometimes he loves stuff. He has books, games, films and bands he really enjoys. He is measured in his enthusiasm, doesn't wig out in exuberant excitement.  This can make it awfully hard to buy him presents - who knows what he'd really like? - but it definitely makes him easy to live with. He's much steadier than I am.

But I do feel all non-fan people are missing out. There's something about that pure joy, throwing yourself into something and utterly loving it. Surrendering to the uncool, being the antithesis of cynical, being a bit absurd and really not minding at all.

My principle fangirl obsession at the moment is the work of Lin-Manuel Miranda. Since I first watched Moana, the glorious song You're Welcome (as performed by the most enthusiastic human on the planet, The Rock) has been one of my favourites. It's lyrically adept, full of charm, self-delusion, cheekiness and fun. In our house it's The Mum Summoner - Luke put it on YouTube loudly in the living room when I was messing about in the kitchen and he wanted my attention and as predicted I dropped everything and rushed into the room. Now they all do it.

I can't help it, You're Welcome makes me very happy. And it sure beats someone bellowing MUUUUUUUM to attract my attention.

Some months later my Very Excellent Mate Alison mentioned they had pre-registered for Hamilton tickets because her kids were obsessed with it. I was bemused - to me Hamilton is a declining steel city in Ontario and not exactly the thing shows are made of. (Except maybe a Canuck Full Monty, I guess.)  However, Alison's gang have outstanding taste and have introduced me to good things over the years so I thought I'd have a listen.  I didn't realise it was by the person who wrote The Mum Summoner. I knew nothing of the historical figure. That was 14 months ago.

"How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman..." I was hooked from the opening line.

Not a week goes by that I don't play it.  (OK, it's nearly daily.)  Zach knows every single word of the 2.5 hour set, bless his ace self, and I know a hell of a lot.  I never get bored of it. I find new nuances, call-backs, witticisms, and clever touches each time. I still cry. I think Daveed Diggs is brilliant, Thomas Jefferson was a Grade-A asshole, Lin himself is clearly a genius and I'm with Angelica, I want Women in the sequel (Work!)

I have to actively remind myself to play other stuff because I know the rest of the house wants a bit of variety. Tom Petty and the Hamilton soundtrack is pretty much all I need. I'm almost afraid of seeing it live in October because I know and love the Broadway recording so well. But I'm also incredibly excited that we ARE seeing it eventually. 

I am also a massive fan of Springwatch. To the frustration of my offspring - who would rather watch paint dry - I watch every single second of every series. Sometimes I watch twice because there was a cool bit. I follow what else the presenters are up to, mark the transmission dates in my calendar so I don't miss anything.

I look up the places they visit.  It was Iolo waxing lyrical about the Farne Islands that had me desperate to go.  Seeing the nesting puffins and terns was so brilliant I still bounce on my toes when I think of our trip last June - absolutely glorious. 

Other telly I am a big fan of: The Wire and Game of Thrones, both of which I have watched all the way through numerous times. It's the complexity of the stories, I'm transfixed.  Because I go to the beginning each time a new series comes out I can nearly do Season 1 of GOT by heart. I am still angry that one of my very favourite characters didn't even exist in the books, making them even more turgid to read. Roz is AWESOME, damn it.

Then there's the Regency novels of Georgette Heyer which I re-read several times a year. I'm VERY good on obscure trivia from the Heyer world. I love the period language, the daft habit of naming people after towns, that the heroes having grey eyes and the heroines frequently wear celestial blue gowns with silver spider-gauze. I love that Lady of Quality and Black Sheep are basically the same novel and I enjoy both versions anyway.  I love that I'm on my third copy of Frederica because the earlier ones have fallen apart.

Being a fan, however you express it, is a force for good.  Conventions where you hang out with other fans, online discussion groups, reading and re-reading, watching and re-watching, singing at the top of your voice whether or not you're any good, allowing the stories to sweep you away or the music to become the soundtrack of your life - to hell with a cynical, bitter and depressing world. I fully recommend opening our arms and hearts to something that makes us properly happy. 

You're welcome.

xx

Not my favourite day

I am a fortunate soul. I have a wonderful family, I know many amazing and inspiring people, we can afford (just about) for me to work for free at things that matter to me. I have far too many animals and a veg garden prone to flooding but that's OK.
And I love my city very much indeed.

However, sometimes it all goes a bit tits up. Yesterday was one of those days.

First of all - women, cross your legs. My apologies for this bit.
Today I had my 3-yearly cervical smear test. Like every woman in the country of screening age, I received the notification letter with a glum sigh. Yes, I know we have to do it, it's the smart course of action but still...
I procrastinated just long enough to side-step the Easter school holidays and scheduled it for first thing on a Monday. "get it over with first thing."
The speculum isn't exactly comfortable and I actively dread the click...click...click noises they open it.
Unfortunately, the nurse was inexperienced.
(I did warn you to cross your legs)
She's a total poppet. She's warm, friendly, kind, well-meaning and has a terrific manner with patients. She has the sparkly blue eyes of an old Hollywood movie star. She's great at taking blood and doing inoculations. She's just not quite got the hang of cervical smears.
Yet.
It took 8 goes.
 EIGHT.
I had to ask her to stop, I couldn't take it anymore.
She fetched an experienced nurse who sorted it - without pain - in 2 minutes.
Talking to one of my Very Excellent Mates afterwards, she'd had the same nurse with a similar result (fewer tries, more bleeding).
Ick.
I thought that was the worst my week would be. Everything's on the up from that, surely.

After dropping Z's forgotten lunch at school and buying the approved summer uniform polo shirts at the shop down the road, I drove to work on my lovely Vespa.
The roads are generally quiet at that time of day but a combination of road works, building works and changed lane marking mean a couple of sections are more awkward than usual. This resulted in the cars in the lanes either side of me simultaneously deciding to be in my lane, which they did without indicating and seemingly without noticing me on my scooter. Cars in front and behind, and moving in from either side - adrenaline spike! Luckily the car behind blasted its horn and they both swerved back into their lanes. People tell me scooters are dangerous. My experience is that no, it's dozy car drivers that are dangerous.
After that burst of near death excitement I went to the marvellous Play Lab.

Play Lab is a pop-up play space in the centre of the city. It's brilliant and if you are local to Leeds do come ad see us. It's on New York street opposite the post office, on the road down Kirkgate Market that leads to the multi-story carpark and the bus station. We're there 10-4 every day, sometimes later as well.
We have an empty shop that we've filled with Lego, toys, pillows, hula hoops, craft bits and a visiting coffee shop. We've pompom makers, chalks, markers and paper, stuff for den building, plenty to mess about with. That's the drop-in-and-play bit, totally free.
Downstairs we run workshops and inventors clubs to get kids exploring what they can build and create.  It's flipping lovely.

I'm acting as a self-appointed intern at this community-based project. It was clear to me the founder, Emma Bearman, couldn't possibly manage all her plans with the workforce she had funding for, so I nominated myself. I do a few days a week - mostly just being there to welcome people, help kids with activities, do the odd errand, clear up and so on. Having an extra body to (wo)man the play space can be a help.  It's very rewarding, if occasionally very noisy!
After a 4.5 hour shift I locked up and headed across town to collect a book from Waterstone's. My arthritis hasn't been great, so I was walking awkwardly and was jostled a couple of times. I put that down to my clumsiness.
When I got to Waterstone's and went to pay, I discovered my wallet was missing. On the unlikely chance I'd left it at work, I went back to Play Lab and searched for it. No wallet. I'd definitely had it when I bought those school shirts. I definitely had it when I tucked it in my cotton shopping bag when I got to Play Lab, and tucked it out of sight in the back of the cubby under the motorbike jacket.
There wasn't a lot in it - frustrating things to replace like loyalty cards, membership cards, drivers licence, credit and debit cards, and a couple of gift vouchers. Things I'll now have to reset on all websites I buy from. Hoops to go through because I bought out Hamilton the musical tickets with that card and I need it to collect the tickets.
Oh, and two really nice commemorative £2 coins in the separate compartment for my coin collection
(I know, I know, coin collecting is lame. Don't judge me. I've had a rough day.)
I'd been pickpocketed on my way through town.
That pretty much broke me.
It was such a crappy thing to happen, with so little advantage to whomever stole the wallet. It had been a really lousy morning followed by a nerve-wracking commute, a lovely but draining shift with my bad knees and now lots of inconvenience and frustration, as well as costing me about £50 to replace things.
I sang fed up songs on my way home (thanks to Lily Allen and Belle and Sebastian for their excellent work in this field), felt thoroughly narked with the world and went to bed early feeling drained.
Monday the 16th can piss right off.
So here I am on Tuesday.
I have an open bouquet of daffodils on my kitchen counter., which is enough to brighten my day. Yes, living in a city means there is crime and it's damned annoying when it happens to you. However, living in the city also means there are amazing things like Play Lab, providing a warm and welcoming space for families. There are large bookshops like my lovely Waterstone's, and fun places to go like my beloved Everyman cinema. There are Kirkgate Market traders who call out and wave when I go by, friends to commiserate with when rotten things happen, and thousands of connections and intersections of communities that make life richer.
I'm shaking off yesterday and looking forward to tomorrow. There are rumours of sunshine.

Accentuate the positive

In July last year I started a list of happy and interesting things I'd like to do before January 1st 2020 - i.e. before the end of the year that Mark and I turn 50.  I have been thinking about other things I want to add to my list. This is about inspiring me, making me happy, stuff.  I'm not after a scary challenge but a "gosh I'm glad I did that!"  

Like the worst of list cheats I'm adding two things I've already done and can tick off instantly.  That isn't as audacious as it sounds - I mentioned it in the first draft of the list as something unattainable. Thanks to my amazing parents, it became attainable; they gave me a weekend in Tromso, Norway and I could fulfil a lifelong dream to see the aurora, and do whale-watching too. I'm astonishingly lucky.

Here's how my list of things to do stands so far:

1. Go fishing  - Woo hoo! Did this at the end of last summer 
2. See the Giant's Causeway - I'm making plans, hope to do it either July or the Autumn.
3. Try salsify and Jerusalem artichokes -  Still not tried them. They are in season in winter, so that's one for later.
4. Go rock pooling - Definitely a summer activity
5. Sing in a choir - I admit, I bottled it. Was absolutely going to do it and panicked. I'm a wuss.
6. Grow cut flowers - Some setbacks here - slugs had my seedlings and Mark accidentally dumped a mound of compost on my freesia bulbs, but I have a few other irons in the fire. - Update: masses of sweetpeas and sweet william, enough for numerous bunches per week. Hurray!
7. See live music -  I did this! With mates and neighbours, we went to the OnRoundhay festival as a family and saw James. They were fantastic. Of course they were. 
8. Visit Hadrian's Wall - Done!
9. Spend all day at the movies - Not done this yet.
10. Learn to apply make up properly - Thanks to my fantastic mate Heather-in-London, I've got a makeup look that works for me. She gave me links to tutorials and product recommendations, and was so amazing and supportive. Heather is a beauty product guru, as well as one of the best parents and most thoughtful people I know. She's as generous with her knowledge as she is with her time (Apparently, I have sexy hooded eyes, like Lauren Bacall and Ava Gardiner. Go me!)
11. See the Northern Lights - TICK! Best thing imaginable.
12. Go whale-watching - Also TICK! A morning watching a pod of orca hunt for herring before a night chasing Aurora Borealis. What a day.
13. Learn a new range of cooking - North African, Middle Eastern, Indian or Thai would be my thoughts but I'm flexible. I've learnt to make ramen recently and I want to expand to incorporate other dishes. NOT European food, though, because I understand the flavours of that already. Learning from Sabrina to make a curry was one of my favourite days, and it's time I tried to level up my culinary skills. Update: Thanks to Made in India by Meera Sodha I have a number of Indian meals I can make
14. Sew something I can wear - This is all about fear and ineptitude. One day I'll manage it. I'm such a wuss. I can't even cut into nice fabric. I have an almost-finished dress I was working on when I lost my job and I just couldn't face doing it again.
15. See a new ballet company - I see New Adventures and Northern Ballet regularly, and English Ballet occasionally but Id like to experience another dance company. I may seek advice on that.
16. Learn to play a song on an instrument - Even if it's Happy Birthday on the recorder, I want to play an actual song on something again. I have re-strung Mark's ukulele to make it left-handed and am thus far rubbish. I can only improve.
17. Go Birdwatching on the Farne Islands - This is Springwatch's fault. I'd love to see in person the remarkable sea bird colonies they've shown me on the telly.
18. Return to Paris - After the holiday from hell 9 years ago when Zach and Bonnie had a stomach bug and I was washing bedding and clothes every single day of the trip, I can't think of Paris without a shudder. Mark, who was NOT the one dealing with an exploding toddler morning and night, has incredibly fond memories of the holiday. I need to nice experience to banish the vile one. Update: It turns out Paris is still fantastic. 
19. Cook a decent roast dinner - OK, this one is scary, because I don't cook or eat big slabs of meat and I think a roast dinner is all about the roast itself. However, I feel there is a veggie alternative out there I could work with, and surely it's not The Law that the vegetables are boring. It seems a skill all competent cooks here should have and I'd like to nail this one at some point.
20. Build sandcastles - because it's fun yet I never do it anymore.

Here are a few photographs from the marvellous weekend in Tromso. I had no idea I could love a place plunging in darkness quite this much - I adored it from the moment we arrived. And two days before the solstice is a very dark time of year in the Arctic! The water, trees and mountains thrilled me to my core and I could have stayed forever. Except for the cost, obviously.

Looking forward

It's been a pretty rough couple of weeks. Most significantly, my beloved new Vespa, my pride and joy, my ticket to freedom and self-reliance, was stolen from outside the food bank where I was volunteering. I'm heartbroken.
Through assorted coincidences, mistakes, and glitches, I faced the equally devastating news that there will be no insurance pay out and I am not going to be able to have another bike.
This also means no more volunteering in the Food Bank Office, as I can't get there by public transport. That's a blow to me and them both - I'm pretty good at admin. I felt like my insides had been kicked out.

Wallowing isn't going to do me any good.  There are people in real distress in our community, and while loss of a vehicle is a significant dent in a life it's something I can push past. So I am attempting to direct my attention towards more positive things.

I'm 47 years old. In 3 years Mark and I will both turn 50 and we will celebrate our 25th anniversary. Rather than my usual "Things that scare me that I will try this year" list, I'm going to write a list of things I'd really like to do before the end of that big year - not challenging necessarily, but pleasing.

For example, I've never been to Hadrian's Wall. I'd really like to, it sounds cool.  History was my favourite subject in school and actually seeing the things I've only learnt about in books always gives me a thrill. I was ridiculously overexcited the first time I saw the Rosetta Stone (back before the boxed it away in a big case.)

So, like the National Trust's 50 Things To Do Before You're 11 3/4, here's the first 10 items on my list of things to do before 2020:

1. Go fishing. I'm serious. I've been trying to do this for 6 years and it just never quite happens. Mark's promised it me as a birthday present twice, for heaven's sake. I want to go fishing for mackerel and then eat them.
2. See the Giant's Causeway. The first time I saw a picture of it was in National Geographic's kids' magazine, World, back in the mid 70s. I couldn't believe it was real.  I've always wanted to see it, and unlike the Northern Lights is isn't hard to find. Nor, unlike Petra, is it prohibitively expensive to get to.  So I am determined to go.
3. Try salsify and Jerusalem artichokes. Somehow despite 26 years as a vege- or pesce- tarian I've never had them and I want to know what they taste like.
4. Go rock pooling. Not a new experience, but something I completely love to do and rarely get the opportunity.
5. Sing in a choir. Singing out loud with a bunch of people is scary as hell - what if I'm terrible? - but I also think it would be amazing fun. I even know of a choir I could try out for, but previously fear and now my lack of transport conspire against me.
6. Grow cut flowers. I'd like a change from my total vegetable gardening focus to grow some lovely cut flowers for the house. My Very Excellent Mate Kirsty got me thinking about it, and I do fancy being able to have flowers in my room.
7. See live music. I tend to use any money for going out on ballet tickets or comedy. I tend to think of music as not for me, really, because I have terrible, uncool taste and had A Thing about singing badly. I've determined to get past that now.
8. Visit Hadrian's Wall (see above)
9. Spend all day at the movies. Mark and I did this all the while before we had the kids. There are very few films from the mid 80s to early 1999 that I didn't see, excepting scary films. Don't like being scared. Pulling a 3 or 4 movie marathon would be a blast from the past. 
10. Learn to apply make up properly. I only occasionally feel like wearing makeup, but when I do, I feel uninformed. I have favourites, I have skin care standbys I know how to use but I can't do flicky eyeliner, smokey eyes eyeshadow, apply false lashes, prevent lipstick bleeding or do contouring. I'd like to have a clue how to apply makeup that enhances my appearance rather than slapping on a lippy and hoping for the best.

The Happy Art of Wrapping

Every year in mid-December my Facebook feed is full of people bemoaning all the wrapping they have to do.  It seems to be a last minute and ridiculously time-consuming chore to many people.

May I suggest another approach? Enjoy it.

I love wrapping presents. It's one of my favourite Christmas rituals. I set it out Just So and I look forward to it as a lovely quiet interlude.  This is how it works:

First of all, get all chef-y about it and set up your mise en place.  (That's a poncey French restaurant way of saying laying out all the things you need where you need them. Don't Mess With My Meez is an essential tenet of my life.  I hate it when people mess with my stuff.)

I need all the presents stacked on the living room floor.  A cup of coffee - or a pot of coffee with milk and a mug as this will be a multi-coffee activity - a mince pie or two and the Christmas film of your choice will keep you going.

My wrapping film of choice is While You Were Sleeping. Christmassy and cute.  I used to watch White Christmas but you can't wrap and watch dance numbers. 

For the wrapping you need your wrapping paper, scissors, tape, ribbons, decorative bits, a pen and labels.  I strongly recommend Scotch tape or Sellotape. Fannying about with tape that tears off in ragged points or that you're endlessly picking at with your nail trying to find an edge makes the whole enterprise needlessly painful. A bin bag per person/destination is also handy, unless your family keeps all the presents under the tree.  I do a bag per child then a bag for the people we see at my parents' house and a bag for those at Mark's parents' house.  It just makes it easy when we're driving to North Wales to have a bag to grab and pop in the boot to take in rather than root about through a mound of gifts.

You're all set - drinks, mince pies, film and supplies. Before you press Play you must do the most important thing - barricade the door.  I'm not kidding, properly block it.  I move a stool in front of the door and sometimes write a note too, along the lines of "DO NOT COME IN. If you do come in I get to keep your presents and eat your chocolate." The only possible way to relax into wrapping in my experience is to be left the hell alone. If you have kids, the prospect of having someone else do the wrapping can be a good incentive for one's partner to keep the kids entertained. Or do it while kids are napping/at school/in bed/at a friend's house. But peace and solitude are important.

For the wrapping itself, may I suggest brown kraft paper? You know the stuff - thick plain paper with faint pinstripes. It's cheap, comes in big rolls, doesn't tear easily like some wrapping papers, gives a nice crisp folds and is appropriate for every occasion.  I love it and use it for Christmas, birthdays, everything. I just swap the Christmassy ribbon for brighter colours. I do buy patterned paper to use for the younger kids' present too, because they like it, but I try and stick to things that look nice together.

The fun of kraft paper is what you put with it.  I like ribbons of jute, satin, velvet, small Christmas tree decorations, white or silver pens, rubber stamps - anything really.  Butchers twine - that twisted red and white string - also looks good on it. I often pick up nice bits in the after Christmas sales and pop them in my Christmas box to use the following year.

This year it was oversized jingle bells and painted wooden hearts and stars.

I found a set of tiny rubber stamps in a winter motif in a craft shop year ago, reduced to £2. I thought they'd be nice on gift tags. Yes, I have plain brown luggage labels as gift tags. They come in bulk, they are cheap and I like the minimalist chic vibe going on here.

Instead of feeling like I've a hateful chore I'm trudging through, I have a lovely peaceful afternoon with a romcom of my choice and a growing stack of gifts that (I think) look pretty.

A question of Darcy

Recently, a friend attributed my love of Pride and Prejudice to the appeal of a soaking wet Colin Firth emerging from a lake. Heaven knows in the 20 years since it aired it's remained one of the iconic heart throb moments and caused millions to swoon.

I. Think. Not.

I hate that scene. It's one of my most loathed scenes on telly. More than the time Gordon Ramsay tricked a vegetarian into eating pizza with bacon and boasted about it, more than any appearance by Jeremy Clarkson.  Even more than John Selwyn-Gummer shoving a burger into his little girl's face during the BSE crisis.  Allow me to explain.

I love Colin Firth. I think he's marvellous - very talented, extremely attractive and charming. I've seen Fever Pitch more times than I can remember and pretty much every film he's made since. Although singing in Mamma Mia wasn't one of his better moments...

In no way whatsoever is Colin Firth responsible for that dreadful scene. It's entirely the fault of Andrew Davies, the ferociously successful TV writer.  He wanted to sex up the dry and proper Mr Darcy for modern audiences so he had him partially disrobe and plunge into the water, emerging all tousled and hunky.

That's attractive and all, if it weren't for the fact that I know Fitzwilliam Darcy. I know him pretty well; I've spent countless hours with him.  I read P&P at least twice a year. What he looks like is pretty fluid and the nuances of his motivation I'm happy to let others play with, but at his heart I know him. I know his faults and his strength and I love him for them.

Mr Darcy is a very proper young man. He, like another of Jane Austen's heroes Mr Knightly, believes in honour, dignity, duty and being a gentleman. He is proper in the old-fashioned sense. Darcy is intensely private and reserved - rather shy really, retreating into stiffness when confronted with the unfamiliar.

His reversal in behaviour comes when Elizabeth forces him to recognise that his sense of self-worth has lead him to behave with arrogance, valuing his consequence above all else. It's awful realising you're in the wrong. He is hurt and but once his temper cools he realises the truth in her accusation. So when he sees her in the grounds of Pemberley he wants to prove her wrong, to be welcoming. Gracious even. "Look how wrong you were about me, I am a true gentleman" which progresses into "I realised you were right, so I've fixed it."

That meeting is both awkward and touching - both characters discomfited, neither quite knowing what to do, and aware of a change in themselves they can't yet let the other know of.  I love it. It's perfectly written just as it is.

Darcy wouldn't plunge himself into a lake on his way home unless her were actually aflame. Even then he'd be more likely to take the offending jacket off and throw it to the ground. He's not the impulsive, physical type. Andrew Davies wanted to make him more appealing to a modern viewer by showing a relaxed, unguarded man indulging in a relief from a stuffy day. In a different character I'd have liked it - hell, as a human, heterosexual woman I like it, but I absolutely loathe that he did that to Darcy. Davies rewrote him to sex it up a bit, and that re-write became the image of Mr Darcy in popular culture.  Andrew Davies deserves a slap with a kipper.

Incidentally, Matthew Macfadyen's Darcy works well for me - again, there's a modern slant as you see more vulnerability, but it's emotionally and psychologically consistent with the Darcy Jane Austen wrote. Nice work, Deborah Moggach (except for the ghastly scene added for American audiences that I've done my best to blot from memory.) It helps that Matthew Macfadyen is utterly lovely.

I know my fixation with some of my literary heroes can make me a cussed thing - I refuse to watch Life of Pi because the book in my head is so perfect. (This drives Luke crazy. ) I am happy with my images from the author's words and don't want them supplanted by someone else's vision.
I wouldn't watch To Kill A Mockingbird until I was in my 30s because Gregory Peck plainly isn't Atticus Finch. Gregory Peck is about as handsome, authoritative and charming as a man can be, and an absolute idol. Atticus is older, thin, with fading eyesight, thinning hair and a tendency to stoop, and he can't play ballgames like the other kids' dads. He isn't a fine figure of a man but he's a very fine man indeed.

Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe, Laura Ingalls, Scout and Atticus, Charlotte and Wilbur, Lizzie Bennett and Darcy, Elinor Dashwood, Dorothea Brooke, The Grand Sophy and so many others have been amongst my dearest and most cherished friends for years. I want to share them with the world, buy copies for my friends' children, revisit them regularly.

I don't need to shove them in a lake to see their appeal.

Looking for the bright spots

It's important to have something to look forward to, I find, particularly at this time of year.

Spring is easy. The willow tree in my garden goes from bare branches to a yellowish blurring of outlines to a pale green fuzz and then proper leaves. Each stage has me looking towards the next, and the new buds are just so hopeful and full of promise. I know which neighbours have the early blossoming trees in their gardens and which patches of my own will produce flowers next.  It's much easier to feel good about the world when the days are lengthening and the world is coming back to life.

Summer - well, that all depends on the weather.  A decent bit of warmth and sunshine and I think my cup runneth over. There are vegetables to sow and tend, fruit growing on my trees, and long evenings sitting outside chatting.

Autumn and winter are hard going.  I like the quality of light on sunny autumnal days, with that crisp feel to the air and strangely comforting smell of dead leaves.  I love snow, and loads of it.  But the dark days, the dampness so much a part of this climate and the way the world is painted in a palette of mud tones and grey  - it's a tough gig.

So, things to look forward to is my coping strategy.

My best and most reliable thing to look forward to is my annual ballet weekend with my Very Excellent Mate Bon.  She's my mate of longest standing in the UK - the first friend I made when I moved here and the only schoolfriend apart from Mark I kept in touch with.  The third weekend in January is our usual date but Matthew Bourne's production of Edward Scissorhands finishes early this season, so we're moving it forward a week.  I have never yet had a less than lovely time (except when I was 37 weeks pregnant with Miss B and in terrible pain, but that wasn't anyone else's fault.)

I'm browsing hotels for it already and will be able to book my train seats next week.

I am also looking forward to another Matthew Bourne ballet - Lord of the Flies. Luke and I are going together in early December. He studied it for English Lit last year and is keen to see it. I love that my son is interested in all forms of story telling, not just movies or games.  We share a lot of films, books, graphic novels and radio programmes together, and it's brilliant. Luke is great company and has an original perspective on things.  I am VERY much looking forward to our outing.

Back in early September when East Coast Rail were having a lightning sale I booked train tickets for Miss B and I to go to London together on our own.  That's coming up in a month. The plan is to ride the London Eye - which the lads have done but B hasn't - and do everything B is interested in.  I expect sweets and toys may be involved. We'll have 5 hours on the train to chat and play and make plans, or reflect on all we've done - and I do love travelling by train. We'll have a brilliant day, and it will be ace to watch her discover her London. I already know the lads' London, and my own.

I am also very much looking forward to one particular aspect of Christmas.  I think getting the tree, decorating it and then putting While You Were Sleeping on while I wrap presents in front of it is my all-time favourite part of Christmas.  It's that smell. The pine needles may shed and it can be a faff getting the thing upright in the stand, but a real tree is pretty much as good as the festive season can get.  Each decoration is an old friend - some made by Mum and me when I was a kid, some by our kids when they were little, some reminders of trips or events in our lives.  And lavish amounts of tinsel. And red or silver baubles.  I can picture it in my head now and it's fabulous.

The soonest thing I am looking forward to is Sunday, November 2nd at 7pm.  At that time my lovely Z will get home from his week-long trip to Germany with Youth Club.  He'll be tired out and bursting with all the stories of what he saw and who he met. The house will have all its people home again. I will sit on the couch, probably sharing take away pizza with everyone and listening to Z share all his enthusiasm and pleasure in new things with us while his brother and sister try to talk over him. And it will be brilliant.

Lost for Words

It's been about 7 weeks since I last posted on this blog, and even that was a pretty brief one.  That's far too long.  However, despite having heaps to tell you all about, I've not been able to blog for ages.
I lost my words.

I don't mean I lost my actual voice (which wouldn't affect typing anyway) nor that I had some weird amnesiac moment.  I just couldn't find the right words to say anything I wanted to.  I'd type a sentence or two and then backspace through it. I'd compose partial paragraphs in my head and reject them. All my lovely words, my playthings and sparkly jewels, just wouldn't come. Expressing myself became more about frustrated shrugs and gestures as my sentences tailed off. I couldn't do light fluffy banter, I couldn't talk about big and true things either. I was a stilted, stifled imitation of myself.

I didn't like it at all.

My reading was affected too. No more long, new novels for me; it was all graphic novels and re-reading.  I couldn't face anything else. Great pages of words to keep in my head - I couldn't do it.  I needed few, or those I knew nearly by heart.

I read 8 volumes of the Fables graphic novels - fairy tale characters living in the real world, good fun. I asked my local comic book shop for examples of female-led titles that wouldn't drive me nuts with misogyny and they suggested Captain Marvel #1 and Pretty Deadly, both of which I quite liked. Before taking the lads to meet the man himself I read the truly wonderful Seconds by Bryan Scott Lee (of Scott Pilgrim fame). It's super.

Other than that, I read Regency romances by Georgette Heyer. Do you know them?  They are my reading equivalent of a hot water bottle and bar of chocolate. I am having to replace some of them as the bindings have fallen apart too badly to repair.  Normally I read one or two over the past 6 weeks of summer I read:

• Arabella
• Bath Tangle
• Black Sheep
• Charity Girl
• Cotillion (one of my favourites. Had to bin my copy when I finished it because it was in 8 pieces, and have ordered another)
• Frederica (Absolute top favourite)
• Lady of Quality
• Sprig Muslin
• Sylvester
• The Grand Sophie (one unpleasantly antisemitic scene but otherwise ace)
• The Nonesuch
• The Reluctant Widow
• The Toll-Gate

I was in danger of speaking in the slang of upper class Regency gentlemen and ladies by the end. If I threaten to draw someone's claret when they annoy me, you'll know what's to blame.

Georgette Heyer clearly opens a book of maps and gets all her names from the same few pages - Arabella, for example, had a Beaumaris, Wrexham, Flint, Wigan, Blackburn, Bolton and Morecombe amongst many - which gets a bit surreal after 6 or 7 books. And every hero and heroine seems to have grey eyes. Do you know anyone with grey eyes? I don't.

Despite the repetitions and daft quirks, I thoroughly enjoyed my Regency binge-read. Everyone was beautiful - or at least fetching - and most were charming and graceful. Gentlemen ordered their coats from Weston and their carriages from Tattersall, ladies wore a pelisse and carried a reticule. Hearts were won and lost, rough diamonds prevailed over dandies and fops, old friends became lovers and all was well. As the real world seemed harsher and I could hardly bear to hear the news on the radio, my romances gave me safe harbour.

However, I have read 3 ACTUAL novels in the last week that don't rely on illustrators nor a Corinthian raising his quizzing glass to better appreciate the Season's latest beauty. One was about the heirs of Ghengis Khan, so quite a change of pace.

I suspect I'm mostly back now. Words aren't quite the source of joy and playfulness they normally are, but I'm nearly there.

Changing my mind

This year the Grand Depart of the Tour de France was in Yorkshire. If you live here you couldn't escape it - for months it's been the focus of events, festivals, exhibitions, the whole nine yards. There is a basic insanity in a French cycle race whizzing around Yorkshire (seriously, what's that even about? The Tour d'Italia left from Belfast, too. It's madness) Suspect geography aside, I was all for it. I have many cycling enthusiast friends and I knew it would make them happy.

But personally? I couldn't care less. I don't ride a bike. I don't want to ride a bike. I am not interested in watching other people ride bikes.  I'd see them go past because it's An Event and I approve of Events in my city but it all left me a bit blank, really.  Like when the Olympics came to London in 2012 - nice for people who like that sort of thing but I don't want to watch people doing PE so I didn't bother with it.

That was before.

Before crazy, lovely knitters made 23,500 tiny Tour de France jerseys as bunting. Before the city's flower beds were replanted yellow. Before Yorkshire Tea had commemorative boxes made. Before the sun shone, the whole county came out to stand and cheer, and the glorious event kicked off in style.

It was wonderful. People laughing and chatting, the promotional vehicles flinging key rings and gewgaws into the crowds, police motorbike riders high-fiving everyone. 

The cyclists were an anticlimax as they flashed by because they were in a big pack, whizzing past us on their way to the official start line at Harewood House. They weren't racing as such on our bit of the route.  They were also bunched up so close it was hard to pick out individuals from the peleton. Clearly the hillsides were the place to be for the exciting race stuff. 

After the cyclists had gone by we walked home for lunch. I only meant to turn the race on the telly so our visitors could see it but I was hooked and watched the whole thing. From cheeky Jens claiming King of the Mountains to the drama as Mark Cavendish crashed out metres from the finish line I was fascinated.

I haven't kept up with it since - I think I need my friend Alison with me to explain who is who to properly enjoy it. But I remain immensely proud of this region for putting on such a good natured, enthusiastic and beautiful show. Three cheers for the remarkable Gary Verity for bringing the Tour de France here. If he can make a convert out of this doubter, he can do anything.

Say cheese

When I was writing that list of things I am nervous of or uncomfortable with, it occurred to me that I haven't told you about one of my biggest fears, and how a true artist helped me get over it.

There are almost no photographs of me. I ensure I am the one behind the camera whenever possible. My next tactic is to be the one who orders the prints from Costco, and I carefully select the ones I'm not in - or crop myself out if practical.  I've even gone so far as to remove pictures of myself and surreptitiously bin them when other people showed me photos.

I know women who've had those soft-focus movie star makeover type photographs and loved them. Those friends had sworn I'd love the experience - someone to do my hair and make up, pose me and style me like a Hollywood goddess. Or, in some cases, underwear model, perish the thought. They said it was really fun and helped them relax in front of a camera. I couldn't think of anything more dreadful than being styled as an actress - mutton dressed as ham.

I hated seeing myself.  I could only see all the deeply unattractive physical traits and no sense of who I am at all. I would even do my best to avoid mirrors; I came home from clothes shopping wanting to cry more often than not.

Then my perspective changed.

In early summer 2012 Mark commented that there was an interesting sounding event at a small art gallery in Leeds. He'd spotted it on Twitter - an exhibition called One Hundred and Forty Characters by photographer Chris Floyd.

Chris Floyd is a Properly Famous photographer. He has a number of his photographs in the National Portrait Gallery. He's photographed a Beatle and a Doctor and a whole host of other cultural icons. To promote the exhibition White Cloth Gallery was offering black and white portrait shoots by Chris for tuppence ha'penny.

I looked at the preview of the photos and they looked familiar. I  pulled out How To Be A Woman by Caitlin Moran from my bookcase. There it was - the cover photo, although colourised, was from the same project.

I absolutely love the cover of How To Be A Woman. The picture captures the personality, warmth and humour of Caitlin. I never look at it without smiling. So if I wanted a portrait of my kids, who better to take them than the man who took it?

Our eldest, Luke, loathed the idea. I could understand that. I thought it would be churlish to expect him to do something I was too scared to do myself, so with a last look at Caitlin Moran's picture as motivation, I rang the White Cloth Gallery and booked 2 sessions - the 3 kids then all 5 of us.

When we arrived that Saturday we had a look at the pictures in the exhibition. Chris Floyd has a wonderful style. There is nothing of him intruding in the portraits; they are sort of ego-less. Each exists to give a essence of the person he's photographing. They are so revealing - of personality rather than of flesh - but not invasive or awkward. It's clear each subject was enjoying being photographed.

I loved them, but was distracted by my nerves.

When we were first called in, the stiff and resentful posture of the kids made me worry this was a bad idea. This is how it started:

Hmm. 

Chris wasn't remotely daunted. He talked to the kids while moving them around, using the dynamics between them to play to their strengths.  Within a couple of minutes we had this:

They had loosened up, were mucking about and relaxing, and paving the way for some lovely pictures. One of my favourites is this:

Even Luke, stiff and scowling at the start, was having fun. 

When it was time for Mark and I to appear in the photographs I felt myself tense up. I felt slightly sick. A print was included in the price, so we would HAVE to have a photo, and maybe even show it to people. My fixed grin, my fat carcass, my lack of fashion sense, my plain face and double chins... all my faults there on display, ruining a portrait of my gorgeous kids and lovely bloke. Oh god.

It was all a stupid plan. What was I thinking? Chris was lovely (he signed my Caitlin Moran book too) but it was still ME he was photographing and I am not an attractive woman.  I mean, I am, I have attractive traits - I am enthusiastic, hard working, creative and a good mum most of the time - but if seeing my face reflected on my iPad screen makes me upset a photo of me would be worse.

 And then...

It was OK. I mean, I felt a bit weird being photographed but following instructions from Chris and keeping an eye on the 3 kids gave me enough distraction most of the time. Some of the things were silly - standing po-faced, then shrieking like banshees - and some were just about letting our relationships and the family dynamic come through.

Then I saw the finished pictures. We looked wonderful. We looked like us - ourselves distilled in a moment of time. The relationships between us, the way we feel about each other, it was all there. Our youngest riding on her brother's shoulders, messing with my hair; his amused face tolerating her imperiousness through his curtain of curly hair; my arm on Luke's shoulder to help him bear her weight; how Mark and Zach's eyes are just the same shape, although different colours; Mark tousling Z's hair as Zach laughs ruefully at himself. 

We didn't look perfect, but we looked both real and beautiful.

I looked beautiful.

I looked like what I am - a woman who is part of a busy, warm, playful family. I'm still fat, my double chins are there and you can't see much of my clothing to decide on my fashion sense, but I'm not plain faced. I've the face of someone who loves the people she is with and it shows. 

When Chris Floyd returned to The White Cloth Gallery in November, it was a large print of that final portrait that greeted people. As we walked in, the woman at the desk said "You look familiar, have we met?" "No, but you've been looking at me all week!"

We'd told so many of our friends not to miss the chance to be photographed by him that the gallery generously gave us that print at the end of the show.  It doesn't hang in our bedroom, for just us to see. It doesn't even hang in the living room, where we spend our evenings. It's in the hall as you come in the house, hanging alongside two more Chris took. Every visitor, delivery person, friend and neighbour sees Chris's pictures of us as they enter. They make me smile every time I look at them.

That experience had a broader affect than you'd think. I've posted pictures - including DEEPLY unflattering ones - of myself on this blog before now. That's something I would never have done before meeting Chris.  I don't try and run away from cameras, I don't crop myself out of any snaps we take.  

I haven't magically been transformed into camera loving model, but I don't feel scared of them any more. I see myself differently. I don't hate my appearance - or at least not most of the time. I still don't like mirrors much.

We gave White Cloth Gallery some money, and they gave us some photographs. But what Chris Floyd gave me was something altogether more valuable, something it took his skill and artistry to achieve. I didn't need a soft-focus makeover photo shoot to like my appearance better. The image of myself I carry inside my head is that photograph Chris took; loved and loving, broad smile, expressive face, and a good heart. 

Now that's a gift I wish I could give everyone. 

Note - all photographs are copyright Chris Floyd as per the watermark. They are used with his permission,  granted to me because he's a very nice bloke. Please don't repost other people's photos without permission, it's rather churlish. And probably illegal.

A Tale of Two Cities - and neither was the right one.

Hello webby buddies!

Last Thursday I was going to Birmingham in preparation for Friday's Women In Radio event. Mark was coming home from London about 10pm, so Mum and Dad kindly offered to  drive over from North Wales to collect the kids from school and look after them in the interim. I booked my train tickets and a night in a capsule hotel. I researched things to do in Birmingham that evening and learnt the route from hotel to event.  I would arrive at the event rested, refreshed and prepared. Everything was organised.

And then came the weather.

Trains were disrupted heading to Scotland, my radio told me. My train was still going on time, claimed the mendacious National Rail Enquiries website. Ever the Girl Guide, I set off an hour early to compensate for bus disruption and a difficult walk across town. I arrived at Leeds station to find out my 12:11 train was running 10 minutes late, so I popped to the wonderful Laynes to grab a coffee.

Back at the station with 20 minutes until my train, I heard the annoucer say it was cancelled. 3 minutes later it was back on but delayed until 12:28. The 12:41. Then 12:52. Then cancelled.

By this time I'd acquired a retinue - an older lady going to her granddaughter's house, a young student going home to Northampton and a young Polish woman whose excellent English didn't extend to understanding platform announcements. Three of them had stood staring at the Departures board on the platform near me at the start, and during the various platform changes asked if they I could show them which one to stand on. We did the commuter version of The Grand Old Duke Of York - marching up and down the overhead concourse.

The beleaguered blokes at the information desk told us all to head to Manchester because they had trains running to Birmingham. One Manchester train was late and the next delayed 20 minutes. We were sardines in a slow moving tin, rerouted around a fallen tree and Dewsbury and waiting for a free platform outside Manchester. Those trying to get to the airport to catch flights were heading towards hysteria, the poor souls.

Upon arrival in Manchester Lena, Beena and Susan, my multi-generational girl band and I sought the next Birmingham train. Hurray, we would catch the delayed 14:07! Except we wouldn't. It was cancelled. As were the next four. There was a hope I could get a London train to Northampton (bye, Beena!) and head back up to Birmingham from there. However, reports were sketchy about trains from Northampton and I didn't want to get stranded too far away from both my destination and home.

News! Trains from Leeds were going to Birmingham now. We all piled onto the platform to head back the way we came. Then no, someone's friend in Leeds asked the station staff there and the rumour was quashed. Nothing was heading to the midlands for the next few hours.

"It's Cross Country," said the Transpenine staff. "All the other companies have given us some information about what's happening but Cross Country aren't keeping anyone informed. It's anyone's guess what's happening. There's nothing coming north of Birmingham and nothing from here north of Preston."

"Until  they tell us more, we're getting our information from the Departures board the same as the passengers," said the nice woman from Network Rail. "We know a tree fell on the overhead lines near Crewe and caught fire. But we have no idea how the clear up operation is going. They said up to a three hour delay when they got in touch at 2:15  p.m." This was at 5:15.

Yes, I had missed the last train to Birmingham by 10 minutes because of that re-routing around Dewsbury. Oh joys. But surely now the three hour window was up we'd get moving again? The 17:40 went on the Departures board and we all felt a surge of hope. With a few minutes to go that too was cancelled.

Those of us from Leeds were over 5 hours delayed by this time. The resigned expressions on our faces were starting to look strained.  I wondered how the station staff were faring. It couldn't have been an easy shift to work.

"If anyone gives me aggro today I'm off! So far people have been fine but you can see them getting more and more frustrated. I understand, but I'm frustrated too and I can't help them. It's been mad." That nice Network Rail woman was looking fed up.

"I thought there would be more argy bargy," the British Transport Policeman said, "but so far it's just been people looking fed up."
"And we can't blame them for that," his colleague chipped in, indicating the display of cancelled and delayed trains. "It's a nightmare."

Susan went to book a place on a coach. Lena did the same, but I saw her later. "Coaches are full," she said. "So is my hotel," said a woman nearby. "Wish I hadn't checked out this morning." 5 blokes decided to go in together on car hire. Several people were complaining loudly that when flights are this delayed they at least get cuppas and sandwiches.
I paid 30p to use the toilet. I begrudged it. It seemed small-minded to make stranded passengers pay for using the toilets when they were stuck in the station for 5 or 6 hours. The change machine swallowed my 50p and only spat 40p out. The bloke cleaning the loos bumped into the lady in front and all her bags went everywhere.

A group of men collecting for a charity for blind dogs approached passengers every few minutes. Not dogs for the blind, dogs who were themselves visually impaired. That is a very niche charity. The men remained undaunted by asking the same crowd of passengers that had been there for hours. Surely we'd be less likely to give to blind puppies the more we were badgered? Or perhaps they hoped we'd donate just to get the sticker to get them to stop asking.

I couldn't take it. I needed to get to Birmingham. I needed a sit down. I needed something other than an M&S sandwich and a cup of lousy coffee from a kiosk. I needed something good to happen.

I went to Sainsbury's to buy a bottle of water. On the end of the aisle were big boxes of chocolate biscuits at two for £5. If something good doesn't happen when you need it to, lateral thinking is the way to go. I bought 2 boxes and headed back to the concourse.

"My fellow passengers! I am having a lousy day. I've been stuck here for hours. I suspect most of you are having a lousy day too. In order to offer something nice in these trying circumstances, I have bought us all chocolate biscuits. Please take one and pass the box to your neighbour."

I actually got a cheer. A little one, but still. Those who didn't want chocolate biscuits (how can that happen?) still smiled and passed the boxes on. Small kids grabbed several before their mums could object and I grinned. It's hard being bored when you are small. Someone offered me his seat. Someone else came over to wish me luck on my journey.

With remaining biscuits I went to the station staff. The Transpenine blokes were delighted to have some. The Transport Police, though...

"No thanks, love. The wife's got me on that Dukan diet," said the first.
"It's Slimfast for me," said his partner. Two big tall men looking tough and gruff in true Northern Bloke fashion turning down biscuits because they are on fad diets; I couldn't quite suppress a grin.

By 6:15 my Network Rail woman told me, "Officially, I have no new information. Unofficially, give it up for today - from here at least. It might be better in Leeds." Obviously everything is better in Leeds, I thought loyally. And I took her advice.

When the next (delayed) train arrived for Leeds I got on and retraced the journey I'd made 6 hours before. Leeds station was much quieter than it had been in the morning, so I had a glimmer of hope that trains were running. But no. The display board still showed all trains to Birmingham as cancelled and the information kiosk staff were pessimistic.

"We could try sending you to Sheffield and then to Peterborough and see if you can get to Birmingham along that line but I can't guarantee it. Leeds to York, York to London, walk from Kings Cross to Euston and then Euston to Birmingham could work, but you might not make the last train from Euston to Birmingham and be stuck there. Just go home, love. Try again in the morning. I don't know about the 6 o'clock train but by the 8 o'clock train surely they'll be running."

The Women In Radio event started at 8:45am, meaning it was the 6 o'clock train or miss it. I felt ready to cry. Dad picked me up from the station and offered to drive me down early in the morning. I couldn't even express appropriate gratitude, so exhausted was I from all that fruitless waiting in Leeds - Manchester - Leeds. I was grubby, anxious and and so stressed about not getting to the event I was ready to explode. A message from my lovely mate Andy sent at 7pm offering to drive me to Birmingham reduced me to tears. Such a kind offer. Sadly it was gone 9:00 when I'd got back to Leeds to receive it.

Ironically, the travel disruption meant that Mark headed back from London on an earlier train than planned and got in at 9:40. "I'll drive you. Let me just grab a cuppa." There's a reason I love him so much.

So, 10 1/2 hours later than planned, 15 hours after I'd initially set off I arrived with Mark in Birmingham. A bit late to manage that early night, but who cares. BBC Women In Radio, I was ready and waiting.