Cornwall is weird

Cornwall was weird.  Let’s be honest, Cornwall is always weird.  But when you’re offered two nights bed, breakfast and dinner completely free at a nice hotel, you don’t say, ‘No thank-you, because Cornwall’s weird,’ do you?  No.  You don’t.

See, all I did was buy a couple of fancy-dan raffle tickets and everybody knows nobody ever wins that kind of raffle, do they?  And, to be honest, most of the prizes would have been ghastly. I didn’t want tennis lessons; I really didn’t want a piece of reproduction furniture and, while the fortnight in the Florida penthouse would have been lovely, I couldn’t have afforded the flights or the tip for the housekeeper.  No, the weekend at the Mullion Cove Hotel was the badger – and, by heck, I won it.  Only problem?  I seemed to be the only one excited about the break.

‘Do we have to go?’ said James, lounging round in pyjamas five minutes from set-off time.  ‘I mean…it’s not Turkey, is it?’ Spoilt brat.

‘It’s not exactly the best timing,’ said Adrian, typing frantically with one hand while texting with the other.

‘Oh for pity’s sake,’ said I.  Okay, I confess, I didn't say that: I shouted a bit. Alright, a lot. Enough to hurt my throat chakra.

Having grumbled and whinged all the way to Oakhampton, they perked up a little at the prospect of lunch from Waitrose, eaten perched on their knees in the car, in the pouring rain in the car park (my family is so weird).  And then someone stupidly said, 'Wow the SP hasn't been sick.' So of course he immediately threw up all over James and the hold-all.  And, because even angels have a bad side, it stank of crap because...yeah...  Anyhow...

Even the guys had to admit, when we finally pitched up at Mullion, that it really is the most divine spot.  Perched right up on a cliff with that Agatha Christie vibe.  ‘Someone’s going to be murdered,’ said James. ‘I’m scared.’ 

‘Oh don’t be ridiculous,’ said Adrian, unpacking his laptop and installing himself at a table by the window next to a bowl of crisps and starting to type.  ‘Damnit. No mobile signal.’

‘Look, there is a pool! Let’s go for a swim!’ (Guess who?) Cue snort of derision from James.  Adrian opened his mouth but I forestalled him.  ‘I know.  Deadlines.’

‘No. Actually I was going to say why don’t we walk along the cliff path and into the village?’

So we did and Mullion was weird and full of exceedingly scary scarecrows and lots of signs saying No Dogs Allowed.  But the pub had a beer festival on so we sat and shivered outside (No Dogs Allowed) and it all reminded me too much of my childhood so I offered to walk the SP back to the hotel so the two of them could go inside and keep warm. 

And the next day I needed to talk to a man about ancient Egypt and reincarnation (as you do) and Adrian needed to check out this real ale pub (as he does) so we all met up there and Chris (ancient Egypt man) and I sat out in the garden while James and Adrian played pool inside and he (Chris) talked about rodz and crystals and tyramids and pyramids and alchemy and wrestling with beasts; and about Proteus and power lines and dimensions and entities and nodes. Until I was shivering with cold (because I don’t have the power over radiation to warm myself up, stupid numpty that I am) and James started coming out with increasing regularity wearing that ‘Do you have to talk ANY more look of plaintive pleading on his face which also reminded me of my childhood). So I said, 'We should go' and Adrian said, 'Let's have another, eh?' and Chris was trying to avoid some rum do in Sennen, so we stayed a bit longer before dropping him off in Penzance and going back to the hotel to play chess before bed

And I dreamed I was in the sea and every wave took me further and further away from the shore (but I didn’t mind, or I didn’t care) and then I woke with a start because James was shouting in his sleep. ‘What about the contracts? What about THE contract?’ 

‘I don’t know, love,’ I said.  But he didn’t hear.  So I lay awake in the dark listening to the waves slap the rocks below. And I didn't feel safe.  And then, just as I’d finally drifted off  to sleep, the fire alarm went off.  3am and everyone was wandering around in dressing gowns and slippers, just like an Agatha Christie novel and by this point I really did expect someone to cry, ‘Murder!’ 

But the only thing murdered was sleep. And now I am home alone (which is what I needed, what I wanted) yet I feel so unbearably sad, just so so fecking sad.  Weird.  Just like Cornwall.

I'm Patton

I am going demented.  There's a deep aura of negativity permeating the Bonkers House which is sucking out every last quark of joy.  I feel like I’m swimming through Bostik.  Trying to work; trying to keep everyone happy; trying not to scream.

‘Are we going on holiday?’ asked James. 
‘Yes,’ I said firmly, trying to convince myself as much as him.  In a moment of extreme rashness a few weeks back I had given him a solemn promise that we would have a holiday this summer, we really truly would.
‘Not a staying at home holiday, with walks and the odd picnic,’ he said, suspiciously.  My son, knowing all too well the importance of precision when it comes to promises. 
'A proper holiday,’ he insisted.
I asked what, for him, this entailed – precisely - and he thought long and hard.

‘A pool.  Swimming in the pool.’
My eyes must have brightened because he said quickly.  ‘No, not Tiverton pool. Abroad. Somewhere warm.’
‘So we could go anywhere, if it’s warm?’
‘Well, I’d like to see the odd bit of…I dunno…buildings or something.’
‘Culture?’
‘Yeah.  But not too much.’

So I had a look online and did a good impression of a plumber sucking his teeth.  How much???  My accountant is going to be unhappy enough as it is but no need to give the poor chap a hernia.  So I cut out all the usual suspects and looked at places that might be considered generally less desirable on account of extreme heat or unstable political situations. 
Adrian peered over my shoulder and looked like he was chewing asafetida.
‘Of course, you don’t have to come,’ I said. ‘You could stay and work.’    Expecting a swift rebuttal.
‘I suppose you could be right,’ he said slowly.  ‘I have got to finish this book.’
‘What?’  James was incandescent.  ‘Just for once, can’t we be a normal family and have a normal family holiday?  I want us to go to Turkey.  Or Greece. Or Portugal.  Not Syria or Afghanistan or Belgium or the Czech Republic. And all of us.’

I sighed. Adrian looked miserable.  I knew he was thinking about deadlines, about irate publishers…
‘Look…about this book,’ I said, offering a deal.  He looked suspicious, then hopeful, then grinned.
‘You’re like the American Fifth Army,’ he said. 
My, my, I'm worthy of a WWII reference?  He must be impressed. 
‘You’re Patton!’ he continued, a rare smile breaking out over his face.  Steady…

But, hey….Patton eh?  If that’s the case I get to give rousing speeches, right?  So, I say “bollocks” to negativity; to this “can’t do” attitude.  I stand up firm and stout and say to all of you who are feeling downtrodden and despairing:
“We are not going to dig foxholes!  We are not going to just shoot the sons-of-bitches, we’re going to rip out their living Goddamned guts and use them to grease the tyres of our tanks. 
We are going to advance and to keep on advancing regardless of whether we have to go over, under, or through the enemy. We are going to go through him like crap through a goose; like shit through a tin horn!  That is all. ” 

Okay?  So.  Right then.  Any ideas, men?  Where can I find a cheap as chips yet not too ghastly holiday, abroad, with water…for a weary general and her troops? 

Israel calling...

Yes, yes, I know this isn't Israel...but desert, camels right?

Seems I’m getting a bit better at this manifestation malarkey.  Not exactly spot on target yet but getting closer, a lot closer. Now then, you know I have this *thing* about deserts?  Not quite sure why but there’s something about all that emptiness that just calls to my soul.  Add camels, crusader castles, ancient cities, souks and falafel, and I’m close to heaven.  Ask me which countries I want to visit and – right through my life - the same ones come out on top:  Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Jordan.  Middle East – yeah, yeah, I know it’s problematic but, but, but… email pings in...

‘Would you like to come to Israel?’ 

Say what?  I read it again.

Tel Aviv beach - so,  no pressure then?!

I was being invited on a blog trip; a week organised by Kinetis, a non-profit organisation whose aim is to dispel the, um, conflict-laden image of Israel and show “opinion-makers” (*cough*) just how creative and vibrant Israel is.  Interesting.  Opinion amongst people I know is fiercely split over Israel.  My mother in law and best friend loathed it.  My brother and another good friend adored it. Maybe I should make up my own mind.  Could I blog on whatever I liked?  I asked.  Absolutely, they said.  Hmm. If you sit on your backside, nothing ever happens. It wasn’t Egypt but it was close.  ‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

So, I'm off at the end of the month. Then I found out on Twitter that RosieScribble was going too and we got to thinking.  Neither of us has a stitch to wear.  I figure we need a wishlist…hey, maybe some smart companies or PRs could even pitch in here... Nothing ventured, eh?... and boy, we give damn good social media!  Here we go:

1. Swimsuit.  We're going to be frolicking in the waves on the beaches at Tel Aviv which, from YouTube, look pretty amazing.  We'll have stiff competition from sickeningly gorgeous teens but, hey, we're goddesses, right?  There's even a swimsuit named after us at Figleaves.

The "Goddess" - ho hum.

2. Handbag.  Mine is a sad, torn and frayed thing.  Yup, I have just the one. Contrary to popular belief on the part of men, not all women have a wardrobe full of handbags. Now, I'm not being greedy or anything; don't mind a bargain.  Have my eye on this little number from the Mulberry outlet store.  What you reckon?  78% off??! Still can't afford it though. :(

3.  Sunglasses.  Rosie stipulated this.  I have "vintage" Raybans bought from Miami airport on an aeon-ago press trip to the Bahamas. But if she thinks we need new, we need new.  Rosie likes Burberry, but I rather fancy these D&G aviators from Sunglass Hut.

4. Tops, cropped jeans, t-shirts.  Boden would work for this.  And, oh my, do I love these clog sandals... Just sayin'...

 

5.  A jaunty hat.  I have thick hair so it needs to be roomy... Have my eye on one in the Joe Browns catalogue - a snip at £12.95

Now then. What are we missing?  Ideas? Thoughts?  Offers?

Oh, and if you want to follow our *journey* (so far our Twitter conversations are getting well out of hand) follow Rosie as well as me...  she's @RosieScribble on Twitter and you can find her blog here  I hasten to add that she is a *pukka* sensible grown-up "parent blogger" - unlike yours truly.  ;)

Revealing the real "me"?

I haven’t been tagged in a meme for positively years. But my dear mucker Laura has done the dirty. Apparently this originated in The Guardian Weekend mag and the answers have the power to reveal the ‘real you’. I’m always trying to discover/uncover/whatever the real me so I figured – why not? – and merrily ignored my inrushing deadline to pay it some thought.

When were you happiest? Oh God, question one and I’m struggling already. I don’t really do long periods of happiness. I think it has to be those rare ‘flow’ moments that come, unexpectedly, out of nowhere and set your entire body and brain tingling. For some bizarre reason the one that sticks in my mind was driving across London Bridge in my VW Beetle as the sun was setting. I had a sudden feeling of ‘YESSSS!!!’ I was about 23. Jumping off a mountain in Austria was pretty cool too.

What was your most embarrassing moment? Hmm. There are many candidates and I’ve confessed plenty in the past. Being told to ‘fuck off’ by Bob Geldof made me wince at the time but, on reflection, I don’t think it was personal. Discussing the ELLE sex survey on live TV was pretty cringe-worthy – I spoke in an unstoppable torrent of totally inadvertent innuendo.

Aside from property, what’s the most expensive thing you’ve bought? Boring answer – car. Not even a good car either...crappy Toyota RAV4.

What is your most treasured possession? I don’t really go a bundle on stuff. I love things James makes for me and I'm superglued to my iPod. I’d hate to live without my PC – does that count?

Where would you like to live? I’m happy where I am but would love to travel for part of the year. I’d definitely like to bale out of the UK for January and February. Love the US, adore Greece and Egypt. So much of the world I don’t know but would love to meet. Would it be greedy to have a crash-pad in London too?

What’s your favourite smell? Woodsmoke.

Who would play you in the film of your life? Tilda Swinton, please.

What is your favourite book? Sorry – gotta cheat and have three and all spiritual, not novels. The I Ching; A Practical Guide to Qabalistic Symbolism;  Symphonic Bridges.

What is your most unappealing habit? Readjusting shop displays and pointing out abuse of apostrophes.

What would be your fancy dress costume of choice? Trinity from The Matrix. Worked that look pretty well a few years back with boot polish in my hair.

What is your earliest memory? Lying in my pram looking up at a hedge and seeing hundreds of caterpillars.

What is your guiltiest pleasure? Chatting on the Internet.

What do you owe your parents? Genetic gloom, existential angst, long legs, big tits and a broad mind.

To whom would you like to say sorry, and why? Terry Waite (for saying he was smelly) and (oh God) the smelly girl in my girl guide patrol.  Note to self: sweat isn't a sin.

What does love feel like? Depends on the love. Warm sun on bare skin, melon sorbet on the tongue or jump leads to the heart.

What was the best kiss of your life? North London. Mid 80s. Random party. Random guy. Sheesh.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse? ‘Shit yeah’; ‘to be honest’; ‘Oh FFS’; ‘Sorry’.

What is the worst job you have ever done? Filing for the Immigration Office. I won’t tell you what I did to pass the time.

If you could edit your past, what would you change? I would love to have had a daughter (as well as a son). And I said no a few times when maybe I should have said yes...but then again...

What is the closest you have come to death? Blow-out at 90mph on the middle lane of a US highway. Time really did slow.

What do you consider your greatest achievement? My son. Simples.

When did you last cry and why? A few weeks ago. But I cry at anything. Music usually sets me off – I have been known to sob at adverts if they include the right minor chord.

How do you relax? Seriously tough aerobic exercise. Or seriously tough hard massage. Or seriously tough hard... never mind.

What single thing would improve the quality of your life? Enough money to follow my heart rather than chase bills.

What is the most important lesson life has taught you? I know nothing. Be kind. Okay, so that's two but they're linked. 


Now then....time to tag?  Okay, here are the people to whom I say - 'reveal, reveal'....

Hestia
Frances
Milla
Lulu
Viv

Chicken eating spiders and my best friend

My bestest oldest friend in the world is staying and it’s heaven. I met Jane at school but we became best friends in the sixth form, bonded by Latin A level and the Polemic and Social Society (a thinly veiled excuse for hanging out down the pub with boys).

I love her to the bottom of my black heart and she is James’ adored godmother. Well, what 12-year old boy wouldn’t love a bad-mouthed barrister who takes him to international rugby matches and buys him kickass rock music?

With Jane I can be totally myself; no need to play ‘nice’, no attempt to impress. When Jane’s around I feel eighteen again; doing the tarot, dancing wildly, talking long into the night about absolutely everything: silly stuff and serious stuff; smart stuff and spiritual stuff.

We’ve had some of  the best holidays together – to Russia; Greece, India, Egypt (twice). I nearly got her sold off to a Saudi prince in Cairo; she got me out of jail in Luxor.

I owe her so much, in every which way. And I worry about her so much too. I hate that her health isn’t great. I hate that she has to work her socks off and never seems to get a break. I hate that I can’t wave a magic wand and give her what she really needs and craves. I hate that she’s low.

‘You need a spark, a frisson,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘There’s just no joy in anything really. It’s all just so boring and predictable.’
I recognise that feeling. That was me.
‘Don’t you dare give up,’ I said.
She caught my eye. ‘I’m getting old.’
‘Oh for pity’s sake. It’s just beginning. It’s a new chapter.’
She looked doubtful.
‘Oh come on. Let’s believe in miracles.’

So we played the Silly Lottery Game. You know the one – I bet you play it too. It’s the one where we sort out all our friends and family and do our bit for world peace and the Staffordshire Bull Terrier Rescue Society and still have enough left over for a few treats.

‘We could rent a huge villa each summer where friends could just drop in and out,’ said Jane. ‘In Tuscany.’
‘Or northern California.’
‘US road trip!’
‘Dude ranching!’
‘Then New York for the museums and art galleries and music.’
‘Oooh yes, I never did get to The Cloisters to see the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries. People were firing guns so I turned back.’
‘Greece again?’
‘Definitely. And Egypt. We could take James and go down the Nile on a felucca.’
‘Hmm, or a nice cruise ship. What about going to that place we never got to...’
‘Abu Simbel.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Detour into the desert...’
‘Sinai?’

‘Any desert. I’m not fussy. I love deserts.’
‘Camels?’
‘Hmm, horses.’
‘I might need a Landrover.’
‘Nah, you’ll be fine.’
‘Not fat?’
‘Not fat. We’d have spent a month at Viva Mayr first getting fit.’
'Eating spelt rolls?’
‘Absolutely. And doing yoga and swimming in the lake. Where else?’
‘Honk Kong. Japan.’
‘Back to India. A lot more India.'
'No! Not more dodgy ayurvedic massage?'
'Loads more dodgy ayurvedic massage! But I’ve gone off the idea of Peru.’
‘Why?’
‘Spiders mainly. Chicken eating spiders and the ones that are so aggressive they run after you to bite you. I think they run faster than I can. It’s a deal breaker.’
‘Fair enough.’

She drank another bottle of wine and I had another glass of water. Then we were off again.

Today she goes back to London and I’ll miss her horribly.  I’m also going to make damn sure I buy a lottery ticket.

The Pit and the Pendulum

We go down, we go up. Life seems to delight in playing games with us at the moment. One step forward, one step back. We continue to do the house sale dance. Today we got a thick wad of papers from our solicitor – hurrah. Things are moving. Then we read them. Eh? Since when did a stream become diverted through our potential property? No wonder it’s darn well damp, if it’s got a river running through the cellar! OK, I exaggerate – but not that much. There were also horrible scary photographs of the behemoth of a wall that separates our house from the vicarage. It’s a mammoth wall. Forget Hadrian’s malarkey, this is akin to the Great Wall of China – huge and tall but sadly not as thick as it should be, and doing a bit of a Pisa number….(sorry, the geographical references are skittering all over the globe) This lean has been measured and tracked over years and seems to be giving up the struggle to remain vertical. We are advised to have builders prod bits. We are further advised to get quotes for its replacement. Replacement? I have visions of the pyramids being built (yup, we’re in Egypt now) – hoards of builders like ants in endless lines, overseers holding out bottomless buckets for us to empty out our pockets into.

Spurred on by your advice I have been sending ever stiff emails, starched emails, emails so sniffy and affronted that even Running Woman, queen of all shifty tight-lipped estate agents, began to quaver and sent back appeasing notes, ending up with an extraordinary phone call.
‘He (as in our buyer) wants to know when you want to complete.’
She threw it down like a cat bringing in a mouse. Pitifully hopeful of pleasure, but in all reality expecting a clout round the ear.
‘Complete?’ If ever a word could be spat, this was it. ‘He can’t even exchange so how on earth does he think he can complete?’
‘He just wondered when would work for you. He’s totally flexible. Maybe to tie in with school holidays?’
I know what he’s doing, the toad. He’s trying to take our minds off the fact that the whole thing is still wafting round in the air like a big balloon.
He’s trying to sound like Mr Nice Guy, Mr Reasonable. I know we aren’t the most hard-bitten of buyers but we aren’t total idiots.

I sounded off a bit and felt much better for it. We decided that, should exchange not happen on the 22nd May, then the house will go back on the market – full page ads, the whole shebang. If that doesn’t put a rocket up his, er, bottom, I don’t know what will. So, the clock is ticking.

Whether it’s the clock ticking or that bloody woodpecker still pecking (it’s now taken to acting as a 5am alarm clock, hammering on the wheelbarrow), I have had a headache all day. ‘Move the wheelbarrow,’ said Adrian. So I did. And what did it do? Started pecking at the flipping window. That’s all we need, window frames collapsing due to woodpecker activity.
When I got up, bleary-eyed and horrible after a few brief hours of slumber, there was another unpleasant surprise.
‘Come and look at this,’ yelled Adrian.
‘What is it?’
‘Come and look.’
Don’t you hate that? So up I got and walked out onto the landing to join Adrian, James and Asbo staring at a pit. OK, so not a true Quatermass of a pit, not a Pit and the Pendulum pit but a depression nonetheless. A concavity in the carpet between James’ room and the bathroom.
‘Oh for pity’s sake, what the heck is that?’
We edge up the carpet and found that we do not have floorboards, we have odd little squares of chipboard bearing our weight and that of our furniture. One had given up the ghost and had sort of collapsed in on itself. Rather how I felt looking at it.
‘Thank God that hadn’t happened when the surveyor came.’
Indeed. The surveyor arrived last Friday, unexpectedly and looking stressed. He’s gone into the estate agents to get directions to another house in the area he was supposed to be surveying and had been bullied into doing ours while we was out here. Well, I have to give the agents brownie points for that.
It was a hot day and he had four dogs in the car. Hurrah!
‘Oh, do let your dogs out – it’s far too hot for them in there. Jack won’t mind.’ Fixing Asbo with a pleading stare. Yes, I like dogs and I did have their welfare in mind. Well, partly. But most of all I know full well how wrongfooted anyone is when their dogs crap all over your garden path.
The poor man. He tried to demur but I gave him a look that said he would be cruel indeed (and I would be on that phone to the RSPCA within a nanosecond) to leave three labs and a terrier in a small car in blistering sunshine.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course, of course.’
So he let them out and they did what all dogs do which was to sniff around and then wee and poo liberally all over the place.
‘Oh God. I’m so sorry. Have you got a spade? I am SO sorry.’
‘Not at all, not at all. Don’t worry about it.’ Lady Bountiful incarnate.
Let’s be honest, he barely looked at the house. He asked me if we’d had any problems and seemed to think it perfectly fair when I said not. He desultorily measured the perimeter and took a few snaps with his digital and that was that. The poor chap could barely wait to herd his dogs back into the car and zoom away.

So there you have it. We go up, we go down. Our poo quotient rises; our floor levels sink. Then, just when it seems to stop still for a moment, Adrian gazes out of the window, over the lush greenness, watching four stags wander over the field.
‘We’re going to miss it, you know.’
Should I murder him now, or save it for a treat for later?

PS: Talking of pits and pendulums, I have given up on The Poe Shadow - type too small, story too tortuous. Life too short. Am now reading Shamanka, a children's novel about shamans and magicians (aaagh, but not remotely similar to my own, Walker Between Words (another segment of which awaits your perusal).