The cruel scent of Autumn - and free stuff! Yes, free stuff.

The cruel scent of Autumn is in the air.  No, not roast chestnuts and woodsmoke but smelly socks, fetid trainers and singed ironing.  There’s a week left of the summer holidays and really I should be Getting Things In Order. Once again (see posts around this time for the last however many years I’ve been writing this fecking blog) the boy has gone feral and unpleasant (only this time with raging hormones to add to the unsavoury mix). 

Twitter fuels my guilt. It seems like the whole world (apart from the sexbots, men, life coaches and carpet fitters) is sewing in uniform labels and booking itself into Clarks for shoe fittings.  It’s worrying about projects and colour-coordinating stationery.  Actually, even the sexbots are getting out their irons.  I, meanwhile, am wandering around Amazon getting dejected as I realise I now have more books out of print than in print.  L

‘We have to do something,’ I told James firmly over breakfast.  When I say 'breakfast' please don't for one moment imagine some cosy Waltons scene around the large farmhouse kitchen table. I was yelling from bed while he was scarfing a cinnamon Danish on the stairs. 
‘Get dressed and, once I finish this chapter of Lilith, we’ll attack your room.’

Aside: the book is by George MacDonald. Have wanted to read it for years and finally found it had been reprinted. Unfortunately the publisher turns out to be totally illiterate so you have to fill in the meaning on your own a fair bit.  Let me just read you this from the back cover blurb, to gain a flavour (so to speak):

“She then meats (sic) and falls in love with a young man who is already engaged.”  Er, right.

When I read this to Adrian he laughed, in a smutty schoolboyish sort of way and went off muttering, ‘Meat as a verb eh’…  Hmm. If you don’t get that, all I can say is good and that you probably didn’t share a flat with a bunch of Northern lads at university.

Anyhow.  I got up.  Sighed sadly at my shorts and T-shirt from the beach forlornly abandoned at the end of the bed and jumped swiftly into jeans, two jumpers, thick socks and UGG boots.  Yup it’s autumn alright.  The August thing is just a smokescreen.

‘Right, we’re getting Neolithic on your room, mate,’ I said.  James looked worried.

‘Yes, that IS way worse than Medieval, if you were wondering.  Do you KNOW when the Neolithic was?’

He shook his head sulkily and I rolled my eyes. ‘You’ve got a current affairs quiz when you go back to school; this is fecking ridiculous.’
His eyes brightened.  ‘But Neolithic isn’t current, is it?’

‘Er, good point. Okay, how many goals did Arsenal let in?’
‘Eight!!!!’
‘Ha!!! Losers!’  We fist-bumped and heard the distant sound of a man banging his head rhythmically on a desk. 

Well, we threw the entire room up in the air and then tossed things into various mounds and then he sprayed and dusted until I started sneezing so loudly I nearly didn’t hear the postman who delivered a HUGE parcel.

Uniform?  Uniform!  Oh yes. Thank you, gods.  Or rather thank you, Tesco.  Once again, bless ‘em, they’ve come up trumps. Trousers, shirts, t-shirts, Top Gear pencil case and assorted stationery.  If there’s chocolate in there, I’m going to spontaneously orgasm….but no.  Sadly (or perhaps fortunately, given the postman was still lingering around the door) not.  There’s even a nifty notebook that says:

At which point I got quite excited (no, not THAT excited) and thought someone had finally figured it out but no, you (or presumably your child) are/is supposedly supposed to come up with the plan your/his/herself. Which is a Tall Order.   And then that reminded me of something and someone else, but I’ll save that for another day…

Anyhow. Tesco. Good for school uniform.  Saved my bacon anyhow.  Now I only have to sort out the shoes (and I’m sure we could just cut a hole in the front so the old ones fit) and invest in the new tracksuit (this school is getting a bit FA on us, frankly, we’ll have new home and away kits each season at this rate).  Which reminds me...Arsenal again...remember *that* away kit? Vomit.

Oh, and because I’m all heart (and because they offered it), I could nab you a new school uniform for your child too (or, hey, for you, if that kinda thing rocks your boat)… I’ve got a £15 e-voucher to spend online for the Back to School range…and, let me tell you, you’d probably kit out a family of ten for that… So, just leave a comment (and please make sure I can get hold of you – if you don’t have a blog leave an email or, hey, your postal address and where you leave your spare key…). I’ll close my eyes and stab the screen (making sure I get it that way round) to pick a winner by the weekend. 

Uniforms, twibes, vague meanderings

James phoned me from the school bus this morning.
‘It’s a non-uniform day,’ he said.
Oh shit.
‘I forgot,’ he said.
‘I didn’t even know.’

Damn. I really must get a grip. Start using a diary again. Maybe even get a battery for my watch. Did I mention that the batteries in both my watches packed up on the same day? I think I may be out of time.

Thankfully he didn’t sound too perturbed.

‘I suppose you could wear your tracksuit?’ I suggested, hopefully, uncertainly.  Knowing that, even if I drove in with some clothes, he wouldn't get them until lunchtime.
‘Yeah, I guess I could.’
Bless him.

Cheers!

But it worried me and it will bother me slightly all day long. I know how important it is when you’re his age to fit in, to be the same as the rest of the gang. Children desperately want to bond with the pack. Then, in the teenage years, comes the urge to differentiate (just a little); to identify with a ‘set’ – wearing another uniform (usually of the music you like), finding your tribe. All the time fighting vehemently for your right to be ‘different’; all the time yearning for people who feel the same as you do.  One of these days, if I ever get a scanner, I'll give you all a laugh and load up pics of some of my more, er, interesting, fashion incarnations (as a taster, I offer you the 'Haystack' phase - bleach blonde, backcombed to death, leather jackets and spiky heels).  I made those earrings, btw - hearts and demon baby faces.  Some things never change. :-)

And it doesn’t stop, when you grow up. Maybe we all – consciously or unconsciously – seek others like us: who won’t judge; who won’t call us crazy (or, if they do, at least do it lovingly, with a fond shake of the head). People who understand. And if you can't find them in everyday life, you can look for them online.  On Twitter people are joining ‘twibes’ – online tribes.

Not me. I’m not a joiner, never have been. Adrian's the one who does committees; joins societies; belongs to things. I made an exception just once to get an integrated health care centre up and running here on Exmoor. I've always believed that if our doctors focused on preventative healthcare, they would create health and save money. If they taught people how to eat properly; how to meditate or do autogenic training; how to relax and exercise... If they employed osteopaths, bodyworkers, taught Alexander Technique...and good (firm emphasis on good) psychotherapists (just for starters)...we might have a health service, rather than a sick service. But anyhow, it drove me crazy. Sitting going round in circles; endless meandering; talking, talking, talking: everybody thinking he or she were right.

It didn’t happen. Of course.

A backwater of Epidauros - my dream healing spot

You know (or maybe you don’t), the more I hear of words, the less I trust them. The more I read, the less I know. One of the most blissful weeks of my life was on silent retreat – painting into the night, music in my ears, sometimes dancing, sometimes crying. Another was in Greece on dream pilgrimage, visiting the ancient healing temples, stretching out on the warm sunkissed stones, being bitten by the snakes of Asklepios. Or just sitting in the bus, as it wound through the mountains up to the plains of Sparta, to magical Mystras, staring out, wondering... No words, just feelings. Sometimes nothing. And nothing is alluring, so alluring. Then it tips into everything and...

Sorry, I’m meandering, wandering off again...  Not to the woods today but to the gym – in my uniform of course. Chatting to my neighbour, our lovely vicar; to my instructor, just back from Austria, high on mountain air and cross-country skiing. Chit-chat. Chit-chat. Nice really. I guess it’s what we humans do.

But, then again, why? Are we so scared of what lies beyond silence? Ach, I can’t explain it. Words, see? Useless. If I could only show you...

I love parcels

Only a few more days and we go on holiday! Am so excited I can barely type. We’re going up to Northumberland and will be staying at THE most magical place. Then we come back, I launch into a flurry of washing and then, ye gods, term starts.


I am feeling rather smug actually as, for once, I am pretty much on top of the uniform thing. James is moving up to senior school (AAAGHHHH) and I was terrified that the uniform list would be crucifying but actually it wasn’t too bad. I think schools are beginning to realise that parents have enough on their plates without having to take out a mortgage for blazers and boaters.

I can clearly remember the look on my poor mother’s face when my uniform list came in. I was only going to the local girls’ grammar but by heck there were three pages of it. Actually (I kid you not) there was even a boater. The skirt was a kilt - rather a nice tartan actually. The shirts were a particular shade of sky blue and came from a particular shop in Twickenham. No wonder she turned white.

Actually I think there is some kind of bias against girls because, as we pitched up at James’ school shop to buy our gear, I noticed that the girls still had to get special skirts and, yup, particular blouses while the boys were let off with any old grey trousers and white shirts. And halleluyah for that. I usually top up our kit at M&S but a few days ago I got an email from Tesco asking if I’d like a big bag of school uniform.

Naturally I said, ‘Nah, that’s okay, mate, I’d rather buy it. Give it to someone more deserving.’

Okay, so how many of you believed that? Even for a moment? Yeah, thought not. Suffice to say, I bit off its arm (if an email can have an arm).

Anyhow, at this point (biting the arm of the email) I had to walk away from my PC (okay, lunge) to extract my bra from the Soul Puppy’s piranha sharp teeth. Naturally this would be the precise moment that the delivery man chose to arrive (trying not to laugh as the SP and I had a tug-of-war with my industrial strength underwear) and handed me THE most enormous parcel, all tied up with a big black bow.

Oh god I LOVE parcels. Even parcels with, ahem, boys school clothes in them. But still – one gets that little frisson that accompanies any parcel (along with the random yet hopeful thought that maybe there might be a bar of chocolate stuck in there somewhere). Alas no (as Dumbledore would have said) but there were pens and pads alongside the clothes and (serious smile) a voucher for me to buy something online at Tesco who (who’d of thought) actually have a whole bunch of designer stuff now. Mind you what’s the betting I end up buying stuff for James? Adrian can’t understand why I no longer buy myself clothes but get armloads for the boy but really it’s simple. I can buy something knowing it will a) fit and b) look good. *sigh*).

Meanwhile, back at the parcel, I’m pretty impressed. The shirts, in particular, are good quality and the jumper is ace. Must add that this is the F&F Signature range. Anyhow, have a butcher’s.....

They’ve also asked if I’d like to nominate another blogger who might like to receive their largesse. Didn’t take me long to think of Milla – partly because her younger son, F11, is also off to big school but also because if anyone can make buying school uniform hilarious, it’s Milla and I rather yearn to read what she’ll make of it. So, Fairy TescoToes – please send a parcel to dear Milla (tip: if you want to make her REALLY happy, sneak in a few bottles of wine – she’s rather partial to Tesco Finest pinot if I recall).

Now all I have to do is sew on a few more labels. A monumental task as the school demands (for some inexplicable reason) that kit be labelled in HUGE type. It’s at this point that I wish I hadn’t married a bloke with a stupidly long double-barrelled name. James’ name tags are about six inches long (honestly, no exaggeration).

As I stab the needle in yet again, I narrow my eyes and feel a flash of unsisterly loathing for the mothers of Tom Hunt and Ann Green.


btw, of course it was only a question of time before this happened......