I have now been a salaried worker (note my pretensions to more than mere wages) for some four months. I will admit it has been rather a shock to the system to return to a five-day working week. And not only to my own system. The Infant Phenomenon and the Inexhaustible Baby have required much time and attention in order to reach a stage of simply accepting it. I cannot say that either of them is even yet enthusiastic about Mamma's return to the workforce. I have, wisely I believe, attempted to ignore the heightened debate following the release of a recent cinematographic entertainment on the subject, entitled 'I don't know how she does it'.
I skate over (and save for another occasion) the highs and lows, the enjoyment of my new occupation and the occasional pangs of guilt. My topic today is simply the relentless nature of working motherhood. I occasionally wonder what I used to do with all the free time which is now taken up with the time-consuming details of everyday life in a family of four.
Eyebrows are being raised - there may be ladies reading who cannot decide whether to pity my naïvety, disdain my stupidity or deplore my choices. I am not concerned with any of these.
In actual fact, though I should not tempt fate by saying it, I am simply astonished that as yet I have managed to keep my head above water. I do not expect it to last. When first I returned to employment, the Infant Phenomenon was still at nursery and certainly life was extremely busy, but it was manageable. Since she started school in September, however, our weekly routine resembles nothing so much as a particularly complicated cotillion or quadrille. Even small matters become complex: I have to deposit each child in a different place, each with the correct belongings - everything from nappies to ballet kit. I must ensure that their evening meal is not the same as whatever they had for lunch - much harder to achieve now that they have different lunches. And there is an almost endless requirement for things for the Infant Phenomenon's school career. Culminating today in a dinosaur outfit.
Unsurprisingly, one sometimes forgets something. This week however, I did so to the brink of disaster. The Infant Phenomenon had been invited to an after-school birthday tea party. I was not sure this was a terribly good idea since she is so fatigued at the end of the day, and her friend's house is at the top of a long hill; but I didn't like her to miss it, so I accepted the invitation and procured a suitable gift for her friend. I then promptly forgot all about it.
Yesterday morning, sitting stationary in the traffic at the summit of Reigate Hill, I received a message from the party-giver's Mamma. Was the Phenomenon all set for that afternoon? You can imagine my horror. The Phenomenon finishes school at 3.15, the party started a bare quarter of an hour later and involved a long walk and no possibility of an omnibus. The Phenomenon is a slow walker at the best of times and she has no sense of urgency. The gift, all unwrapped, was in a bag in the kitchen at home. The party theme was fairy tales and the Phenomenon was in her school uniform. It was fast approaching the hour at which I am due at my desk and I was 40 miles from home. There was little I could actually do. I did not realise until afterwards that the peculiar whirring noise I could hear was my brain revolving ways and means.
To my eternal astonishment, and thanks to a great willingness to help in Miss J, the young lady who collects the Phenomenon from school, the situation was retrieved. Miss J called in at the house before collecting the Phenomenon. I described to her in some detail where the gift was (it was in a bag with several other gifts, which Mr B had put on top of the refrigerator as some scant protection from the Marauding Inexhaustible). I told her where to find paper for wrapping. I told her to take one of the cards from the same bag. I instructed her to avail herself of the emergency domestic funds and book a cab. But my pièce de résistance was the costume. The direst necessity proved most truly the mother of invention. I actually managed to compose a fairy tale costume 'remotely'. Red tights from her drawer and her new poncho from the coat rack in the hall, turned inside out to show the red lining. Hey presto, the Infant Phenomenon went to the party as Little Red Riding Hood and Mamma was not guilty of the awful social crime of accepting an invitation and then not showing up. Or (equally heinous in the Phenomenon's eyes) of sending the Phenomenon to a fancy dress party in her school uniform.
I think the moral of the story, as the Duchess would say, is that juggling requires infinite skill and practice and that even the best performers will still occasionally drop a ball. I am far from being expert in the art, and will probably drop several on a tolerably regular basis. I can only hope that I manage to cobble together an equally suitable solution each time.
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
In which the Infant Phenomenon is almost late
The Infant Phenomenon has started school. You never saw anything so pretty as she looked in her brand new uniform (strange to think that school uniforms started life to mark out 'charity children'). Her little curly, Titian-coloured head on top of the navy blue school uniform (which was a little too large) and the beaming smile which accompanied it were a sight to make any parent proud.
As my own Mamma puts it, she has been 'ready' for school for some time now. This has manifested itself in the previously unheard but now frequently used words 'bored' and 'boring'. Also in the oft-asked question 'What are we doing next?'. This can be somewhat daunting to a fond, but busy, parent, as come the weekend, I seldom want to have any particular plans and would like to just spend some pleasant time together, following the inspiration of the moment.
The day before she started was somewhat chaotic, as we were actually returning from my cousin's wedding, which I mentioned in my previous episode. We arrived back in the house at a civilised time of day, it is true, but with all the unpacking to be done and the Phenomenon's school uniform to prepare. And of course, I couldn't find the laundry marker pen. I am afraid that I did not spend hours sewing Cash's woven name tapes onto her every sock; I am not as old fashioned as all that.
She has been tremendously excited about the whole idea of going to 'big school' and we have had many conversations. I have been careful to point out that she must listen to the teacher (a skill which she frequently discards for the far more interesting one of talking) and do as she is told.
I did have a disappointment on the actual day. I had envisaged that we would walk hand in hand, having a somehow memorable conversation (conversations with the Phenomenon are often memorable, simply because of her quaint way of expressing herself). However, the weather was inimical to conversation of any kind and we battled our way along against the wind and the rain, unable to hear each other.
I had thought on that memorable Tuesday morning - as I dare say happens to other parents on a regular basis - that I had allowed more than sufficient time. I was in this, as in so many matters, mistaken. We were just about to leave when the weather which had been inclement but not actively hostile, took a violent turn for the worse, necessitating a change to stout boots. We then had to take the Inexhaustible Baby to nursery. To be frank, after two weeks with Mamma, Papa and the Phenomenon he was reluctant to return, and I was somewhat put out of countenance at being pursued by his roars of outrage as I descended the staircase.
Consequently, in spite of my mania for punctuality, we were almost late on her very first day. For shame!
Those of you who are acquainted with her will not be surprise to hear that she settled in very well and enjoyed herself. I must confess that my pride was mingled with trepidation when at 3.15 I was greeted with the comment 'She's very bright, isn't she?'. I couldn't help wondering what unanswerable questions she had been putting to the staff, or which of my opinions she had been advancing as her own.
As my own Mamma puts it, she has been 'ready' for school for some time now. This has manifested itself in the previously unheard but now frequently used words 'bored' and 'boring'. Also in the oft-asked question 'What are we doing next?'. This can be somewhat daunting to a fond, but busy, parent, as come the weekend, I seldom want to have any particular plans and would like to just spend some pleasant time together, following the inspiration of the moment.
The day before she started was somewhat chaotic, as we were actually returning from my cousin's wedding, which I mentioned in my previous episode. We arrived back in the house at a civilised time of day, it is true, but with all the unpacking to be done and the Phenomenon's school uniform to prepare. And of course, I couldn't find the laundry marker pen. I am afraid that I did not spend hours sewing Cash's woven name tapes onto her every sock; I am not as old fashioned as all that.
She has been tremendously excited about the whole idea of going to 'big school' and we have had many conversations. I have been careful to point out that she must listen to the teacher (a skill which she frequently discards for the far more interesting one of talking) and do as she is told.
I did have a disappointment on the actual day. I had envisaged that we would walk hand in hand, having a somehow memorable conversation (conversations with the Phenomenon are often memorable, simply because of her quaint way of expressing herself). However, the weather was inimical to conversation of any kind and we battled our way along against the wind and the rain, unable to hear each other.
I had thought on that memorable Tuesday morning - as I dare say happens to other parents on a regular basis - that I had allowed more than sufficient time. I was in this, as in so many matters, mistaken. We were just about to leave when the weather which had been inclement but not actively hostile, took a violent turn for the worse, necessitating a change to stout boots. We then had to take the Inexhaustible Baby to nursery. To be frank, after two weeks with Mamma, Papa and the Phenomenon he was reluctant to return, and I was somewhat put out of countenance at being pursued by his roars of outrage as I descended the staircase.
Consequently, in spite of my mania for punctuality, we were almost late on her very first day. For shame!
Those of you who are acquainted with her will not be surprise to hear that she settled in very well and enjoyed herself. I must confess that my pride was mingled with trepidation when at 3.15 I was greeted with the comment 'She's very bright, isn't she?'. I couldn't help wondering what unanswerable questions she had been putting to the staff, or which of my opinions she had been advancing as her own.
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
In which I suffer an attack of stage fright
We are but just returned from the wedding of one of my cousins in Ireland. We all had a thoroughly splendid time most of the time. Mr B and I had a few uncomfortable moments during the day, frequently caused by the behaviour of the Inexhaustible who is now extremely hard to contain.
Luckily, I did manage to postpone his nap until the ceremony, and he slept in his buggy throughout the entire service, looking perfectly angelic and allowing his fond mamma to thoroughly enjoy her emotional self. It had meant an extremely wearing half hour keeping him going beforehand, but it was worth it (especially as that was Mr B's job), else he was perfectly capable of shouting with glee throughout, or attempting to rival the charming singer. As it was, the ceremony was undisturbed by his entirely natural, but not really suited to a formal situation, antics.
The harder moments were during dinner. From the toddler point of view, a wedding is an extremely long affair (unlike for most of the adult guests at this one, who would be happily continuing the event even now). I had therefore, cunningly as I thought, decided to withdraw the children for a snack in the bar for the first hour after the ceremony, thinking that this would make the interval easier until dinner and prevent the Infant Phenomenon from staging one of her favourite performances: the Hysteria of Hunger; not to mention preventing the Inexhaustible Baby from actually biting his fellow guests.
Up to a point this ruse succeeded. They behaved tolerably well until dinner. However at this point, it all went (if you will forgive me for stepping out of character for a moment) Pete Tong. The Infant Phenomenon (who had staged a different drama entitled 'Who is going to cut up my sausages?' during her snack) had eaten so many of the said sausages that her interest in the frankly delicious looking dinner set before her was at best tepid. This may have been aggravated by excessive consumption of bread during the adults' first two courses. However, she played fast and loose with the gravy and simply spent most of her time demanding ice cream.
The Inexhaustible meanwhile started off well. In spite of the bread gambit, he appeared to be pursuing the virtuous course by eating all his broccoli and his sister's. However, that was simply guile and he went on to give a virtuoso interpretation of the babyhood of King Henry VIII of England & Wales. Instead of eating nicely with spoon and fork, he grabbed his breast of chicken by the piece of protruding bone and proceeded to tear lumps off it with his teeth, all the while looking at me with defiance in his eye. He wanted but a flagon of mead to complete the picture.
Seated between these two and attempting to make the one eat with some semblance of decency and to make the other eat at all, you can imagine that this was hardly an ideal experience of haute cuisine.
Added to this was anxiety on my own account. I am very close to all my cousins of the F family; Mrs F is in fact my aunt - I hope I will be permitted a mild literary digression here when I say that this phrase reminds of two of Mr Dickens's comic creations of rare genius: Flora Finching and Mr F's aunt in Little Dorrit.
Anyway, to continue. My cousins, the Fs are all very dear to me, particularly Miss F and her husband Mr C (Miss F, being a strong-minded female amongst her other many good points, rather despises changing of names on marriage. She prefers Ms F, but I hope that for the sake of my rather shaky authenticity she will endure Miss). I have frequently been staying with them, as have they with us.
The younger Mr F, on announcing his engagement, approached me to ask whether I would be willing to sing for them. Of course nothing could give me greater pleasure. On the other hand, to be asked to sing for the first dance is a task of considerable moment and I must confess that I was extremely nervous. As the day got nearer, I became increasingly panic stricken and had dreams of arriving in Ireland without my frock, my shoes, my voice, my music or my memory.
To add to this, the song chosen was not that easy, and the definitive version by a bona-fide soul/blues diva was frankly daunting. I kept telling myself that I would feel more confident once I'd been able to rehearse with the band. Yet again, I found myself mistaken. It took me a full 45 minutes to achieve a passable rendition - a luxury unavailable to me on the actual night.
Thus with every nerve jangling that could possibly jangle, came the nuptial day and the necessity for donning our fine apparel. Again, trying to keep calm and think ahead, I decided that once the children were dressed, I would put on the television in our hotel room, to try to keep them quiet while I concentrated on my toilette and tried to do some vocal exercises. We pressed the button and the screen sprang into life. What was on it? A staggeringly beautiful and very, very slender pop star singing the same song at a recent famous occasion. This, I felt, was rather like the proverbial straw, to remind me on the very day of the comparisons the other guests were likely to be making while I very likely did the song a terrible injustice.
It would be unfair of me to have gone on at this length without pointing out that the bride and groom both asserted, truly I am sure, that they simply didn't care what sort of job I made of it; nonetheless, I cared. I cared very much. I wanted to sing really well. The moment came and I did my best. It is difficult not to 'give it soul' as one kindly person said I had done, when you see two people so happy together surrounded by loving family and friends.
I cannot remember the last time I was so relieved as I was when the song was done, I knew that whatever I had done, I hadn't murdered it and Mr B procured me an extremely large glass of wine.
Luckily, I did manage to postpone his nap until the ceremony, and he slept in his buggy throughout the entire service, looking perfectly angelic and allowing his fond mamma to thoroughly enjoy her emotional self. It had meant an extremely wearing half hour keeping him going beforehand, but it was worth it (especially as that was Mr B's job), else he was perfectly capable of shouting with glee throughout, or attempting to rival the charming singer. As it was, the ceremony was undisturbed by his entirely natural, but not really suited to a formal situation, antics.
The harder moments were during dinner. From the toddler point of view, a wedding is an extremely long affair (unlike for most of the adult guests at this one, who would be happily continuing the event even now). I had therefore, cunningly as I thought, decided to withdraw the children for a snack in the bar for the first hour after the ceremony, thinking that this would make the interval easier until dinner and prevent the Infant Phenomenon from staging one of her favourite performances: the Hysteria of Hunger; not to mention preventing the Inexhaustible Baby from actually biting his fellow guests.
Up to a point this ruse succeeded. They behaved tolerably well until dinner. However at this point, it all went (if you will forgive me for stepping out of character for a moment) Pete Tong. The Infant Phenomenon (who had staged a different drama entitled 'Who is going to cut up my sausages?' during her snack) had eaten so many of the said sausages that her interest in the frankly delicious looking dinner set before her was at best tepid. This may have been aggravated by excessive consumption of bread during the adults' first two courses. However, she played fast and loose with the gravy and simply spent most of her time demanding ice cream.
The Inexhaustible meanwhile started off well. In spite of the bread gambit, he appeared to be pursuing the virtuous course by eating all his broccoli and his sister's. However, that was simply guile and he went on to give a virtuoso interpretation of the babyhood of King Henry VIII of England & Wales. Instead of eating nicely with spoon and fork, he grabbed his breast of chicken by the piece of protruding bone and proceeded to tear lumps off it with his teeth, all the while looking at me with defiance in his eye. He wanted but a flagon of mead to complete the picture.
Seated between these two and attempting to make the one eat with some semblance of decency and to make the other eat at all, you can imagine that this was hardly an ideal experience of haute cuisine.
Added to this was anxiety on my own account. I am very close to all my cousins of the F family; Mrs F is in fact my aunt - I hope I will be permitted a mild literary digression here when I say that this phrase reminds of two of Mr Dickens's comic creations of rare genius: Flora Finching and Mr F's aunt in Little Dorrit.
Anyway, to continue. My cousins, the Fs are all very dear to me, particularly Miss F and her husband Mr C (Miss F, being a strong-minded female amongst her other many good points, rather despises changing of names on marriage. She prefers Ms F, but I hope that for the sake of my rather shaky authenticity she will endure Miss). I have frequently been staying with them, as have they with us.
The younger Mr F, on announcing his engagement, approached me to ask whether I would be willing to sing for them. Of course nothing could give me greater pleasure. On the other hand, to be asked to sing for the first dance is a task of considerable moment and I must confess that I was extremely nervous. As the day got nearer, I became increasingly panic stricken and had dreams of arriving in Ireland without my frock, my shoes, my voice, my music or my memory.
To add to this, the song chosen was not that easy, and the definitive version by a bona-fide soul/blues diva was frankly daunting. I kept telling myself that I would feel more confident once I'd been able to rehearse with the band. Yet again, I found myself mistaken. It took me a full 45 minutes to achieve a passable rendition - a luxury unavailable to me on the actual night.
Thus with every nerve jangling that could possibly jangle, came the nuptial day and the necessity for donning our fine apparel. Again, trying to keep calm and think ahead, I decided that once the children were dressed, I would put on the television in our hotel room, to try to keep them quiet while I concentrated on my toilette and tried to do some vocal exercises. We pressed the button and the screen sprang into life. What was on it? A staggeringly beautiful and very, very slender pop star singing the same song at a recent famous occasion. This, I felt, was rather like the proverbial straw, to remind me on the very day of the comparisons the other guests were likely to be making while I very likely did the song a terrible injustice.
It would be unfair of me to have gone on at this length without pointing out that the bride and groom both asserted, truly I am sure, that they simply didn't care what sort of job I made of it; nonetheless, I cared. I cared very much. I wanted to sing really well. The moment came and I did my best. It is difficult not to 'give it soul' as one kindly person said I had done, when you see two people so happy together surrounded by loving family and friends.
I cannot remember the last time I was so relieved as I was when the song was done, I knew that whatever I had done, I hadn't murdered it and Mr B procured me an extremely large glass of wine.
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
In which everything has changed
It has been a long silence, as I am well aware. There is a chapter heading in one of Mr Dickens's novels: 'Too full of incident to be described briefly', or similar. That is how life has been since I last addressed you.
I am no longer a lady of leisure, I have employment and this is a good thing. I am most fortunate and I am fully aware of the fact. I have lost a friend and former colleague to an aggressive form of leukaemia, which has been terrible.
We appear to be in the grip of further global financial implosion (think of poor Miss Matty in Cranford, losing most of her income and selling tea and comfits); there are scenes in London reminiscent of the Gordon Riots, as described in Barnaby Rudge; the News of the World has closed amidst the kind of scandal that Mr Dickens would have majestically denounced and Mr Trollope revelled in; and if I recount any further sweeping changes, I fear I shall turn a little giddy and faint.
The Infant Phenomenon is starting school next month, the Inexhaustible Baby is 'streaming' (I believe the modern phrase is) the Terrible Twos and I hardly know whether I am on my head or my heels.
Frankly, I am yearning for a little boredom. Or failing that, the sort of genteel routine which the ladies of Miss Austen's novels enjoyed - or didn't, at times. At the moment, I feel more like Fanny Price than Maria Bertram or Mary Crawford, in wishing for stillness and peace rather than excitement.
I am no longer a lady of leisure, I have employment and this is a good thing. I am most fortunate and I am fully aware of the fact. I have lost a friend and former colleague to an aggressive form of leukaemia, which has been terrible.
We appear to be in the grip of further global financial implosion (think of poor Miss Matty in Cranford, losing most of her income and selling tea and comfits); there are scenes in London reminiscent of the Gordon Riots, as described in Barnaby Rudge; the News of the World has closed amidst the kind of scandal that Mr Dickens would have majestically denounced and Mr Trollope revelled in; and if I recount any further sweeping changes, I fear I shall turn a little giddy and faint.
The Infant Phenomenon is starting school next month, the Inexhaustible Baby is 'streaming' (I believe the modern phrase is) the Terrible Twos and I hardly know whether I am on my head or my heels.
Frankly, I am yearning for a little boredom. Or failing that, the sort of genteel routine which the ladies of Miss Austen's novels enjoyed - or didn't, at times. At the moment, I feel more like Fanny Price than Maria Bertram or Mary Crawford, in wishing for stillness and peace rather than excitement.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
In which I struggle with another dress code
I recently made my first visit to an orthodox synagogue. The son of a friend of Mr B's was having his bar mitzvah and we were invited to attend. Happy to be included in this celebration, we of course accepted the invitation.
However, as the event drew nearer, I started to suffer from some misgivings. Some of you may remember that on a previous occasion I put myself through considerable (and eventually unnecessary) worry on the subject of what to wear. At that time, it was a mixture of insecurity, vanity and previous experiences of frock buying which worried me. My anxiety on this latter occasion, however, was of a completely different and frankly more alarming nature: the possibility of dressing entirely inappropriately and offending people.
Then the inevitable happened, as any busy mother of very small children will confirm: I completely forgot about the entire event until the day before. I had taken the Inexhaustible and the Infant Phenomenon to spend the afternoon with my dear parents and Mamma asked me towards the end of the day whether we had any plans for the weekend. I went through that strange paralysis of the mind, knowing we had an important engagement, but unable to remember exactly what it was. Then suddenly it burst upon me - and you can only imagine the mounting swell of panic which I now started to feel.
"What were the rules? Where would I go? What would happen? Did I have to keep the children completely silent?" Mr B filled me in on the basics: that the men and women would sit separately and I would have to take charge of both children, in an unfamiliar place and no means of getting Mr B out to give me a hand, should one or other of them require an extraordinary amount of attention. We didn't think Mr B would be able to take the Infant Phenomenon into the men's section and were absolutely certain that the Inexhaustible Baby would be too disruptive. This was somewhat alarming but the Infant Phenomenon has superb company manners and I was confident that with her on her best behaviour, I could keep the Inexhaustible Baby under control. That is a mistake I shan't make again...
We then came to what - at that moment - seemed like the most important issue: how was I to dress? I had some idea of where to start: as a married lady, I would be expected to cover my hair. This I think we can honestly agree would be the greatest challenge for me. If you look at the photograph of me at the side of this page, you will see at first glance that I have rather a lot of rather unruly hair. I have over the years come to consider it as a 'crowning glory' but for many years it really was rather a difficult matter. It now reaches my waist and is both voluminous and noticeable when unrestrained.
I simply couldn't think what to do with it. Nor did I know exactly how covered up it was supposed to be. Should it be completely invisible? Was that even humanly possible? In increasing nervousness I discarded one idea after another. I tried tying it all down and putting a striking coloured headscarf on - and nearly burst into tears when Mr B could scarce restrain his laughter. "Don't you dare laugh! It's easy for you!" I shrieked in increasing despair. But I could see well enough that it was not a becoming style on me.
We had already been in telephonic communication with another friend who would also attend and had more experience of this than we. Until my conversation with her, I had thought that I would know fairly well how to dress smartly and appropriately. I could not have been more wrong: long sleeves, long skirts or dresses, no trousers and no sandals. I was saved from committing a whole series of sartorial solecisms by this conversation, yet nobody could solve the problem of my hair for me. I had to tackle that one alone.
Finally at 11.30 that night, in a state of desperation I finally remembered that I owned a couple of hats which had originally been bought for weddings and scarce worn. Retrieving them from the airing cupboard, they were a little squashed, but capable of rescue. However, I had bought them a considerable time ago, when my locks were shorter and much easier to manage. Nonetheless, it was my only option. Exhausted I betook myself to bed.
The next morning I still was in a quandary. If I put my hair in its usual plait, it would be extremely visible all the way down my back and I simply had no idea whether this would be acceptable or not. Also the mass of hair rendered the hat tight fitting and uncomfortable. So in a final attempt to solve all my problems, I divided the hair into two, made two plaits and looped them up so that the barest minimum was visible at the back beneath the hat brim. It also solved the problem of volume so I would be able to keep the hat on for as long as necessary. I must have stood in front of the glass for fully five minutes by the clock, checking different angles and using a small hand mirror to see how it looked at the back.
Mr B was matter of fact, but unenthusiastic about the style, which I had actually started to rather like. I suspect he was simply exhausted by the subject and my anxieties. Then came the terrible doubt, of which I still cannot free myself: had I managed to get my hair into an elegant, almost 19th century style, or did the plaits just make me look like a rejected extra from an especially bad cinematographic adaptation of Miss Spyri's Heidi?
The most important question of course, was the one I didn't think to ask. "How long will it last?" And that makes two mistakes I won't make again...
However, as the event drew nearer, I started to suffer from some misgivings. Some of you may remember that on a previous occasion I put myself through considerable (and eventually unnecessary) worry on the subject of what to wear. At that time, it was a mixture of insecurity, vanity and previous experiences of frock buying which worried me. My anxiety on this latter occasion, however, was of a completely different and frankly more alarming nature: the possibility of dressing entirely inappropriately and offending people.
Then the inevitable happened, as any busy mother of very small children will confirm: I completely forgot about the entire event until the day before. I had taken the Inexhaustible and the Infant Phenomenon to spend the afternoon with my dear parents and Mamma asked me towards the end of the day whether we had any plans for the weekend. I went through that strange paralysis of the mind, knowing we had an important engagement, but unable to remember exactly what it was. Then suddenly it burst upon me - and you can only imagine the mounting swell of panic which I now started to feel.
"What were the rules? Where would I go? What would happen? Did I have to keep the children completely silent?" Mr B filled me in on the basics: that the men and women would sit separately and I would have to take charge of both children, in an unfamiliar place and no means of getting Mr B out to give me a hand, should one or other of them require an extraordinary amount of attention. We didn't think Mr B would be able to take the Infant Phenomenon into the men's section and were absolutely certain that the Inexhaustible Baby would be too disruptive. This was somewhat alarming but the Infant Phenomenon has superb company manners and I was confident that with her on her best behaviour, I could keep the Inexhaustible Baby under control. That is a mistake I shan't make again...
We then came to what - at that moment - seemed like the most important issue: how was I to dress? I had some idea of where to start: as a married lady, I would be expected to cover my hair. This I think we can honestly agree would be the greatest challenge for me. If you look at the photograph of me at the side of this page, you will see at first glance that I have rather a lot of rather unruly hair. I have over the years come to consider it as a 'crowning glory' but for many years it really was rather a difficult matter. It now reaches my waist and is both voluminous and noticeable when unrestrained.
I simply couldn't think what to do with it. Nor did I know exactly how covered up it was supposed to be. Should it be completely invisible? Was that even humanly possible? In increasing nervousness I discarded one idea after another. I tried tying it all down and putting a striking coloured headscarf on - and nearly burst into tears when Mr B could scarce restrain his laughter. "Don't you dare laugh! It's easy for you!" I shrieked in increasing despair. But I could see well enough that it was not a becoming style on me.
We had already been in telephonic communication with another friend who would also attend and had more experience of this than we. Until my conversation with her, I had thought that I would know fairly well how to dress smartly and appropriately. I could not have been more wrong: long sleeves, long skirts or dresses, no trousers and no sandals. I was saved from committing a whole series of sartorial solecisms by this conversation, yet nobody could solve the problem of my hair for me. I had to tackle that one alone.
Finally at 11.30 that night, in a state of desperation I finally remembered that I owned a couple of hats which had originally been bought for weddings and scarce worn. Retrieving them from the airing cupboard, they were a little squashed, but capable of rescue. However, I had bought them a considerable time ago, when my locks were shorter and much easier to manage. Nonetheless, it was my only option. Exhausted I betook myself to bed.
The next morning I still was in a quandary. If I put my hair in its usual plait, it would be extremely visible all the way down my back and I simply had no idea whether this would be acceptable or not. Also the mass of hair rendered the hat tight fitting and uncomfortable. So in a final attempt to solve all my problems, I divided the hair into two, made two plaits and looped them up so that the barest minimum was visible at the back beneath the hat brim. It also solved the problem of volume so I would be able to keep the hat on for as long as necessary. I must have stood in front of the glass for fully five minutes by the clock, checking different angles and using a small hand mirror to see how it looked at the back.
Mr B was matter of fact, but unenthusiastic about the style, which I had actually started to rather like. I suspect he was simply exhausted by the subject and my anxieties. Then came the terrible doubt, of which I still cannot free myself: had I managed to get my hair into an elegant, almost 19th century style, or did the plaits just make me look like a rejected extra from an especially bad cinematographic adaptation of Miss Spyri's Heidi?
The most important question of course, was the one I didn't think to ask. "How long will it last?" And that makes two mistakes I won't make again...
Thursday, 5 May 2011
In which Mr B surprises me
I think that by now it will have become apparent to my regular readers that Mr B and I are what might be called Manchester Radicals. We are adamantly on the left wing of the political spectrum. Further (as readers of my last posting will remember) we are not only left-leaning but frankly republican.
I must therefore confess to some surprise at finding the interest which Mr B showed in the recent royal wedding. I will start by ceding several points to Mr B at once: it was exceedingly hard, nay impossible to avoid (he did after all get an extra day off work); one had to have a view on it, one couldn't simply pretend it wasn't happening. One would really have to be some kind of monster to actually feel actively hostile to a young couple on their wedding day. It would be inhuman not to at least wish them well, whatever one's view of the appalling system of constitutional monarchy of which they are part. And as I have previously mentioned, everyone loves a bride and there was some considerable curiosity as to what this particular one would wear.
Even allowing for all this, and adding in Mr B's notorious softness of heart, which would rather multiply his good feeling towards any young couple on their wedding day, I was somewhat surprised at the eagerness with which Mr B and his mamma discussed the possible titles and correct form for addressing the new Duchess of ... Cambridge (I had a momentary forgetfulness, I beg your pardon).
Mr B - with whom I have shared every thought, whose political views are as well known to me as my own - a secret royalist?
I ought to admit that the sheer pleasure of describing him thus (in some ways accurately, but on the whole doing him less than justice) has been great, if somewhat illusory. Who knows better than I that Mr is no royalist? Nonetheless, marriage being what it is, I have garnered much amusement from teasing him with the idea that he is a closet monarchist.
I must therefore confess to some surprise at finding the interest which Mr B showed in the recent royal wedding. I will start by ceding several points to Mr B at once: it was exceedingly hard, nay impossible to avoid (he did after all get an extra day off work); one had to have a view on it, one couldn't simply pretend it wasn't happening. One would really have to be some kind of monster to actually feel actively hostile to a young couple on their wedding day. It would be inhuman not to at least wish them well, whatever one's view of the appalling system of constitutional monarchy of which they are part. And as I have previously mentioned, everyone loves a bride and there was some considerable curiosity as to what this particular one would wear.
Even allowing for all this, and adding in Mr B's notorious softness of heart, which would rather multiply his good feeling towards any young couple on their wedding day, I was somewhat surprised at the eagerness with which Mr B and his mamma discussed the possible titles and correct form for addressing the new Duchess of ... Cambridge (I had a momentary forgetfulness, I beg your pardon).
Mr B - with whom I have shared every thought, whose political views are as well known to me as my own - a secret royalist?
I ought to admit that the sheer pleasure of describing him thus (in some ways accurately, but on the whole doing him less than justice) has been great, if somewhat illusory. Who knows better than I that Mr is no royalist? Nonetheless, marriage being what it is, I have garnered much amusement from teasing him with the idea that he is a closet monarchist.
Friday, 29 April 2011
A tale of two nuptials
Today the Infant Phenomenon and I stood waiting - she clutching a posy of flowers - to wave to the bride: one of the young ladies from the house next door. No, we were not in London, waving to Miss Middleton (as she was), now the Duchess of Cambridge. We were at home in Brighton, waving to another bride, whose nuptials were planned and announced some time before those of the royal couple were made public.
Those of you who know me will not be shocked by my frank confession that I am no royalist; one might almost say that my Irish blood rather leans in the other direction. I have huffed and puffed like a big bad wolf ever since the announcement of the royal engagement. Those who troubled to listen might have heard me chuntering about 'real news'. I have muttered about the cost to the taxpayer (should I present myself at the Circumlocution Office and demand to know?); I have sneered at the overblown sentimentality of some of my compatriots (the references to the late Princess Diana have much in common with the popular misquotation of East Lynne 'Dead, dead and never called me mother!'); I have advocated the abolition of the royal family though have as yet no thoroughly well-considered alternative to offer, though I am sure that some exist.
Suffice it to say, my refusal to engage with this so-called national event was not uncommon (Mr B was a great deal louder in his protestations, it must be noted). And then our kind neighbour Mrs D told us that one of her daughters had planned her own wedding for the same day. We were vociferous in our exclamations about 'real brides'. I am sure you can imagine our comments and our unwearying (and frankly tedious) repetition of them.
However, as the moment has arrived, my mood has softened. And do bear in mind, that I am a hardened republican who despises 'Majesty' magazine (the existence of which I discovered as a humble bookseller at Harrods). This does not indicate any softening of my republican attitude (I still have a qualm at the thought of the cost of all those policemen). No, it is simply that a bride is a bride, all the world over.
Why did I ask lovely Mrs D at what hour her daughter the bride would leave the house, so that the Infant Phenomenon could wave to her? Because everybody loves a bride. Miss D looked wonderful, glowing with the radiance proper to a bride. And thus emotion clouds politics. Whatever one thinks of constitutional monarchy and the British version of it in particular, when the day came I was delighted to see that both brides looked beautiful and radiant.
And then, the London bride entered Westminster Abbey to the stirring music of Mr Parry: I Was Glad. This is the same as Mr B and I had for our exit from church at our own wedding. I looked at Mr B, the Infant Phenomenon (on my lap) and the Inexhaustible Baby (fast asleep in the perambulator) and grew misty-eyed. And while the royal couple have a very grand evening indeed ahead of them, our neighbours will be holding their reception at a pub owned by some friends of the bride and groom. And I am sure that hearts and heels will be as light in the pub as at Buckingham Palace.
I feel I cannot do better than finish with the words of my own dear Mamma. She 'texted' me thus this afternoon: "I am not a staunch Royalist but I do wish them well. There is nothing as nice as seeing a happy couple on their wedding day." Well said Mamma! In fact, with or without benefit of clergy, a happy couple is a happy sight. And however grand a wedding might be, it is, in the end, a wedding: neither more nor less than the most important decision two people can make about how they spend their lives.
Those of you who know me will not be shocked by my frank confession that I am no royalist; one might almost say that my Irish blood rather leans in the other direction. I have huffed and puffed like a big bad wolf ever since the announcement of the royal engagement. Those who troubled to listen might have heard me chuntering about 'real news'. I have muttered about the cost to the taxpayer (should I present myself at the Circumlocution Office and demand to know?); I have sneered at the overblown sentimentality of some of my compatriots (the references to the late Princess Diana have much in common with the popular misquotation of East Lynne 'Dead, dead and never called me mother!'); I have advocated the abolition of the royal family though have as yet no thoroughly well-considered alternative to offer, though I am sure that some exist.
Suffice it to say, my refusal to engage with this so-called national event was not uncommon (Mr B was a great deal louder in his protestations, it must be noted). And then our kind neighbour Mrs D told us that one of her daughters had planned her own wedding for the same day. We were vociferous in our exclamations about 'real brides'. I am sure you can imagine our comments and our unwearying (and frankly tedious) repetition of them.
However, as the moment has arrived, my mood has softened. And do bear in mind, that I am a hardened republican who despises 'Majesty' magazine (the existence of which I discovered as a humble bookseller at Harrods). This does not indicate any softening of my republican attitude (I still have a qualm at the thought of the cost of all those policemen). No, it is simply that a bride is a bride, all the world over.
Why did I ask lovely Mrs D at what hour her daughter the bride would leave the house, so that the Infant Phenomenon could wave to her? Because everybody loves a bride. Miss D looked wonderful, glowing with the radiance proper to a bride. And thus emotion clouds politics. Whatever one thinks of constitutional monarchy and the British version of it in particular, when the day came I was delighted to see that both brides looked beautiful and radiant.
And then, the London bride entered Westminster Abbey to the stirring music of Mr Parry: I Was Glad. This is the same as Mr B and I had for our exit from church at our own wedding. I looked at Mr B, the Infant Phenomenon (on my lap) and the Inexhaustible Baby (fast asleep in the perambulator) and grew misty-eyed. And while the royal couple have a very grand evening indeed ahead of them, our neighbours will be holding their reception at a pub owned by some friends of the bride and groom. And I am sure that hearts and heels will be as light in the pub as at Buckingham Palace.
I feel I cannot do better than finish with the words of my own dear Mamma. She 'texted' me thus this afternoon: "I am not a staunch Royalist but I do wish them well. There is nothing as nice as seeing a happy couple on their wedding day." Well said Mamma! In fact, with or without benefit of clergy, a happy couple is a happy sight. And however grand a wedding might be, it is, in the end, a wedding: neither more nor less than the most important decision two people can make about how they spend their lives.
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