This is NOT a Silent Sunday post..

...because I forgot to bring the connecting cord for my phone to my laptop on holiday. Dammit. But I've got some fabulous shots on there, I promise.

Not least 2 photographs which I would love to show you but which - now I come to think of it - actually I couldn't because they show my sons' faces. At least, I think they are my sons, but since the images are of each of them with their eyes closed in ecstasy as they eat that most of Dutch of Dutch treats - raw herring - I can't be sure.

Now, I love sushi. But there are limits. And they're supposed to be my sons, for goodness sake. You know, adventurous in their eating but still able to keep a handle on what is and isn't actual 'food'. And yet, there they are, on film, holding a raw (admittedly gutted and headless) fish by the tail and eating it.

Boy #1 told me (as I tried not to dry heave too visibly at what I was watching) that he loves herring SO much he wants to live in Holland when he grows up so that he can eat it every day. Husband practically exploded with pride, I can tell you.

Time for us to finally sort their Dutch passports out, I think...

Travelling with kids; it's not the children you need to worry about...

The woman looked at me as if I was crazy, horror and outrage written all over her face. She didn't even need to say what she was thinking; how could I have made such a ridiculous suggestion? Who did I think I was? What on earth had I done to merit any kind of special treatment? I looked around but all about I could only see stony faces, eyes elsewhere, people who had their faces buried in books and magazines - anything rather than acknowledge the situation unfolding inches away from them.

I tried again.

"Would you mind moving? It's just that this was the last free row of 3 seats, I'm travelling with my five and seven year old children, and I think it would be sensible to sit next to them."

I refrained from pointing out that the row in front and behind her each had 2 free seats; if she needed extra room that was still possible, and that I was asking her not because I had singled her out for unfair treatment, but because she happened to have taken the last free row that the stewardess at the front of the plane had directed me to.

Not meeting my eye she answered me "I'm waiting for two friends to join me. So no, I'm not moving."

I looked at my sons. I thought about simply dumping them next to her (there was no sign of her two friends, & first come first served), and sitting across the aisle whilst I fed them messy chocolatey snacks and refused them access to their Nintendo's, resulting in certain meltdown; in my opinion, a suitable reward for her behaviour. I also thought about pointing out to her that the flight we were about to take was only 45 minutes - FORTY FIVE MINUTES! - and surely, surely she could live without her friends' company for that long (especially bearing in mind that they hadn't bothered to do her the politeness of standing in the queue with her). I thought about asking when the last time she struggled through the airport with two young children on her own was, watching other passengers rush past her in the certain knowledge that she was going to be last in the boarding queue - which was of course how I had ended up in this situation in the first place.

I even thought about suggesting to the couple in the row opposite, firmly staring out the window holding hands for all they worth as they tapped their ruby slippers together and wished me and my troublesome children away, that perhaps they could split up and move to alternate seats...

Luckily for all involved none of these things happened, as a woman in the seat in front politely stood up, moved, and gave the row of three up for us as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Budget air travel. It surely is a wonderful thing...

The Gallery: Grandparents

This post is for Week 65 of The Gallery...

This week's prompt is 'Grandparents'. And I think that the photo below needs no explanation. (If you're wondering where the other Boy is, obviously he's in the wheelbarrow...)

Statement of intent...

I can't ignore it any more. It's been eating away at me for months now, if not years. I've tried to push it to one side. Don't be stupid, I've told myself. You don't have the time for this. You don't have the headspace for this. You've got too much going on. When on earth would you find the opportunity?

And - if I'm honest - there's also a small voice that asks dismissively; what makes you think you could?

But always, always, it's there at the back of my mind, like the elephant in the corner of the room, like a great unsolved puzzle, like - well, like nothing so much as an unacknowledged pregnancy, actually.

Despite the thousands of words that I write here and elsewhere every week, I feel pregnant with creativity that I haven't allowed myself to express. I know; that's a big statement. It's so self-important, too. Oooh, get me with the creativity. Get me with the big plan. Christ knows, I don't have the first idea where or how to start. But I need to stop messing about and just get on with it.

It's time to put my money where my mouth is and see if I can actually put more than 500 words down on paper in one go, and crucially have them make some kind of sense. Don't get me wrong, blogging has been (and will continue to be, I'm not giving it up) fantastic; it's helped me find my 'voice', gain confidence in so many ways, and build up a network that I value and treasure, but amazingly, I think - I think - that it might no longer be enough.

Somehow, I have to give writing - I can hardly bring myself to announce my intentions in public for fear of god-knows-what - a 'proper' book a try.

I have no idea what form it will eventually take; I have a couple of ideas and plan to work them through properly, but I suspect that what will kick-start the creative process, for me, is simply to sit down and just get on with it.

And then, I'll know. Have I got what it takes? Watch this space...

Home thoughts from - well, Home actually...

I've been back in the UK for 12 days now and here are few random observations:

It's a good thing I don't claim to be a practicing Roman Catholic. Or Boy #2's question of "Why are they all eating biscuits?" during mass last Sunday might have blown the whistle on that one.

I used to think that the roads here were infested by 4x4's. Having spent the last 18 months driving on Moscow's mean streets were I was truly surrounded by them, I am delighted to report that here in the UK, actually there really aren't that many of them...

The warmer weather of the last few days has shown me that some women here can't check their back view before leaving the house. Nothing else could explain the high number of 'black g-string under transparent-in-the-sunshine white dress' offences that I've encountered recently. (And this is not to mention the red and white polka-dot pants under white linen trousers sported by the lady in front of me at church on Sunday...)

The NHS, the fantastic wine merchant on the High St in Wells, the Royal Academy, Waterstones, Waitrose, and Boots the Chemist; I love you. That is all.

Boots Opticians. You are the devil's work. That is all.

Silent Sunday

Recyling In Moscow and the 1000 Bins Campaign

At last Saturday's Cybermummy, (nearly a week ago, how did that happen? Can whoever stole the last 6 days give them back, please?) one of my oldest blog mates Karen Cannard at The Rubbish Diet mentioned in her excellent presentation that she has recently started a campaign to raise awareness of recycling litter bins in the heart of the community.

I love recycling. I think it makes absolute sense. When living in London I was only too happy to sort through my rubbish and separate it all out; in my mind, it was an easy way to make a positive contribution to minimising my impact on the environment. Much like getting a vegetable box delivered every week (virtually no disposable packaging, seasonal locally produced vegetables and amazingly, lighter on the wallet than buying the equivalent in the supermarket. And my mother in law always loved the swede I could never bring myself to cook...), and taking UK only holidays.

OK. That last was in my dreams, the one where I wear a Cath Kidston apron whilst baking bread for my family and simultaneously writing an award-winning column for The Times from my eco-house in Cornwall. But still. Recycling? Win-win all round, to my mind.

But here's the thing, since I've been living in Russia, I have had to stop recycling. Pretty much completely, if I'm honest. Why? Because there are no recycling facilities available. Don't get me wrong; there used to be. Back in the bad old days (cough), it was a comrade's duty to recycle, so every one did it. But now, since people don't have to do it, they don't do it. AT ALL.

Part of the problem is that Russia is a country with seemingly inexhaustible natural resources, and one of them is space. Sure, they have 150 million people, but they also have vast tracts of unused (and in many cases, due to the extremes of climate, unuseable) land. A few landfills can't hurt, they reason. Why not just dump acres of waste in previously pristine forest, no-one's going to see... It's not true, obviously. But there will need to be a huge change of mind-set before many Russians realise that.

That is why, whilst walking in the Sparrow Hills in Moscow recently, I was delighted to see a proper recycling bin, with separate sections for different types of waste. It's not much, I know, in the whole scale of things, but it's a start, and so - way before I knew about the 1000 Bins campaign - I took a photograph to record the existence of what might be the only recycling bin I ever see in Moscow.

I know. Most people take pictures of views; I took one of a bin. Maybe that's why Karen and I get on?