Diamonds may last forever, but skoda's don't...

Dear Purple Skoda,

I really thought that this was a letter I would never have to write. I honestly believed that you would be part of our lives for ever, growing ever more crotchety - but still just about going - for many years to come, and yet hear we are, a mere 7 years after first meeting, saying our goodbyes.

I remember when we first met. I was 3 weeks off my due date with Boy #1, and Husband had finally bowed to Realism and accepted that our days of being young cosmopolitan Londoners who used public transport to get everywhere, only hiring a car when we needed to leave the capital, were over. Since I had always been the one to deal with transport issues up until then (having mostly been the one gifted with company cars), I decided that this time he could do the legwork, and let him get on with sourcing a suitable vehicle whilst I concentrated on finishing up at the office before going on maternity leave, and waddling around like a very hot duck at the end of the 2003 summer heatwave.

So when, the day after I shut down my laptop for the last time in 6 months and left work weighed down by good wishes and goodluck cards, I did so in the certain knowledge that when we went to the second hand car dealer the next day (getting there by tube, obviously), he would not have let me down.

Well, he didn't. Exactly. But he did wait until we were almost there, me sweating and sailing along like a ship in full sail, before announcing that he had already spied a suitable car on the website. "I'm not sure you're going to like it" he said nervously. Safe in my pregnancy bubble, I remained as serene as it was possible to be for a nearly nine month pregnant woman walking along in 30degC temperatures, and in need of the loo and vast quantities of cold water at the same time. A Ford Focus? A Clio, perhaps? How bad could it get? My husband, after all, is something of a petrol head. Of course he would pick us a good car!

What I had forgotten, however, was that as well as being a petrol head, my husband was also Dutch; a nation famed on mainland Europe for being 'careful' with money.

"It's a skoda" he mumbled.

I stopped, and looked at him. "You're kidding, right?"

"And it's purple".

"You're not kidding."

Not, perhaps, the most auspicious start to a relationship. But , dear skoda, you have done us proud over the last 7 years. You might not be the coolest car on the block, or even an acceptable colour, but your big boot enabled us to transport 2 children and their various accessories, over more trips to Holland and the West Country than I care to think about. Sure, there were rare incidents where you decided to throw a hissy fit; that time in a torrential rainstorm at midnight in Belgium, for example. When Husband decided to wash down your engine. Or when you decided we should splash out on a new exhaust. Or two.

But overall, you've been a good friend, ignoring the leaf-litter of papers, sweet wrappers and coke cans that rattled around on the floor, and proving good-humoured about always being the dirtiest car on the block (Husband still swears that our neighbours thought you belonged to the cleaners and that they probably all thought we weren't paying them enough...).

It was only when we pushed you too far, ignoring your pleas for more coolant, that you finally gave out on Husband on the M25 in rush hour one evening and threw in the towel for good. (And no, I won't remind you of how I repeatedly asked him if we should pay attention to the little light on the dashboard and of how he laughed at me and told me not to be so silly, there would never be anything wrong with you...).

So now it's goodbye, dear skoda. I have no doubt that your replacement - when we finally return to live in Blighty, whenever that may be - will probably be just as uncool and just as good value for money as you ever were. But I must admit that I do rather hope that in one respect, it will be different.

Please, not purple.

Best wishes,

PM x

Summer-time - and does anyone have any diocalm handy?

I'm falling behind on my blog reading. I'm also falling behind on replying to comments, Twitter, newspapers, books, and practically everything that doesn't involve bouncing around in a pool with small children, soaking up the sun and regretting the croissant with butter and honey I had for breakfast.

But hey, you only live once.

I do, however, want to ask you one question;

Do you, like me, sometimes wonder how you came to partner up with a man so similar to one of your parents?

My sister, for example, married a man who has much in common with our mother (if it's possible to say that without making him out to be some sort of emasculated person, which he most definitely is not). And I? Well, I often wonder if I have ended up with a close copy of my father.

For example, Dad was something of a workaholic when I was growing up. (He still is, actually. Which is a neat trick when you're supposed have retired already.) Most of the time this manifested itself in not being around too much during the week (at least when we children were awake), and being on something of short fuse for much of the rest of the time. (Hmm...). And when it came time for the holidays, you could bet that the first 3 days or so would be wasted due to the fact that he would come down with some illness that pounced on his lowered immune system the moment he slowed down his normal frenetic pace and the adrenalin disappeared from his body.

Ah.

I don't think I'm stretching the point too much when I think of my beloved languishing upstairs still suffering the after-effects of his stomach upset on Saturday if I say this pattern of behaviour bears certain... similarities... to those displayed by my father. (And no. This is not a one-off).

So I'm wondering. Is it that I've essentially chosen a man who has many of the same qualities I admire in my father (in this instance; being a hard worker, incredibly focused, and with an eye on the long term goal rather than a short-term easy life) and which of course have similardown-sides (finding it hard to slow down, getting ill when he does)? And do we all do the same thing of looking for traits we respect in our parents when we choose a partner?

Or does this sick-holiday syndrome happen to everyone and I'm just reading too much into it?

Notes to self on booking next holiday...

We're in the south of france having a lovely time. The children are becoming water-nymphs, the accommodation is practically perfect, the wine is chilling in the fridge, and the sun is shining. But I imagine that the fact I'm having a good holiday is not something you want to hear about if you're stuck at home, so I've worked VERY hard to come up with a list of things that might help you feel better about that..

Notes to self when planning next holiday:

The night before leaving on holiday, do not allow your husband to eat Indonesian food left over from the day before.

Most especially, do not encourage him to have seconds.

But if this happens, make sure you are sleeping in a well-ventilated room and that you have packed diocalm in an easily accessible part of your luggage.

Do not blithely assume that the threat by EasyJet's board to make it change it's name if they don't improve their record of time keeping will have made any difference to their actual practices.

Do not bother to make arrangements to meet the family you are holidaying with at the airport you're flying to. See note above as to why.

Do not relax back into your seat once the airplane finally takes off, safe in the knowledge that nothing now will stop you arriving at your destination in 1 hour 40 minutes. You might, of course, but that's unlikely when your plane has to make an unscheduled landing at Paris due to another passenger being taken ill.

Do, however, rejoice that said passenger is not your husband who has been looking decidedly pasty since he got up due to excessive consumption of possibly dodgy Indonesian food the night before. (To the extent that when the paramedics arrive to check out the other passenger, they ask your husband if he would like to be seen as well, just to make sure...)

Do not assume once you've landed that all your problems are over. Not when you still have to pick up your hire car on the first day of the UK summer holidays in a hot-spot for 'discerning' travellers, anyway.

Make sure that if you are the designated driver (man, this is getting to be something of a habit - more of why another time), your husband reads the directions you've printed out correctly and doesn't miss out a crucial line instructing you to turn left rather than continuing straight on.

Keep a tight rein on your temper when still sickly husband's mistake is discovered.

And finally, think twice about the wisdom of buying your first bikini in 15 years when you have a) been somewhere without access to a gym for the last 6 months, b) have kept on what another blogger once charmingly referred to as your 'winter coat' due to lack of access to said gym, and c) are holidaying with one of your closest friends to whom 9 1/2 stone is a weight she only ever reached whilst pregnant and who is still on nodding terms with her hip bones. And who has brought a different bikini with her for every day of the week.

Will that do? Probably not...

On the hamster's wheel

It's the day before we go on our summer holiday. All is chaos at my parent's in law where we're currently staying before we leave for France. After spending 3 weeks with my parents and Husband's mother I'm becoming something of a basket case. I love them both dearly (although my parents more, obviously - it's the law, apparently), but I haven't spent this much time with them since I left home 25 years ago.

Husband suggested this morning that I take 'a couple of hours' out at a coffee shop to surf the internet and have some time to myself. Great idea. Except, by the time we emptied out our car ready for it to be scrapped (once we find the ownership papers, and god only knows where they are), went through the stuff in my mother-in-law's loft trying to find various pieces of clothing for the boys (also a fruitless exercise), and tried to rationalise some of our luggage before flying out with 'Not so Easy Jet' tomorrow morning, 'a couple of hours' had gone down to 1 hour 15. Throw in running a couple of errands (funnily enough for shaving foam that I won't be using and a card for my brother-in-law), and I was left with 40 minutes. Then I had to find a coffee shop with wifi (lose another 10 minutes) and queue up to get the code in the only joint in town with a working connection, and I have 2 minutes left to write a post.

And now I'm late.

What a relaxing 'couple of hours' that was...

So that's it, Internet. No more blog post right now. Hopefully the next time I log on I will be ensconced by the pool with a glass of chilled rose in my hand.

Update: My saint of a mother-in-law has taken the boys out to the park to give them the chance to let off steam and me time to pack.

I am, of course, blogging instead, so I can give you the skinny about my accident on the way home where, stomping along crossly in my new fit flops, I caught the incredibly thick sole on the edge of the pavement and executed a perfect triple salko ending up with me, my handbag, the shopping, and crucially, my laptop bag, hitting the ground with an ominous thud. Damage report: two grazed knees (amazingly through my jeans, no rips thank god), two bruised palms, a damaged sense of dignity and a slightly more rattly computer.

I may rename my new shoes 'titflops' - because I suspect I looked like one...

A boob of large proportions...

Boy #2: "Mummy. Why do you need boobs?"

Boobs? Boobs? Where has he heard that word?

Me: "Um, well, because I'm a woman. And women have breasts."

Please don't push me on what we need them for - memories of walking into the bathroom last year to find you trying to use your brother's nipples for what they will never achieve are still too fresh...

Boy #2 (very seriously and matter of factly): "In England, you know, we call them boobs."

He puts his hands firmly on my chest to indicate exactly what he's talking about.

Me (where did he hear this?): "Yes, but we also call them 'breasts'."

Boy #1 (mischievously smiling): "Breadsticks? Do we call them 'breadsticks'?"

Me (give me strength): "No, Boy #1, I said 'Breasts'. BREAASTSS."

Boy #2: "So. In England, some people call them breads. BREADS. But my Auntie K has bigger ones than you and she calls them Boobs. So that is what I will call them. Boobs."

Boy #2 then jumps around the bedroom, clasping his chest and shouting: "Boob-di-boob, do-di-boob. Boob-boo-di-boob..."

Repeat to fade.

Just wait 'till I get hold of my sister...

Lord of the Views; The Gallery, Wk 20

It's Week 20 of Tara's Gallery, and this time she's set us the challenge of coming up with a photograph to illustrate a favourite title, whether it's a novel, a fairy tale or a children's book.

My favourite book is, I'm afraid, a marmite book. You either love it or hate it. I love it, but am sympathetic to those who don't; it's long, takes a while to really get going, and sits firmly in the category called 'fantasy'. Those who've never read usually roll their eyes and mutter 'nerd' under their breaths when I admit to the fact that I re-read this title every few years just for the fun of it.

As for those who have read it, and didn't enjoy it, I have to say I can understand that too; it's an epic, and even worse, an epic with very few women in it. Not something I would willingly pick up for the first time nowadays, it's true. But this book is very much a product of it's time (it was written in the 1930's), and is reflective of the author's concern about what was happening on the world stage at that stage of history. The winds of change echo throughout it, even after the happy ending.

What is also apparent throughout, however, is JRR Tolkien's love of the English countryside. (Guessed what it is yet?). Perhaps I'm more sensitive to that right now, living in Moscow, but I do believe that it has a special kind of beauty. And yes, when Peter Jackson made his recent Lord of the Rings trilogy, he chose New Zealand as the backdrop, and it worked brilliantly, but for me there are still places in England where you can see The Shire in glorious technicolour.

This is one of them.

And yes, it's a view across the Somerset levels to Glastonbury Tor, not really a scene from 'The Lord of the Rings', but - as long as you can ignore the pesky telephone wire - you have to admit, it does sort of work in this context...

Rites of Passage

I took the Boys to Southbourne Beach near Bournemouth today. This was an important Rite of Passage; this part of Dorset is where my mum's family is from, where she grew up, and where I spent not only some very happy holidays but also two formative summers during my sixth form years - on this very beach, in fact - after my parents moved down there for a while.

Whilst we were dodging waves and building trenches this afternoon, the sand was invaded by a 50-strong party of teens, probably from the very same school that I spent those two summers at. Seeing them race into the waves, wrinkle-free, skinny-hipped, and far more beautiful than they will ever realise (or at least, until they come across a photo of their 17-year old self in 25 years time), it took me back to some of my own rites of passage, like leaving school on a hot and sunny afternoon and heading down to the beach for a spot of illicit sunbathing when I should probably have been doing my homework. Spending hours making a cup of tea last in the cliff-top cafe, putting the world to rights with my earnest girlfriends, and wondering whether the guy playing drums in the school band actually fancied me or just happened to be glancing in my direction when he was having trouble with his contact lenses. Finding out that he did actually fancy me, and getting into trouble with my dad (waiting by the garden gate for my return after a night out- oh the embarrassment!) for being an hour late for curfew as a result of this discovery...

Luckily for me however, my sons were there to pull me back to reality before I found myself wandering amongst these teens muttering dire warnings about the transience of youth and making the most of it whilst you're young and firm (like I would have listened at their age if confronted by a 40+ mother of two looking unkempt and unfashionable on the beach in glamorous Bournemouth), since Boy #1 wanted to inform me of two discoveries he had made all by himself on this sunny afternoon.

1. There is almost nothing to compare with the satisfaction of peeling sunburned skin off your own feet...*

2. ...except for, that is, answering a call of nature whilst sitting down in the sea.

So it was Rites of Passage all round today, then.