By Tuesday morning, I had symptoms.
 
By Wednesday morning, bleurgh.
 
My least favourite ‘fun’ symptom – coughing. Oh, the coughing. It’s not constant but it is violent, painful, and it makes me cry. I’m asthmatic so this symptom is the one that scares me the most. Anything that messes with my breathing freaks me out. Even taking my ‘preventer’ inhaler made me cough so hard I thought a lung was coming up.
 
It has died down now, thankfully. But I imagine it’ll be back all too soon. I’ve kept a window open and my little fake wood burner on today to keep some air flowing. I think that has helped clear my chest for now.
 
All I keep thinking is how on earth people have coped with this without having been vaccinated. I already understand how bad this must have been for many before the vaccine was created and rolled out. I am double-jabbed and managed to get my booster a week ago. And it’s bad.
 
If you haven’t already had all the doses of vaccine you are entitled to, go get yourself booked in.

Now. Right now.

https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/coronavirus-covid-19/coronavirus-vaccination/
​
I mean it. Get it done. Please.

#covid19 #vaccinate #saveyourself 

My 9-year-old is a great sleeper but he’s been struggling.
 
It’s no wonder. His mother is currently imprisoned in the attic bedroom, guarded by an invisible bug that has killed 5.32 million people* around the world (so far).

And there it is. The entirely unexpected pink line where none had ever appeared before. In almost two years of the shitshow that is this pandemic, it had finally found our household. More specifically, me.

For the first time in her adult life, Jen had a crush. He could easily have passed for an America boy-band member based on his looks alone. Blonde tips to his hair, perfect white teeth, cheeky smile… He was far too cool for school. The gap between them seemed far greater than just two years.

It didn’t help that she was going through an existential crisis. Jen was 22, living with her fiancé, and looking for a ‘proper’ job, having recently graduated. Her fiancé was kind, caring, and funny, but she wasn’t in love with him. In truth, she hadn’t been in love when he had proposed to her on millennium night as Big Ben struck midnight. But she had already decided that she would rather live with a decent man than break his heart in search of a fairytale. It had seemed like the right thing to do. But it had left her feeling as though she had taken a wrong-turn and ended up skipping 20 years of her life, to land in her smack bang in her forties.

In an attempt to improve her outlook, Jen found herself some bar work for a couple of evenings each week. Just enough to give her an injection of energy – she thrived on meeting people – without getting in the way of her day job. It was just what she needed to drag her out of the rut she was in. A lively pub – the busiest night was a Sunday, surprisingly – where it could be mistaken for a club with its DJs and clientele clothing options.

Serendipity took over and ensured that Jen and Tom shared a rota, seeing each other on every shift. It made Jen feel like a teenager and crazy old lady all at once. They had a blast with rarely a moment just the two of them. They snatched those moments where they could and it turned out the incredibly cute and very cool Tom was actually smart, a talented graphic designer, funny, with the biggest heart full of love and kindness for all.

He also had a passion for music, with tastes ranging far and wide. Jen’s first experience of Tom’s musical taste came at clean-up time, after hours in the pub. Everyone else would busy themselves with the bar, dirty glasses, sticky tables. No-one wanted to volunteer to tackle the mangy ashtrays. As a non-smoker, Jen felt strongly about being expected to deal with them. Tom hatched a great plan whereby Jen would scoot around the tables in a flash, gathering ashtrays which had to be cleaned in the kitchen rather than behind the bar. He’d then man the sink and undertake the dirty work while they listened to his choice of music at full pelt, dancing about like hyped-up toddlers.

The first album he ever played was Spandau Ballet’s greatest hits. A classic by anyone’s standards. True and Gold were obvious winners. But he also knew Through the Barricades – Jen’s favourite – which got plenty of airtime too. Over the years, memories fade and some get forgotten altogether. Not this one.

As the years went by, they kept in touch and lost touch from time to time. Always pleased to hear from one another. Always wishing the best for each other. Becoming close. Very close. Sharing intimate fears and fantasies. Despite their physical distance – Jen having moved away – they came close to falling in love. Maybe they did, but neither one ever admitted it to the other. It was never the right time. If one was single, the other was not, and so time marched on. But their fondness for each other never skewed their desire for the other to find true happiness. A break-up was never seen as an opportunity for the other to gain a foothold. There was advice, humour, and virtual hugs to bring the heartbroken back to life.

And there was music. Always music. Tom had an almost innate ability to identify pieces Jen would love. They were attuned to each other but brought offerings that wouldn’t have been obvious choices. Her love of Céline Dion didn’t exactly pair with his adoration of Blink 182! But they met in the middle, crossed-over, wove a web of music that united them. Josh Radin came to feature heavily. Jen’s favourite being Paperweight which resonated with her loneliness. Tom’s was Winter – used in a television programme where a character dies suddenly, leaving his best friend utterly devastated.

Seventeen years have passed since they shared that first song and so many since.

On a trip to Manchester in November, they reminisced about their days spent listening to Angels & Airwaves’ album, I-Empire. He offered a new suggestion, Brian Fallon’s Painkillers. Apparently Tom’s ‘go-to’ album at the time. He told her about his favourite building in the Manchester skyline. She shared an artsy photograph of her new car. He confirmed that he still consumed his tea with half a bag of sugar. They wondered about meeting up but logistics were against them. Next time, definitely.

A few weeks later, Jen received a call from Tom’s wife. They’d never spoken before, let alone met. Surprise turned to anxiety. Two days after they’d last spoken, he’d died. Very suddenly. He was 37.

Their last song will always be Winter. 

Today we reached another milestone in our house. The last mandatory health visitor visit. Yes, my 3.5 year old, who started school 2 months ago, has just had his pre-school check. Ah, joined up thinking at its best.
 
There were the standard topics to be addressed around whether he was eating/sleeping/pooping OK. Is his speech on track? Does he have the cognitive skills they would expect to see? All important stuff so no qualms there.
 
A few of the tick boxes on the paperwork even related to me and my health and wellbeing. It always throws me when someone asks if I’m OK. I feel as though I have to stop and consider my current status for a moment. Then I panic that I’ve taken too long which will arouse suspicion!
 
Anyway… the health visitor moved on to a set of questions she prefaced with some kind of general intro like, “we have to ask everyone these ones”. The questions were:
 
Is your partner supportive?
Does he make you feel looked after/ well-treated?
Do you ever feel in danger because of your partner?
Have you ever been in a relationship where you were subjected to violence?
 
There were others but I can’t remember them all and those above have been paraphrased.
 
I pointed out that I was a little surprised to be at my umpteenth appointment, spanning three children and 14 years, and had never been asked anything remotely close. She advised she could only ask them as I was alone so perhaps my partner was present on previous occasions. Hmm. Guess that makes sense.
 
This evening I gave my husband the run-down. As expected, he’s fine. She knew when she met him 18 months ago that he had already hit his cognitive markers and could talk the hind legs off a donkey. I then asked him about the ‘abuse’ questions, continuing with examples when I found myself staring in to a blank expression.
 
Nope. The health visitor didn’t ask him. He was most certainly on his own. It was the same health visitor. But it would seem that it is not deemed necessary to ascertain if a man is in an abusive, violent, or dangerous relationship. It is not even considered relevant to ask if the mother is supportive.
 
I am afraid it does not take a PhD to see why, where, and how this is a very poor protocol.
 
Why can’t we – humankind – get this stuff right?

If you have ever been affected, please seek support  www.victimsupport.org.uk/help-and-support/get-help 
 
#healthvisitor #humanity #domesticabuse #men #women #equality
I would just like to point out that the health visitor was perfectly pleasant and professional. I would go so far as to say that, of all the health visitors I have invariably met once and then avoided, she is actually the kind of health professional I'd always hoped for. In no way am I criticising her, neither personally nor professionally.

You wouldn’t need to be in my company for very long to learn of my love for Paris. The City of Light. Her wonderful treasures. That sense of being somewhere special… But during my last visit in August, I got angry. Repeatedly. So much so that I was able to form a list of grievances.
 
1. People. Everywhere.
There are just so many people fannying about all over the place. They clutter the streets. They make the most beautiful spots look messy. The dawdle and faff. Trying to photograph anything of note is practically impossible unless you are happy to either have a billion messy humans in shot or don’t mind some ‘arty’ framing that cuts the buggers out!
 
2. Hilarious Photos
Not content to merely clog up Paris’ finest beauty spots, oh no, there’s more. Those people who, having ruined your photos by congregating in their throngs, choose to pose for that picture. The ones that make them look like, at best, like a total twat. You know the sort I mean… Holding Sacré Coeur on the palm of a hand. Dangling the Eiffel Tower by its tip. Twats. The lot of them. Take a picture of the thing you came to see. Take one of each other standing with the thing you came to see if you must meddle. But stop acting like 4 year olds. It’s like improving the Mona Lisa with a packet of fucking crayons!
 
3. Selfie sticks
It would seem that these are still a ‘thing’. There I was happily going about my daily life, safe in the knowledge that the selfie stick had had its day. Confined to the annals of history, along with loom bands and, shortly, fidget spinners (we hope!) But, no. Apparently they still have their domain – tourists. The worst kind of People (see 1.) Not only do they use them which makes them twats (see 2.) But they also lose any and all sense of spatial awareness or social etiquette. Just negotiating the steps at Montmartre involved a kind of Ministry of Silly Walks meets Limbo series of manoeuvres and two attempts at losing an eyeball. Stop. It.

4. Theft
Because that is what it is when you wander through Place du Tertre with your camera out, taking photographs of an artist’s work you utter cockwombles! How do folk not get this?! There are a few displaying signs requesting no photos be taken which you would hope was entirely unnecessary. Like a sign telling you not to stroke the lions. Nope. More people than I could count happily snapping away. You like it? Great. You wish you could feast your eyes upon it anytime you like? Great. So buy it. That’s kinda the deal. What you are doing is wandering around with a photocopier in a book store. A video camera in the cinema. It is theft. And it boils my blood.
 
5. Love without Locks
It is nigh on impossible to exaggerate the beauty that is Paris. Its buildings and their histories are awe-inspiring. The way the Seine eases its way through the diverse arrondissements. The 37 bridges which criss-cross the river with their own style and span. So what do tourists do? Fix padlocks to them all. Everywhere. Every single one. With no regard whatsoever for the eyesore they are creating, less the structural damage they are inflicting upon structures that have survived for centuries. To make matters worse, they aren’t even using pretty padlocks shaped like hearts and stars in pretty colours (to match the whole ethos that the lock will assure a long a pretty lovelife*). Oh no, they are buying any old industrial, run-of-the-mill, entirely utilitarian lock and whacking it on Pont Neuf’s carved stone street lights. FFS. #lovewithoutlocks Seriously people.
 
Paris, please just remember: It’s not you, it’s THEM.
 
*bollocks.
 
I’m off to recover from reliving the above nightmares by listening to a bit of Parisienne Walkways by Gary Moore. Feel free to join me…  Click here for YouTube link
 #paris #lovewithoutlocks #padlocks #selfiesticks #tourists #eiffeltower #pontneuf

​When you are living in rented accommodation (and/or you don’t have huge funds at your disposal) it can be a challenge to make do with the furniture you have. And make it fit! I have spent plenty of time in both situations – often at the same time.
 
It’s hard to know which came first – chicken or egg-style – but I love to shift things around at home. It’s like a 3D jigsaw puzzle*, sometimes with only one possible ‘right’ way to get the pieces to fit. Whether I love it because I have always had to find that perfect solution or the other way round I might never know. Although my Mum has an incredible capacity for solving complex ‘furniture in to pint pot’-conundra and is also a mahoosive puzzle-lover so perhaps it is genetic.
 
Now that we live in our own house, we have all but eliminated that regular change. No, we haven’t yet got everything how we want it to ultimately be. Yes, we are making do with much (?all) of the furniture we moved in with. But it has been almost two years now and I miss that variety. It is the spice of life afterall.

​I have made a start. We recently switched our boys in to the bigger bedroom and my teenage daughter in to the ‘cosy’ box room. It was her choice and one I supported in the vain hope that it would give her less room for the mess! It has been like one of those darned puzzles with 8 tiles and 9 spaces that have to be shuffled in perpetuity until the correct image appears. Currently the boys’ bunk beds are disassembled and residing on the landing! They are sleeping on a mini-mountain of one double mattress and two singles. There was a fortnight where I couldn’t locate any of their trousers and we were frantically keeping those we could find in a laundry perma-cycle. Chaos.
 
Next job, decorate and define the boys’ new and very magnolia bedroom. All I can glean from my attempts to extract their preferences is that dinosaurs will feature. I also know that there are many items of furniture I am not prepared to replace so they must be rehoused. As such, you will find me Googling phrases like, “Ikea Kura hacks”, and “paleontology bedroom ideas” for the next month.
 
It isn’t just that I don’t mind rejigging things. Not even close. I derive such pleasure and a palpable sense of satisfaction from ‘solving’ a space. Eventually there is that smallest breakthrough thought that makes everything else fall in to place. It’s delicious. And when I haven’t moved house for a while (like now!), I miss it. I crave it. I need it.
 
I am sure someone out there with psychology credentials will attribute this to commitment issues or a troubled relationship with a parent. Maybe I’ve missed my vocation – Interior designer? Puzzle maker? Mathematicianº? The problem-solving element of my current role is the most appealing part for me. Being able to identify the crux of a client’s challenge and apply my knowledge of our system or the current regulations to guide them to a solution. It’s all that same part of my being that is sparked.
 
Long may it continue too. Now, who knows a psychologist who wants to have a poke around inside my brain?
 
* Massive jigsaw fan too.
º As if!
#writeto40 #problemsolving #jigsawpuzzles #interiordesign #changeisasgoodasarest

Almost two years ago, I made myself a kind of motivation board. Times were kinda hard – they had been for a while so there was work to be done just to dig us back out of the hole we were in. But it felt as though there might be a light at the end of the tunnel. And that meant there were things to look forward to.
 
In fact, it felt as though the repair work was going to take even more strength than it had taken to be at the bottom. And so, I made a board with the help of Pinterest and some freebie bit of software and it has been on my desktop ever since. Some days I don’t notice it. But most days something therein catches my eye and makes me smile.
 
Tonight I stopped and really looked. I took in each image and thought about what it had represented.

The Yellow Fiat 126
Not quite a 126 but I am now the proud owner of a lovely little yellow car that makes me smile every single time I see it. It was a combination of necessity – we needed a second car to enable us to both work – and personal expression. I was determined that the two could be sought together and I was right. Sometimes it is worth persevering to get what you really want.

Iceland
My daughter had a ludicrously expensive school trip on the horizon and, although we had no real idea how we were going to manage it, we were determined to find the money somehow. We were only responsible for half the cost – shared with her dad – but even so, it was an absolute fortune. She doesn’t have any clubs or hobbies to shell out for so it felt reasonable. Despite all odds, we did it!
 
Rioja
Being able to afford the occasional bottle of my favourite tipple. Many an evening has been spent in the most satisfying company, sharing a bottle (or several) whilst putting the world to rights, planning a fantasy life within our little bubble, or just feeling the warm glow both inside and out.
 

That Yellow Dress
It might not seem like much but I needed that dress the minute I first saw it. I don’t often buy clothes for myself and when I do it is usually out of sheer necessity. Having little money meant that even the relatively modest price tag was out of reach. Once our financial position hit an equilibrium, I re-visited it several times but still didn’t feel I could justify the purchase. Finally, last night, I went ahead and ordered it.
 
Samsung Edge
As a technophile, I was struggling to manage with my old decrepit phone. Yes, part of it was pure consumerism. Part of it was attraction to beautiful design. Nevertheless, once we had the chance to finally upgrade to a new, shiny device, I was straight there with bells on.

Kefalonia
My best friend decided, finally, to get married. In the Lake District. But then it all changed! And the very first thing the two of them did – before they had got any further than the ‘What if we got married overseas?’-stage, they were on the phone to see if there was any way we would be able to afford it. So, I immediately said yes. We would, of course, find a way. Again, with hard work, clever juggling, and a fair wind, we got there! It was perfect and worth waiting the hundred years they’d been together.
 
What’s left?
I am yet to find myself a yellow (or any colour) Jensen Interceptor and haven’t yet purchased the yellow Louboutins but at least that gives me something to continue to strive for.
 
And what was the point of all this? No, it wasn’t about money. It wasn’t about buying stuff. It has given me a way of measuring, of remembering where we have come from and got to. In the process, we have shared experiences and precious times with family and friends. And with each other.
 
I feel a little daunted at the realisation I need to create a new motivation board now and I have no idea currently where I should start…
 
What would be on yours?

Women are held to a ridiculous set of standards and expectations throughout life.
 
From gender-stereotyping a girl’s toys to shades of pink or, at a push, lilac. For how could a girl be expected to play with toys in primary colours?! It might give her delusions of a right to the same diversity of choices as male babies.
 
We absolutely must look a certain way. Can’t be fat – it’s gross. Can’t be slim – you must be anorexic. Can’t have muscle – you look like a bloke. Can’t be voluptuous – you look slutty. And who are these expert critics? Other women.
 
Don’t forget, we must all become mothers, and perfect ones at that. But we shouldn’t talk about anything icky like our periods. And we certainly shouldn’t be using our breasts to breastfeed those babies lest it make others feel uncomfortable. We must also have a career. But we must not expect to be paid on a par with our male counterparts. We must still be marriage material for when Mr. Right sweeps in on his trusty steed. We must have sex with our husbands but not overtly have a sexual appetite of our own. I do hope you are all sticking to the rules.
 
I am a firm believer that we are who we are and that should be enough. We should be proud of that. But then again, it’s not always easy.
 
For example, the idea that our legs, armpits, bikini line should be smooth and hair-free at all times is utterly ridiculous. The only way to change perceptions of normality is to re-establish an appreciation of what IS normal. Easy – let’s all stop shaving, waxing, fake tanning ourselves into oblivion and pretty soon society will stop being shocked by “Paris Jackson’s Armpit Hair”, and other headlines in the gutter press. But I can’t do it. I like my legs to be smooth. I don’t like them stubbly, fluffy, or forested.
 
Yes, that’s kinda the point. A woman’s right to choose for herself. But it won’t go changing perceptions now will it?
 
And then there is one of the greatest minefields going – ageing. I find myself teetering on the brink, only to notice it is no longer the very edge but that I am a short way in to No Man’s Land already!
 
I have grey hairs. Bleurgh. I don’t want to give a shit. Yes, I’m 39 and my hair is naturally losing its brown colour. Of course it is. As Miley Cyrus so eloquently puts it, “Change is a thing you can count on”. My grey hairs come as no surprise. And yet, I can’t not dye them away. Brush them under the proverbial carpet. But if I keep dying my hair back to brunette (or whichever shade I decide to experiment with!), how will perceptions ever change? Do I just carry on blindly and leave it to my daughter’s generation to fix society?
 
A wise woman once said, “It’s only hair; it’ll grow back”.
 
Or should I be brave (!) and dye it all grey? The equivalent of flipping the bird to ageing, society, and my fucking hair!
 
#ageing #grey #feminism #equality #genderstereotyping #fuckpink 

Seize the day indeed. I was just turned 20 when I moved overseas to live in Paris and perfect my French. It was part-way through my second year at university which I was very much enjoying. I didn’t want to leave. I had much to stay for. But, Paris. And my degree required the completion of a residence abroad so I had no choice. Really, I didn’t.
 
And so it came to pass that I found myself living in Chaville – a tiny town halfway between the centre of Paris and Versailles. My abode was as glamourous as it sounds when I divulge it was the French equivalent of a room at the YMCA. Single bed, sink, shelf, wardrobe. The communal showers and on-site restaurant did nothing to improve the perceived level of luxury.
 
However, the one significant advantage of the Foyer over a bijou apartment in the 9th was the other young people living there. Avoiding the other British students like the plague, I quickly made friends with my all-French neighbours. All garçons. One of whom had his own car – a dark grey Peugeot 205 – which came in very handy.
 
He and I forged a firm friendship. Mostly by accident. He had the wheels and more than his fair share of ideas. All the rest of us had to do was say “Yes!” when asked if we would like to join in. Far too often, the other guys were too busy, lazy, desperately trying to please their girlfriend and, therefore, passed up on many a trip.
 
It didn’t matter that it was a Sunday afternoon when the idea to drive down to the Loire Valley popped in to his head. The others thought it was mad. Too late in the day. Too far. The chateaux would all be closed. So the two of us went anyway. We had a wonderful time. I saw the town of Blois for the first time. And We made it to the Château of Chambord.
 
On another occasion we found ourselves picnicking in a field right opposite the Mont St. Michel, having already sought out a local supermarché for the essentials. Bliss. The whole afternoon was spent exploring the island, with its abbey, winding lanes, pretty little shops. The journey back to Paris was a hurried one to ensure we made it to the semi-final of the football World Cup which simply had to be watched on the big screen outside the Hôtel de Ville (and the win was celebrated in the traditional manner by walking to and then up the Champs Elysées, right to the Arc de Triomphe).
 
You see, I’d learnt that the negative was just noise. Unless there was a very real reason to say no, it was a yes. Always. The others never seemed to learn the lesson. They heard our gallivanting tales, often in disbelief. But they never said “yes” the next time…
 
Fast-forward a few years and I was reminded of the great value in the lesson. I was separated and we had a young daughter. It was fairly amicable. No nastiness between us. No power games to be played. We shared custody 50/50, much to many people’s surprise. Apparently it was more easily-accepted that I would retain the balance of power in terms of custody as the mother. Oh, and I ought to be in receipt of financial remuneration despite the parity of our situation. Of course, there were times when our set days would clash with other opportunities. And each time he asked me if I could change my schedule, I said yes. Where there was no tangible reason to say no, I said yes. If only more parents in similar situations could adopt the same perspective. It helped the three of us immeasurably. Now, 12 years on, all is hunky-dory. No ill-feeling. No awkwardness.
 
Hop ahead again to this year. Now twice the age I was in Paris. And the lesson rings true still. It is all too easy to forget the value of seizing the opportunities that are right in front of us. We are all guilty of being lazy. Taking the easy option. We lose our way. I did. I had. Then there’s an inescapable reminder. Someone close to me received a terminal cancer diagnosis. And you realise, this is no dress rehearsal. We get one go on this merry-go-round called life.
 
Those who care for the dying largely agree that regrets stem from those opportunities that passed by, not those that were taken. Let’s not be reckless. No sense running up a huge credit card bill you can’t pay off. And it isn’t about avoiding making plans for the future either. But let’s not overthink matters. It’s too easy to find a seemingly valid reason to stick within our comfort zones. Don’t.
 
Seize the day.