Anonymity

So. Anyone who has read this blog more than once will know that I can be kind of serious. Dry witted, compelling and generally hilarious of course (although I unfortunately deleted the posts which demonstrate this...butter fingers!). But serious - ish...Well, I have spent the last half an hour (add "easily amused" to my list of wonderfulness) laughing at myself. The situation is thus:

My children, The Boys (as they will forever collectively be known) have their own blog. This is to keep in touch with family and friends in the UK, and for their general amusement, I also happen to think that it's quite educational for them to learn to compose, spellcheck, publish, that kind of thing.

Anyway, there I was adding some pictures for them that we had uploaded yesterday (of Onions as it happens - no, you probably don't want to subscribe to this particular page unless you are under the age of eight); and I started checking some of my regular reads - bookmarked for my ease - some not yet link to due to my laziness.

I was aware that now was not the time to leave comments, after all I was using The Boys' identity. But I was tired, and then something that Eliza The Very Funny Almost Med Student wrote, made me laugh and I tapped out just a little, quick comment forgetting which user I was under.

The Boys blog contains pictures of themselves (yes, and onions) and also their little ramblings but Eliza was sweet enough to leave a nice comment, and not forward the link to any local Wierdos. So. No situation here! Thanks to Eliza. NO THANKS TO MUMMY!

So, it got me thinking about the cloud of anonymity that we all tend to use in order to blog freely. I also thought, that it's nothing new (here comes another blog about me, me, me), I have been living behind that cloud most of my life.

When you (me) are at school and your Dad works in the "Media", the young children equate this with "Your Dad Is Famous". They used to whisper and point at me and I was "the girl who..." for most of my formative years. How they even knew what he did for a living is beyond me.

Anyway, so they would expect me to be prettier than normal people, more glamorous, more polite, more smiley - you get the idea. I balked at this and I responded by only letting one or two people close to me and used the "They don't really KNOW me" theory to protect myself from the rest of the world. Somehow the stigma followed me to Senior School, only there, I had the added pressure of Elite Headmistress and teachers with "Doctor" before their name, expecting me to be not only pretty, but Clever too. Brilliant.

By thirteen I had seriously had enough. I would trowel my face with white pan stick stage make up and paint black patterns of varying design in the space between my eyes and my eyebrows - Hell, I made Marilyn Manson look positively demure. I played a role and no one was allowed to know me.

Stepping infront of a camera is (and always has been) second nature to me. I have made a living out of talking, informing, smiling etc. I was thrown* in to do an interview with less than 30 seconds notice once (I was there to do the Sound!!):

I grabbed a mike and the words spilled out of my mouth, and I nodded and smiled in all the right places. When I came away, another reporter who had watched the whole thing was agog. She said "where did that come from?" I shrugged, a bit embarrassed. I watched the rushes back and it was a good interview.

Fast Forward a few years and Babysis and I are shooting with a camcorder our Everyday Lives to send to our brothers in Oz**; we are chatting and being Generally Banal. Bright red colour has risen up my face; I stutter and trip over my words; I grin like an amateur and my voice is strangled. I am twisting my hair with my finger and I am very uncomfortable. I have to be ME infront of a camera, instead of The Reporter, The Presenter or The Broadcaster.

I Can't do it! I prefer to be anonymous.

So, in summary, this is me:
I'm not so anonymous anymore as I was before Eliza read my babies' blog, but I am totally OK with it. I like me.Well, Nearly anyway...




*not literally
**before I made the move over here obviously

Kevin Carter Made a Difference

It is far too late for me to express to Kevin Carter, that I think I understand why he couldn't live anymore. He had seen so much and felt so much, and a Pulitzer prize could well have been too ironic to take (in my humble opinion).

In my younger years,I vocally berated and hated my father's industry for a long time. There were a multitude of reasons. But the shallowness of the whole sorry affair was forefront. I couldn't imagine not "making a difference" in the world in the [noble] career path which I was going to choose. How naive I was.

One night, Dad came home from an assignment. I had no real concept of where he had been 0ther than that he's been away for a few weeks. He looked really tired, but he often was. He had been to somewhere called Romania, wherever the hell that was*. He'd filmed children in Orphanages. I'm not sure who the client was. I think maybe a charity? Anyway. He took scores of pictures. Obviously he shot lots on film too.

He tried to show me, but after a few minutes of feigning interest, I went to my room to deafen myself with The Sisters of Mercy or some such quality listening.

My Dad didn't talk much. Anyone who knows Daddy, would know that this is beyond weird.

I surmised that he was really ill and didn't know how to tell me/us. He would sit alone in the conservatory for ages. Shut off from the rest of us.

He looked at the photos a lot too. With affection as though they were pictures of Me and Babysis when we were kids or something, he was all "oh, look, this is [Alexandru] , he was so lovely, he kept wanting cuddles. He called me Mr Mick. He was so little, darling, so tiny."
Me: "Uh, huh? d'you wanna coffee, I 'm making one...no, OK. Oh, I need a lift into town later by the way, is that OK?".

I'm thinking "Dad's ill. He doesn't even want a coffee".

The children he visited and filmed had no-one. They lived in appalling conditions (the lucky ones who were in Orphanages and not the ones on the street, their lives were beyond appalling) and had no one that really loved them. They were riddled with disease and the majority had HIV and would be lucky to see their next birthday. Dad had shown them affection which gave them happiness for a very short time and then he had to leave. He couldn't pick their tiny little bodies up and carry them to a safe place (which is human instinct). He had to pack up his expensive Camera equipment and go home to England to a well fed family, a pedantic little shit of a daughter (that's me...my sister's always been quite pleasant), and a Country full of ignorant bastards who had no concept of what he had just seen and what he had just felt.

No wonder he sat in the Conservatory with his own thoughts for company. How could the rest of us have comprehended his thoughts, even if he could describe them to us? His own Daughter was disinterested because the story wasn't wrapped up in a Christmas Single and Red Noses.


It's not the first time for Dad. He's a season ticket holder for "Misery" Filming - he's done wars, Starving Children, Dying Children, Murders, Rape Victims - the whole nine yards. Over and Over. The emotional energy it takes me to talk about his experiences is only a fraction of that which it must take to live with the memories of what he had seen.

Men like Kevin Carter and My Father bring us images which shock us. They bring us perspective. They bring us drive to change the world. Without Men Like These, who suffer for their work, we would live in our cosy lives unaware of what else is happening out there. Without Men Like These change would not stand a chance.

My Father has not only shaped my life, but he has shown other people things in this life that aren't OK, they aren't acceptable and he has "made a difference" in his lifetime at great emotional cost.

The day that Kevin Carter felt that he couldn't go on, was the day the rest of us lost a man who also changed peoples lives and achieved greatness in holding his camera steady in situations in which the rest of us would lay down and cry.

The Picture by Kevin Carter that Won the Pulitzer prize 1994
A Toddler is stalked by a Vulture who is waiting for her to die so that he may eat her remains.

* of course I know NOW where it is... at the time, I was a young teen who didn't give a bollock where it was.

Things I May Have To Explain To My Grandchildren

...whilst they pull incredulous faces.

It struck me that as strange as I find the world we live in and as much as I marvel at Earth's inhabitants and their breath taking stupidity (for the most part); my Grandchildren (should I be blessed in the future to have them) will find our world (as we know it now) even stranger.

Are there enough brackets in this paragraph for you? I am very pleased and think that I shall use as many as possible in this blog - just for fun

One of my Grandparents died before I was born. Another was a bigoted, womanizing* old fool who "left" long before he was old and before my Dad had chance to ride a scooter, let alone conceive children and One was my very best friend until I was seven when he died.**

That left one Grandparent to shoulder the responsibility for Babysis and I's quota of Grandparentness. She (my Nanna) was (and is) brilliant. She is sharp and clever, funny and has a dry wit. She is not judgemental and unfazed by most things.She's also very interesting to talk to and writes the most beautiful letters to me.

The one thing I remember being unsatisfied by (as a child) when speaking to anyone of an older generation than myself, is when I asked "but why did you [drive cars with no seatbelts]? , quite often the reply would be "because we did, that's just the way it was".

That's children isn't it? They are inquisitive and want to know why, why, why. Why do we have clocks? Why do we drive on a different side of the road to the French? Why is it OK for an adult to drink milk from a cow, but not from a human's boobies?(recent question from one of my own lovely offspring)...you get the picture.

So I was thinking: what will my Grandchildren ask me? What will I have to explain to them? The intrinsic workings of a Telephone with a wire? "No mobile technology when I was a girl, kiddo!"

Perhaps the Bilbo will make it to the year 2037, perhaps not. But if I have to describe it in full detail, will I be up to the job? What does it do again?

Maybe I will be in a position where I have to describe a time when Cane Toads didn't overrun Australia, that "back in 2007" you only found them in certain states of Australia, but we didn't know how to cull them, so they just kind of took over the country. hmmn. How topical!

Non Digital Cameras!

Imagine the scene - Attractive but mature looking sixty something (think Sophia Loren) talks to alarmingly acute and attractive, [they're my Fantasy Grandchildren, I am allowed to have high expectations] year 2037 eight year old. Digital Cameras will be pretty flash by then, if they haven't already been superseded by something new...how am I going to explain that we used to put a roll of shiny parchment into the back of the camera in order to manipulate the light from the viewfinder to burn an image directly onto the "special paper", but in negative form, only to have them printed onto more "special paper" by way of chemicals that would burn your skin and a process of dipping the second type of "special paper" into trays full of chemicals in a fully darkened room. Flippin Heck, really, I am going to have to explain this shit away?:

"yes, darling, we used to pop it in just there [I will gesture], without letting the sunlight get to it, then we used to press a button that wound the film around a little cog within the camera itself...yes, around the same area that you have your Retina Recognition Widget with Super Fly Lazer Sight Correction System these days, that's right". Phew!

I think it is likely that I will explain that in 2007 most families could afford to run one if not two cars each. People didn't pool cars in the same way as they do "now" in 2037, because the damage we were doing to the planet wasn't instantly recognisable like it is "now".

I hope that I don't have to describe a time when children didn't all carry Tazer guns for protection like they do "now".

I wonder if I will have to describe what a prison is/was and how it works - the incredulous looks and the "what? you locked people into big houses on the mainland and paid money out of your own pocket for them to stay there? And then you ran out of room because there were too many bad people? The olden days were wierd Noni"***are much anticipated.

Will I have to describe a cigarette? A small stick that contains many chemicals, but also contains tobacco which makes you feel "nice" when you inhale the fumes from the unlit end? "you put a burning stick in your mouth Noni? and it was killing you? Why?"

Answer: "people just did, it was how it was".

Suggestions welcome.

Answers on a postcard please (...or just leave a comment, as you don't have an address for a postcard).




* "Womanizing" is a probably a little bit much. He cheated on my Grandmother with his German Interpreter. He then spent the rest of his life with said German Interpreter and lived happily ever after, 10,000 miles away from the rest of us. He never saw fit to share the "happy ever after" with any member of his immediate family. I guess that makes him an Arsehole. I guess this also makes me Bitter.

**I thought of nicer ways to put this, but them be the facts.

***I have decided that this is what my Fantasy Grandchildren call me

Chew...my balls have dropped

My Mama spent many years in which her mantra at dinnertime was "chew.chew". She was not doing "choo choos" to get me to eat brussels, but trying desperately to stop me inhaling my food at such break neck speed.

Thing is, for all of her efforts, I really haven't got the hang of it. In fact I seem to have applied my food related behaviour to the rest of my life. I am one of life's "great starters". But I am soon onto the Next Thing, then The Next Thing After That. Other Thing is, I am at a stage in my life where projects must be finished. There's no Mrs Chapman, Third Year Geography to answer to when homework isn't done, but a lot scarier: me with the prospect of no/poor income. With this in mind, picture the scene when I was houseworking away this morning merrily to myself with the daytime slit-wrist drivel on the Television, when on came a segment about Post Natal Depression.

It turns out that, by the description that (hypochondriac tendencies coming on here), I have had Post Natal depression* since the birth of my first son eight and a half years ago. I have summised this from the main symptom that anyone of the poor women on the show could describe in any detail was feeling overwhelmed. Thing is, far from belittling PND as you may think I am, I truly believe that PND would explain some parts of my life until this point**. I still feel very overwhelmed to this day, but that's due to the food inhaling analogy thingy, I think.

I run a house full of boys. Himself [with Hons after his name] has not mastered the art of hanging damp towels on a rail...no no, he likes to file them under F for Floor. C has a problem with his teacher [in that she can be a bit of a cow and he can be a bit of a Victor Meldrew with Russell Crowe's temper],L has yet to learn to do his laces; L Junior has yet to learn to wipe his own bottom, J is only just off the breast and frankly pissed off about the whole new arrangement, you can see where I am going here. I "run" everyone. Factor in the Company Prep I am doing; trying to find the appropriate equipment for a documentary due to start shooting soon; our first magazine photoshoot tomorrow and I am a busy lady. Overwhelmed is just part of the package.

So, just for "fun", I thought I would list some of the things I have done "wrong" recently...the Balls Which I Have Dropped if you will:

• J has four teeth now. I have not brushed them in a day and a half. If they all fall out or go black it WILL be my fault
• I had to drop the children into school today without lunch, go and do a "food" shop and then drop the lunches in mid-morning as this morning, the cupboard was bare. In England I would have done a Midnight Shop at ASDA/Tesco... but I no longer have that luxury. Damn.

N.B In Reference to the above, I had to endure the withering looks of the school staff as I signed in then out whilst dropping said lunches in.

• I forgot to buy stuff to decorate L Junior's Easter Bunny Ears for Kindy (we will do a rush job this weekend, don't call Social Services just yet)
  
• I haven't checked my company email in three days
• All of the wooden floors in the house need a damn good scrub
  
• I wrote a list of 35 chores that needed to be done this morning around the house. I did 5.
• I haven't been to bed at the same time as Himself for around a week. Read into this the Ball I Have Dropped as you will.
• I have much UK bound correspondence sitting on my desk as I type which was due to be sent a week ago.
• I have not cleaned the Fun Bus out in a week.
• I have not sat with C to write to his friend in the UK
• I have not eaten Breakfast in a week
• I have a pile of laundry glaring at me.
  
• I have not registered My Lexmark Printer and it keeps reminding me WEEK after WEEK.
• I have not finished the design of the last couple of pages for TRPC, so the index is "up" and still does not work as the navigation needs doing...not V professional!
• I have sent only some of the new pages over to JJ to be proof read and forgot to send the illustrations altogether
• I must wash my hair...where do other people find the time for this mundane shit?!!
  

I am bored now. I must think of better fodder for my blog.

* no really I probably have. But it would affect my Visa Status to admit this openly I am sure. Therefore I request your silence on this matter.

** or maybe I suffer from over-tiredness. Brought on by being really quite busy. Maybe.

Sydney Harbour Bridge Tragedy

I cannot begin to comment on the world; certainly not to comment on any other latest headlines without talking about The Sydney Harbour Bridge Tragedy (as it has been [appropriately] dubbed by the Australian Media).

The human interest side of this story is being embraced by the public and pushed by the media as there is still a young girl missing, presumed dead. The Australian Press in my mind have been brilliant. The coverage has been respectful and names were not released for some time even though they were available (so that friends and family could be informed in advance). The only thing I could think of that would make the British Press behave in such a way would be the threat of legal proceedings if the names were announced.

For those readers of this blog who are not privvy to the coverage of this horrible accident; a brief [who am I kidding] re-cap of the incident is as follows:

At 10.45pm on 27th March (three days ago), a HarbourCat Ferry was returning to dock for the night carrying no passengers, when it collided with and destroyed a much smaller vessel - a 10m pleasure cruiser "Merinda" carrying approx 35 friends back from a conference dinner, under The S H Bridge after some sightseeing.

Three of the passengers have lost their lives and one woman has severe injuries, including loss of one of her legs. The friends and family aboard the domestic cruiser all moved in the circles of Championship Iceskating and the young girl missing is described as a rising iceskating star. I am not using their names as I tell you this, as I feel it is not my place. I did not know them and I am uncomfortable with pretending that I did, but I am so incredibly moved by their terrible accident.

One of the reasons that this has shocked me to the core is because there is speculation as to whether or not the smaller boat had it's lights on. The crash happened directly under the bridge so to not be illuminated seems odd; but moreso I am distress that I have pondered the very question "what happens if..." . Here I find myself with a harrowing answer to my brains perverse quest for knowledge. THIS is what happens if a boat is not seen by a Ferry and is ploughed into. Loss of life and terror on the faces of all who witness it.

One of the passengers that survived this ordeal was aboard the smaller cruiser with his mother at the time of the crash. He dived into the water and stayed with her until rescuers arrived. She is the lady mentioned before that has lost part of her leg. When I saw his face upon his own rescue, I wanted to cry. This young man looked like a small boy. A boy who had just had the experience of saving his mother's life.

It has been reported that at least eight people were taken to hospital, one child was among them and the pictures of his rescue would turn anyone with children's blood cold. A woman in her eighties recieved injuries to her face as she pulled herself to the surface of the water through the shards of the boat. In her Eighties! I am stunned.

Bad things happen, I know that. But this has touched me and pulled at my heart, so I thought I should share. Particularly as I am sure the UK media have omitted it in place of Cats Up Trees and Blair Paint His Front Door Pink or some such.

So, It's not so bad to be me. To be in my safe warm house, passing comment as usual. I really hope you take from this the same sentiment.

Shane MacGowan - thing is, regretably, I would have...

With it being St Paddy's Day and everyone around being pretentious and awful, claiming all sorts of affiliations with the Irish folk, so that they can get off their faces on substandard exported Guinness and the like, and grown men dressed up in gowns handing out Jelly Snakes (which I actually find preferable as at least it adheres to the myth that is the foundation of Paddy's Day)...my thoughts have turned to all things Irish.

Well, not quite ALL things Irish, but some.

There have been a few wonderful, wonderful Irish people in my life: My cousins Catherine, Steven and Phillip and my lovely Heather and Leo who have been present for the majority of the happiest childhood a girl could wish for. On the flip side there has been notably only one really horrid Irish person who shall live on forever as a blip - a mistake if you will, in the history of said Fair Isle; myself for one hoping that she is thrust into a life of damnation and hell, never to sleep another night's sleep; never to taste another well cooked meal (in fact raw, rotting chicken would be too good for her); never to feel the sun on her back (well, that one's a given - she lives in Ireland); never to hear again the chords of a wonderful song (particularly not by Irish Legend Paddy Casey - he is just too good to be wasted on a rancid maggot such as herself)....you get the picture, I have a small amount of residual anger over one Irish encounter of my past - which frankly is not bad and tells me that [broad generalisation] Irish peeps are not to be sniffed at.

Forefront of my thoughts is Mr Shane MacGowan. Sings in an Irish tone, tends to speak rather more like the English (whom he hates, bless him, for no other reason that he can, because he's Irish and the Irish are ALLOWED)...he once said that England was a cold, damp miserable place (or something similar - I may have slightly misquoted there), but the point is that I can see where he is coming from; as we all know: Ireland is being hailed as an honorary Caribbean Island for it's climate and bright outlook...hmmn.

Like Him though. I really do. Don't really know why. I have had appalling taste in men in the past but most choice have been "explainable" if not "understandable". But a few years ago, if Shane MacGowan would have walked into my Local, I DEFINITELY WOULD (have). Black teeth, rotten alcoholic breath and all, I would have feasted on him like a great white on a baby seal (had him for breakfast if you will). I would have smiled and flirted and made innuendos like a whore in the "Biggest Whore In The World" competition. To this day, I am not sure why. I am also not sure why I feel the need to admit such an ugly truth about myself in the public domain...but that's just me.

I do feel that this blog requires illustration with the physical appearance of it's subject so important to understand the What the ****? factor.

Sadly, I still think he looks oddly yummy here. Oh dear. Save me from myself! More importantly, I must display another pic where he looks less disarmingly Sexy.(or is that STILL just me?!). If you look closely at this picture you can see the blackened teeth, but still I err toward that being part of the very rock and roll thing, the punk-esque "don't give a ..." thing.

OK, if this doesn't cure me nothing will:


Shane with his good Mate, Mr Depp. Depp has cheekbones, youthfulness and "mystery" in this picture and looks as though he may have showered in the last decade. Shane has a drunken Leer that says "Johnny is Currently Holding Me Up". I'm sold. Finally. I had to dangle Johnny Depp in front on my nose to do it, but I have cured myself of Shane MacGowan. Phew.

Happy St Patrick's Day though Shane. Once upon a time, I would have, I definitely would.

Meningitis - the after effects

C is just like many other Eight year old boys, except for a few traits that are hard to pinpoint at first glance. C will meet you for the first time and you will likely be impressed by his articulate language and polite manner. C’s less appealing qualities are that he does not have reasonable behaviour boundaries; he finds it hard to relate to and be around other children and he does not distinguish between adult and child when addressing somebody; This proves to be a problem when it comes to authority figures. C is also astoundingly aggressive on occasion.

Ask any earnest wannabe psychologist and they will tell you that no child is aggressive without it being learned behaviour. They may also tell you that aggression coupled with the description of C above points toward ADD/ADHD/The Autistic Spectrum.

My son has neither learned Aggression from his primary role models, nor consistently displayed other symptoms relating to the behavioural disorders mentioned.

Some Background:

• All four of my children feel safe and cherished and have a very stable and calm home environment in which to grow.
• They are happy and carefree and largely compliant with the house rules which are based around respect for others.
• When asked what the most important thing in the world to them is, they will, without doubt, reply “my family” with great sincerity.
• They want for nothing materially, and are accustomed to a good quality of life; we are fortunate enough to be able to provide the children with advantages such as our own pool and weekly Tennis Lessons.
• Their manners are impeccable which is due to Our expectation of this.
• Himself (J senior!) and I are very consistent when it comes to discipline, are united and will not disagree with each other in front of the children.
• My children were breastfed and cuddled, nurtured and encouraged.
• My parenting style is that of supportive mother who has bed-shared, baby-worn and is a nutritional bore.

Furthermore, my patience and parenting skills are commented on frequently, so the question is:

Why has C so many behavioural issues?

C’s emotional barriers are likely to be that:

• He has never met his biological father.
• He has frequently moved home in his short life (due to work commitments)
• He frustrates easily over “inability” to work well at school.

C's behavioural traits, however, have been present a lot longer than if these were the primary triggers.

Aged four months, he contracted Meningitis and Meningococcal Septicaemia. The effects of this were devastating.

My four month old baby was generally unwell and very drowsy one day, so I called my Health Visitor. Being a new mum, and having recently read a list of the initial symptoms, I mentioned the word “meningitis” and she laughed. I took him straight to a GP who diagnosed a virus. I refused to leave and said that I wanted a second opinion. The doctor left the room and when he returned his face was serious and he told me that he had called an ambulance. By this time C lay awkwardly in my arms as his back was stiff as a board.

We were taken to the local hospital and eventually I watched my baby be “intubated” and put into another ambulance to take him to Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children in London. Such was the size of the team that had to travel with him to keep him alive, that there was no room for me in the ambulance, so I had to follow by car.

C was admitted to the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit. He looked like he was sleeping, except for the huge tube taped into his mouth (to breathe for him); the tiny one trailing up his nose(to feed his stomach); numerous needles going into each of his tiny wrists and ankles and the sticky monitor pads all over his chest and tummy, all of which were hooked up to a scary looking screen that kept bleeping, that I’d only ever seen before on film sets.

My baby was in a huge bed in London and all I could do was to wait to see if he would make it through each hour. I felt helpless. C had to fight this killer on his own. There were times when C’s condition would get worse and I was warned of the significance of this. He was dying.

After nearly two weeks of fighting, C’s sedation was reduced and finally he was able to breathe on his own. Slowly he came back to us. After so long with a tube in his throat his little cries were hoarse and weak and he had fluid on his lungs, but to hear him and to see him open his eyes after all of that time not knowing whether he would live or die, was magical.

After more than a week in a coma in the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit, and subsequent recovery days in London’s premier Children’s Hospital, C was discharged into my care. The difference in him was instantly noticeable, which I initially put down to the stress of the illness and spell in the ICU.

It is common knowledge that any stay for adult or child in Intensive Care is extremely stressful for patient and family and can lead to many behavioural problems, not least severe depression. I believe C’s repercussions to be further involved than this.

In the Meningitis Trust’s “After Meningitis” information it clearly states that:

“Meningitis in Newborn Babies is more likely to cause serious complications” and “Children and adults may experience anxiety and low self esteem and confidence, and behavioural problems such as aggression and mood swings” they go on to say that “Some of these after-effects also happen as a result of brain damage following septicaemia”.

“Learning Difficulties and Behavioural Problems seem to be quite common after meningitis, especially in Babies and Young Children. Fortunately some sort themselves out on their own. However, some are permanent.”

C was only a tiny baby when he lived through his ordeal. This means that I have never been in a position to fully assess which of his behaviours are personality traits and which are directly linked to his survival of the Meningitis.

It is true that both my “single” status at that time and C’s illness meant that I initially mismanaged his behaviour. Until he was around three years old, he was absolutely allowed to be clingy and demanding. He made many decisions jointly with me; obvious examples were when we moved home, I rejected any house he “didn’t like” and when Himself moved into our home, I asked C’s permission.

Whilst I forgive myself for clinging to the child I nearly lost, I harbour much guilt about how this earlier behaviour from myself may have impacted on C’s personality now.

All the love in the world cannot change how C deals with life.

I have finally come to accept that he is not "like" other children. Other eight year olds get annoyed with their parent's, their siblings, their classmates, but they have a degree of control over their young tempers. C is much like a car without a thermostat, he doesn't know that he has overheated until it is too late.

Whilst other children fall into some kind of middle ground, C has such extremes of personality, it is almost painful to watch. He is most definitely acute and intelligent, yet struggles with the simplest of words when it comes to spelling. He is the most polite child that I am unafraid to take into the very swankiest of restaurants (and have done); but any situation that could possibly frustrate him, will most likely ensue cringworthy outbursts.

Above all, C is my survivor. He is my serious, brooding little man who will certainly continue to be wonderful into adulthood. And I feel incredibly lucky to be able to witness that.

The Pilot and The Fashion Designer

When I was fourteen, there was no doubt in my mind where I would be when I hit my thirties. My best friend and I were going to be living in Camden Town together in a funky pad above a bar. She was hell bent on becoming an airplane Pilot, and I was all set to attend London College of Fashion and make my mark on the fashion world. These weren't dreams to us, this was just "how it was going to be". I snubbed Daddy's ideas that I would follow him in any way into the world of Television. Why would I want to work in a soul destroying business like TV when I could work in the soul destroying world of Fashion?

Gems and I even had our cars picked out (not once worrying about permit/off street parking or indeed the cost of having said cars custom built). We were the elite. We were alway told that we were "in the top 1 % " of the country intelligence wise, that's how we met. We attended the same depraved achievement based all girl's high school...and we believed our own press there for a while.

When the reality hit, that actually we wanted to carve our own niche on the world instead of falling off the production line with a straight set of As and no life experience, we did it together...we smoked cigarettes and practiced looking cool doing it. We bought ridiculous "unwearable" outfits - quite literally turning up in identical clobber some days, looking so contrived, but genuinely having no idea that the other was also going to rock up wearing the leopard print that day. We'd drink in bars together with our newly aquired sense of cool and the latest shade of really, really expensive lipstick. I couldn't imagine breathing without that girl. We'd talk about how apathetic "adults" were and how we didn't understand how they could all be so miserable when they were adults - come on man, you can do anything when you are an adult!!

We listened to Prince together and clung to his every word; even though she was a "top of the pops" girl and I was into strange underground goth stuff and ancient rock; we could alway agree on Prince.

She was my everything, more important than my first, second and third boyfriends. But then I met a guy who was so special I couldn't spend all my time with Gems because, as it turned out, I loved him more than I loved her. She was no longer my best friend, he was. The reality of that hurt me more than it hurt her.

The next couple of years are some of the brightest of my memories. There were gigs and parties, dancing and drinking, laughing and smoking. On my first Anti Nazi League march, my head was turned by all of the exciting, crazy,intelligent people; the human rights campaigners; the marxists; the dreadlocked patchouli crew; the bands; the crowds - they were all so exciting and anything was possible.

Gems and I did almost nothing together, but we still had Prince. We paid top dollar for tickets to see him a few times and we would get together and see him and I would paint his name all over my body and she would turn up looking exquisite and swearing blind that "he" [Prince] was watching her during the whole of the encore.

Where is she now? I have no idea. A mutual friend saw her at an E-Commerce roadshow or another, so I guess she never took to flying; it's funny, I always thought she would. She looked beautiful apparently. I have no doubt about that, she was one of the most amazing creatures to look at even at sixteen. Gems gave the mutual friend a business card to pass on, but it was lost before it reached me.

But the boy? The special one? We're not teenagers anymore, we're not in love and we see each other rarely...but he is one of my best friends in the whole world, godfather to my children and he stuck with his dream. He was going to be a drummer. And he is.

Advice for the Travelling Family

We (our family) are just about to embark on the longest journey we've ever done since the five of us became six. There are some things about this trip that I dread and some things that I look forward to (one being touch down the other end). A twenty one (anywhere between twenty two and twenty eight if you include stop over time) hour flight with a petulant seven year old, argumentative six year old and crazy little three year old, not to mention Baby J and all his paraphernalia; would have been the type of thing that, in days gone by, I would have avoided like the plague ( or at least have enlisted help for), but these days I just get on with it .

I have some advice I'd like to share, because it helps me to know it:

• Mum and Dad abroad (even in five star accommodation): Never eat the same dish in a restaurant. If the worst happens and the fish/lobster/chicken (delete as applicable) happens to poison everyone who eats it, then ONE of you has to be OK to look after the children. It's a horrible feeling to not be able to look after your own babies at any time, but it's even worse when there are two of you in a strange place, debilitated...particularly with a toddler jumping on your head saying "are we going to the beach today mummy?".
  

• Check your escape routes...it sound simple but when you check into a hotel, you need to know how the hell you will get your family out in the event of an emergency...unfamiliar surroundings will leave you feeling helpless in charge if you don't. Make a plan and inform older children of what you would expect them to do in a fire/flood/storm and where the fire exit are etc.

• Don't let your children use public toilets alone. This is something I disallow my own boys, even in our home country; the risk to your children of meeting someone undesirable is not necessarily increased by being abroad, but not being fluent in the native language would make things hard for your child to raise the alarm if they did.

• On a more cheerful note, liase with your flight provider before your flight - find out how much help you can expect once onboard your plane. Most are more than happy to accommodate families and have children's channels and entertainment packs etc. Check that you can get a Sky Cot for babies too.

• DO NOT APOLOGISE FOR YOUR CHILDREN. Most children are remarkably chilled out on a plane journey - there's a sense of sleepiness and calm about flying; but they inevitably get bored. If your little one wants to check out the toilet whilst the seatbelt signs are off, let them; if they want a drink every half an hour, get them one. If the guy behind you tutts and groans everytime your offspring utters a word that's not in a whisper, don't even bother to tell him to fuck off. Tell yourself that "there's always one" and that he probably shoots blanks which is why he has no concept of the job you are trying to do. Also remind yourself ( and if it becomes an issue, Mr/Mrs Blank Firer too) that you child has as much right to his seat on the plane as he does. Please. Don't make your child feel bad about being a child.

Who Wants to be a Voice-Over Artist?

I like to think I take critisism well.

That is, constructive critisism. I don't take rejection badly either; it comes from my being a little conceited...I've learned to discount comments I can live without and continue in a confident manner, the task in hand.

What frustrates me is when I cannot change something, case in question:my natural speaking voice**.

When I was younger, the hardened, "cool" teenagers that I most wanted to impress spoke a certain way, so I followed suit...I went from being "the posh kid with the expensive clothes" to "the kid with the expensive clothes" with just a week's worth of mimicing the accents of nearby Basildon* girls.

Let's face it though, no one fakes anything forever and as I grew up, slowly, back came the plum in my mouth. Not something I have ever since considered a problem. Until Now.

Voice over artists each have their own sounds/mannerisms/accents. I have long been a believer that the Queen's English is not the only voice we should hear on our television sets and radios, favouring a more "relevent" sound for the listener so that they feel they are being spoken to instead of being spoken at.

As with most things, though, political correctness has gone mad. I dread the highlights of the football, because I have no way of knowing what is being said, such is the broadness of the Scottish accent being used by a man whom I can only guess is very knowledgable...I'd truly like to know what he has said!

The only way to get a record deal this year is to have a distinctively "Northern" accent...Leeds, Manchester, Liverpool...if you hail from any of these, and aren't ashamed to sing exactly as you speak, feel free to chuck a demo on the table. (Not a problem with me, I loved the Proclaimers myself...no, really, I did)

So as not to exclude any major denomination of accent; onto the Welsh: the Welsh accent no longer gives people the impression that your life's ambition is to farm sheep for many long hours, deep in the valleys. A colloquial Welsh accent is much sought after in British Television these days. It's quirky. Apparently.

I have nothing against the Welsh. "Himself" (my man) is in fact a fine specimen of a sexy Taff, and Steve Jones, presenter of T4 and Transmission is another very good reason to visit "the West" in vain hope that you might glimpse his manly Welsh self.

Surely with all this diversity, however, there is room in the voice over world for a well spoken Essex girl without a hint of the cockney wannabe about her! I take exception to being told that I might do better to "east end" my accent up a little...the cheek!

Anyway, must dash, toodle pip..over and out daaarlings. Hmmmn.

*for those that dont' know, Basildon being the sort of place that you get beaten up for being "posh"/educated/well spoken***.

**Oddly, however, if I try to sing "Diamonds are a girls best friend", I turn into a very nasal cabaret singer from Hackney ... all that is required is a clapped out old piano and Ethel from Eastenders and we could 'ave a right ole knees up.

*** or pretty/ clever/ not in a velour tracksuit.

All is Well on the Western Front

I just returned from picking my big brother up from Heathrow airport which [still] has inadequate parking, too few arrivals screens and a heady aroma - a mixture of coffee and carpet cleaner (which gave me a headache a record 5 minutes into my hour long wait for Big Bro to get through the custom controls).

I collected him and couldn't take my eyes off him - that's what it's like whe you live thousands of miles from your kin - you soak in every detail when you see them as though it were your last (or first - whatever). He looks really good. No older than last time I saw him; more tanned; plenty relaxed (turns out that was the bourbon on the plane to be honest) and totally wired to be in the UK. It made me wonder, I've gotta tell you, what the hell he thought when he saw his little sister grinning like a mental patient at the arrivals gate...baby on hip, "handbag"* spilling out all over the shiny white floor, hollow eyes from too little sleep and hair two days past it's "wash-by date"; vying for a place near the railing to shout "babe, babe over here babe!"...

How is living in the UK taking it's toll on me so hard that he looks younger than me I ask you?! (he's got seven years on me!).

Last year I was in September drizzle in Perth, WA. Even in the rain, the streets were paved with possibilities. Cut to September, England this year, the rain lifts the stink from the filthy pavements to my nostrils whilst my [curly] hair goes frizzy before I have even unlocked the car.

My aussie work visa can't come soon enough.

* who am I kidding? Handbag? It was a baby sling crammed with nappies, wipes, wallet, keys and enough toys to keep Hamleys in stock for a week (all of this for the walk fron the car to Arrivals).

Sorry Folks

Yesterday was a bad day. A really really bad day. There was red mist (mine); bedroom wrecking and bedtime tantrums (the children's) and pulling hair out (C's Junior School Teacher and probably my parents respectively)...I reverted yesterday to behaviour reminiscent of a strange era of my teenage life, where EVERYTHING was wrong and NONE of it was my fault.

I cried and berated, shouted and flounced around and then stayed up too late. I scowled and was pedantic, sarcastic and utterly horrid. I was, in short a 14 year old version of myself; which, even in the rear view mirror of life, was not a pretty sight the first time around.

To anyone I spoke to yesterday: I apologize.*

*apart from the prick from the bank who saw fit to telephone after 8.30pm at night - more fool you, you won't call here again in a hurry now will you?!

Film Industry Widow

I wasn't the first woman to be left to raise children whilst their father was away for months at a time working on film sets hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles away; far from it, I was one i a long line. My mother was the first "industry widow" I knew, which I guess makes me the first industry "orphan"* I knew.

When my mother and father were married in a registry office, one morning in the rock and roll days of the seventies, with me present in an illegitimate love child/flower girl type role; Daddy signed where the Xs were, gave my mother (I like to think) a heartfelt kiss and flew off to film some highly important event or another . It was just how it was. My mother never felt the need to complain.

My father eventually made the ultimate career sacrifice for his family. He turned his back on film and signed a contract to work on a local television show. Now he was home every night (albeit after my baby sister and I were in bed some nights) and we had a normal family life...or so I thought.

Turns out that growing up in the shadow of the television OR film industry makes you different from other kids. For starters, television doesn't move you quite so much when you have been on set watching it being shot. the magic is not lost, but for me, it is a different kind of magic.

Since I can remember, I have been called on to have an opinion on the lighting/direction of any given shot on any given programme or film that my father happens to be charitably and cheerfully pulling apart. I have dissected, analysed, berated and applauded duly, since I could talk.

When, as a chld, I cried because my favourite horse, Black Beauty, was hurt, Daddy gallantly dried my tears and explained that they had used a product called "Technicolor R" to imitate the effect of blood and that Black Beauty herself was not a single horse, but a selection of Reg Dent trained Stallions, merely "acting" whilst Daddy filmed. Junior Me was now calmer but cynical.

Grotbags always scared me however. Still does. To this day, I cannot stand to be around fat, green people.

I didn't plan to work in the same industry as my father, it just happened that way, because I guess you gravitate towards what you know.

I didn't plan to have children with a man in the Film Industry either. In fact when I met the father of my eldest two children, he worked laying tarmac; I wouldn't have been interested if he was just another Cameraman or Director...I liked how far removed from my world he was.

With a little help from the well documented nepotism of the industry, he too forged a (now very successful) career as a Key Grip. fair play to the fellow (who is now my ex)...the business is not a kind one and the path not an easy one.

There was a week many years ago when we lived entirely on the various flavours of Farley's Rusks, havng no money for anything but the bulk baby supplies bought at the beginning of the month; all because a film hadn't started when it was scheduled to, and we were too young to care to budget for such eventualities. There were other times when a film job wasn't even on the horizon and he modestly went out to earn money on the bins. he worked hard for his career, no doubt about it; what most people don't realise is just how hard most freelancers work in this fickle world of motion picture, and how very few survive more than a couple of years without the support of others around them.

So...I kept the world turning back at home whilst he went off a made movies; explaining to the children "don't worry darling, she's not really hurt...it's just Technicolor R".


*if you bend the definition oh so slightly (!)

Why?

I have a friend who works in Security. He's an undercover security manager or something like that. I had to tell someone what he had to spend time doing today, as to keep it to myself seemed selfish; so here I am typing it for all to see.

Today my friend was searching through in store CCTV footage for images of a middle aged woman taking a poo on a shop floor.

No I am not joking.

It begs the question WHY?

1/ Why was she relieving herself in the store?

2/ Why did the store want to find the footage of the event?

There's more.

Around three o clock he sent a text to say that he had found the footage that he had been required to find. He gave me the following details:

She walked into store and stood (not squatted - apparently this was relevent) and pooed.

She was wearing a skirt with no underwear...(well, that's the HOW? question out of the way then)

She then went to a counter in the shop and asked if they sold tissues. She bought tissues, went outside of the shop and in plain view of any passers by, relieved herself again, this time hitching up her skirt and wiping, then throwing the tissue on the floor.

She re-entered the store and continued with her shopping.

Just had to share that. I have no further information about her state of mind, clothing or whether any charges have been made. so I guess like me, you will be left wondering. WHY?

Stay at Home Mum

So, a little background.

I have four children. The youngest (J) is four months and the eldest (C) is seven years; inbetween are L and L Junior who are six years and three years respectively. Himself goes off to work at around 5 am and returns around 7.30pm to keep us in the comfortable lifestyle we have become accustomed to and he works his balls off, let me tell you.

My role is the varied one of housekeeper (not so strong at this to be fair); entertainer; taxi driver; stylist; hairdresser; laundery lady; ironer; bill payer; wound/ills healer; entrepeneur (running an e-commerce company - more on this at a later date); impromptu Thesaurus / Dictionary; music teacher; peace keeper; television programme censor; world affairs educator and chef/nutritionist i.e. I'm a mum who is lucky enough to work from home.

What I have failed to mention is that we are also eighteen months into the Emigrating process (to Australia); this means that my further duties include being the family solicitor and immigration/relocation agent which involves staying up to date with the DIMIA rule changes, requirements and Visa charges amongst other things.

I am not complaining.

Far from it - I consider myself very fortunate to live as I do and I acknowledge that there are numerous perks to my position for example:

• not having to wear a suit or uniform/full make up on a daily basis;
  
• not having to sit next to other people (whom may or may not have terrible body odour) at my laptop;
  
• not having an unexplainable crush on my boss who flirts outrageously but is strangely unattractive;
  
• also the option to wear my hair whichever way I choose (most notable for two years when I had beautiful cyclamen coloured dreadlocks and was the envy of many a frustrated hippy working the nine to five)
  
• not having to smile through bile inducing office bitching;
  

• more importantly: four pairs of little arms to hug me at any given time of the day; oh,how I would miss that if I were stuck in an office with only a photo of my babies to get me through the day.
  

I also debate the saying that it is a thankless job to be a mum. My little fellas thank me and reward me every single day for doing what I do...

...so...only one real drawback (not including that fact that some days it would be nice to have to put on full make up and a suit without fear of being sicked on if I did!). Other people. More specifically other childless people who seem to think I have opted out by being at the beck and call of my offspring 24 hours a day. Yeah...it's a real easy option. NOT.

I have had total strangers look at me pityingly and ask when I plan to go "back" to work. I have lost count of the times that I have said "well, actually I work from home" - seriously, why the fuck should I explain myself? I'm not a "stick em infront of the TV whilst I drink incessant cups of coffee" type of mum, I work damn hard from Morning to night, making my babies' lives lively, educational and fun and for now whilst baby is still breastfeeding, I work right through the night too. It astounds me that because my primary career doesn't command a wage, it is judged so poorly.

At the risk of this becoming a full on rant, I must say that the assumptions made by other people is not confined to strangers; I had the pleasure of visiting a close friend for a weekend with only L Junior in tow last year, whilst I was pregnant with J. We had a lovely time doing all of the things that are really tough with three (and now four) children with me - taking the bus across London, kicking a ball around the park, flying a kite, feeding the animals, stopping for snacks on the way and then making cakes when we got home. My [still very close] friend remarked that she would bake cakes every single day when she has children.

"If only I had time" I said.

Her reply? "How do you not have time? What on earth do you do all day?"

...it was time to smile smugly and pull out the patronising tone: "you'll see" I answered.

Massive Red Bill

I recently got a massive red bill from the bank of friendship.

Friendships change.

As our lives move on and our interests alter:

From boys... to men;

From recreational drugs... to ones that will legitimately heal our ills;

From boyfriends with fast motorbikes... to our own little boys' monumental first ride in the park on a pushbike without stabilizers

From white cider whilst sprawled on a park bench... to red wine perched on a glossed park bench in a tapas restaurant...mmm the debatable "rustic" look.

You get what I am saying. My life is ever changing and evolving, which is great; but inevitably, some things get left by the wayside.

For me, these "things" are for the most part, friendships. I am just abysmal at keeping them going. Some of my friendships have been mutually outgrown; some I've neglected; some I've run from at pace. It's those that I have neglected that influence what I am writing today.

My friend died just a few weeks ago. I hadn't seen her for some time and her death didn't seem real to me for ages. When the inevitable "personalising" of the whole situation kicked in, I had difficulty in breathing whilst carrying the weight of my guilt about the things I should have said and the things I shouldn't have said.

The time I could have stopped for a drink, but I had to get back to the exciting task of finding my wayward drummer best friend who was at the time off his face in the middle of a festival before he went on stage...

...you see that was the last time I saw her.

I didn't go to the funeral.

This would make me a bad person apart from the enormous list of reason and excuses that I have listed in my head ever since, including having my four young chldren to care for who couldn't attend the funeral of someone that they didn't actually know (hell, I kept them away from their paternal grandfathers' funeral due to a distinct lack of contact for the preceeding year or so); the fact that one of the afore metioned brood is breastfed and I don't like the idea of a wet - nurse, I think it strange and wrong (...hmmn, perhaps subject matter for a future blog?) other entries on the list include a 300 mile journey each way and a dreaded fear of bumping into other not so nice cast member of my past.

I have rationalized my feelings for my friend and her early departure. She'd have kicked my arse for having not turned up to the funeral. So no excuses will do. Some how that makes it ok with me, our relationship has the same dynamic that it always had. Me feeling guilty about not expending time for her. Her knowing that I am just a rubbish friend.

So. Anyway. There are very few things that I believe in, but recent events have catapulted me into an Earl Hickey Karma-conscious type of existence. I am righting the wrongs ahead of time. No scrappy afterthought list for me. No, I made a point of NOT watching a movie in bed on my son's confiscated TV so that it did not blow up and set the house alight in a fit of Karmic rage; I sent an email to a friend I have been meaning to mail for a while instead of doing my washing up last night, because the washing up was still here this morning, but I couldn't garuntee 100% thast she would be (she's not ill, I 'm just being "careful"); I didn't lie to my two eldest sons' teachers when I took them out of school for a day trip, I told the truth that their birth father lives in Dubai and could only see them for one day in the UK, on his way to L.A or wherever he was jetting off to next...it was working I was sure.

I have been a shining example of all that is good, wholesome - ish and honest, loyal, environmentally sound, kind etc and my life has been peaceful and positive and really very enjoyable. But then, my six year old son ran into the road and was hit by a car*. So I am going to start taking two sugars in my tea again for starters, because being so wonderful, pius, clear concienced and serene didn't make him hold my hand by the road, but being shouty, scary mummy that won't tolerate messing around on the pavement does.

* He's fine