Cars and random upsets

Tuesday was a bad day - for all sorts of reasons. It didn't help that I'd spent 3hours solid trying to put a powerpoint slide show presentation together for Monday's MA project proposals and then couldn't copy any of it onto either a cd, or a data stick. So a complete waste of bloody time basically, and I had to re-do it all in college the next day.



Nor did it help that Eddie staggered home from college complaining of badly bruised ribs - ribs that he'd mashed whilst bodyboarding the night before, but which were now hurting so much that he was unable to do his A-level practical PE exam. Which meant he then ended up missing out on another day of college, and a vital geography revision session in order to procure a doctors note.



And to top it all off, the long and convoluted arrangements I'd made to organise a book-club jolly up to the Daphne du Maurier festival to se a performance of Rebecca for the centenary anniversary of her birth, being performed at Menabilly Barton - the setting for the novel - all went pear shaped at the last minute.



I had one cancellation the night before, so tried my best to flog that ticket off to someone else who seemed all enthusiastic and up for it, but then pulled out at the last minute. I'd also fished to find someone other that myself to be the driver, as my car'd been playing up for ages (overheating and such-like) but the best I'd come up with was for me to drive another woman's car as she didn't want to drive all that way, but was happy for me to borrow hers. So then she rings me a couple of hous before we're due to set off to tell me that now she's not coming either, leaving me with another spare ticket and no reliable transport.



I should've just insisted that someone else drive, or at least let me take their car - but I didn't. Grabebd Rosie and my mate Heidi at the last minute to fill the seats and all appeared to be going smoothly, right up until the point a wierd clacking sound could be heard. Reluctantly pulled into a lay-by only to discover the car was masively overheating, with smoke pouring out everywhere. Rang the RAC. They gave an estimated call-out time of 'within the hour'. Nearly an hour later and no sign of any rescue.



At this point a kindly samaritan pulled over to offer his asistance. He was a mechanic so that's always useful. A relief to be doing something/have something happen after all that waiting as I was feeling particularly guilty about scuppering everyone's evening. We were still a good 30 minutews drive away and the play had already started, but your man thought we'd probably be able to limp back to Penzance if we took it slowly and stopped to top up with water every few miles. He then offered to take the others on up to Fowey to catch the last half of the play. I knew they'd all be able to get a lift home again in another book-clubbers car who'd gone there straight from work in Truro, so that seemed like the best option.



Heidi insisted on staying to keep me company/see me home, so we waved the others off, cancelled the RAC and turned the car around to hobble home. Made it a s far as the next garage but it was already seriously boiling over by then. Bought some Rad-seal in the vain hope that it might fix the leak, but no sooner had we driven across the forecourt then the whole radiator gushed its contents everywhere. So we weren't going nowhere.



Called the RAC again to re-request assistance, but by now we'd lost our place in the queue, and I was told it'd be about an hour and a half. I had mentioned over the phone that the car was stuffed and we needed a tow, but 2hrs later when the chappy finally arrived, of course he didn't have any towing facilities on-board, and so needed to ring through for a recovery vehicle. Marvellous. The garage was closed, it was dark and dull, we'd played eye-spy, held snail races, step-up competitions, etc... but it was a tedious way to pass the time/spend an evening together. Now, had we been able to nip into the pub down the road it would've been different, but I couldn't risk missing the breakdown service when it finally arrived.



This fella was nice enough but a bit of a strange one. Loves his job and works 7 days a week 12-20 hours a day! Now how nuts is that? Doesn't get on with the missus so I guess it's just avoidance tactics - although it's not surprising that they don't get on as they must hardly ever see each other. No social life though - just work, work, work. I couldn't bear it.



So I relectantly rang Graham again to ask if it would be ok to dump yet another dead car at his place, as I really didn't want it left outside my house on the street (very awkward seeing as I'm not officially talking to him at the moment). He said yes, and did ofer to loan me his van over the weekend until Tuesday as he's off to Scotland with Tim for a wee folk festival, but I really didn't want to be beholden to him for anything else, and wouldn't trust his van not to pack up while I was driving it given my rotten luck lately (2007 - not a good year so far).



The recovery bloke very kindly dropped Heidi off at her door; I declined Graham's offer of him running me back into town after the drop-off (he said he was hoping we could talk through some stuff together ????!) but also had a door to door delivery service from matey boy (who was looking expectantly at me like I was supposed to be inviting him in for a cup of tea or something - at 1.15am on a Weds morning?). But why the hell graham thought it was an appropriate time to be discussing our ex-relationship... I don't know. I was stressed, grumpy, knackered and not at all in the mood for a torrid conversation about painfull stuff (insensitive git). Men.



So back to square one in the car department. That's three in 5months that have gone tits up and a least a grand thrown away on dodgey shite vehicles. Story of my life.



At least I can still blag lifts to college I suppose, but being there Weds was very uninspiring. Did manage to get the powerpoint sorted though which was useful. Had to blag a lift to band practise as well, and asked Paul to put me in touch with his mad mate who does cars. Spoke to him on the phone and he thought he might have a couple that were suitable, so I arranged to go up and have a look the next day - subject to finding a nice friend to take me.



Gitty Graham insisted that we go through the newish song that he's penned - the first verse of which he wrote ages back when we were still together, the second only recently. The lyics are shite regardless, but thye were so excruciating and upsetting to sing - dashed out crying at one point I was so wobbly about it all. Typical of his total lack of any empathy or feelings. Honestly, what is wrong with the man? Sent him a text the next day saying that I wasn't going to sing it which led onto an exchange of text messages that I wished I'd never gone down.

Hazy Days

I've been trying to choose a memory to write something for some memory share project the BBC is starting up, but how do you? Pick one I mean? There are just so many memories to choose from. My earliest is as a child of four – recently moved to Australia and my parents are viewing the house that they were eventually to buy and which became my family home for the next ten years. I remember that it was hot and I was bored, so I sat on a low brick wall. Like one of Roald Dahl's cautionary tales I should've looked before I did so, as I'd plonked my small bottom right on an ants nest. Having the proverbial ants-in-your-pants is singularly unpleasant, the memory of which I imagine, will stick in my mind forever.

But I didn't write that one. Instead I wrote a rubbish account of my first meeting with my ex all those years ago, as follows:

The tail end of October, 1987. Paris, France.

I was only passing through – treating myself to a weekend in Paris after having spent four weeks picking grapes south of Dijon and then in Switzerland. I'd found a cheap hostel, bought a tourist map, got my bearings and was heading off for a day of sight-seeing round the city.

The external escalator tubes of the Pompidieu Centre made it look like some kind of giant gerbil cage, but the art inside was dull and one of the security guards told me off for using flash-photography. So I rode up and down the moving staircases for a while instead – taking in the view; watching the beautiful people. Down below, the street entertainers were starting to pull the lunchtime crowds.

There was this bald guy with a handlebar moustache and an enormous bare belly – scarred and pitted with the marks of his trade – who reminded me of Obelisk, the brawny character in the Asterix comics. He was even wearing the same kind of stripy trousers. I joined the ring of spectators to gawp open-mouthed as he ate glass, went through a bed-of-nails Fakir routine, and finally finished off by asking a hapless member of the audience to throw darts at his tortured tum. There was no bullseye as such, but they stuck into his pale skin at weird, droopy angles – a human version of a Matador's skewered el Toro.

Higher up the sloped cobbles – past the juggler, past the accordionist belting out Edith Piaff numbers, and just beyond a cluster of portrait artists – two guys were sat with a small but appreciative audience of street riff-raff, strumming battered guitars and singing acoustic standards. Snatches of English lyrics carried across and caught my ear. I stood shyly, hovering at the edge – not wishing to intrude on what seemed a private moment; a select performance. But I was spotted and drawn into the bedraggled circle of gypsies, tramps and thieves who were hospitably passing 2-litre plastic bottles of cheap red wine back and forth. It would've been rude of me to decline.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was a confidence born of the anonymity of being a stranger in a strange place, but I soon found the harmonies for a third voice in Knocking on Heaven's Door. They smiled, nodding their approval, so I carried on singing. Come busk the cinema queues with us they said, and I guess I didn't have a good enough reason not to. Besides, it was his eyes (the taller of the two; the one with the ponytail and a cheeky-chappy grin) they pulled me in. A blue the colour of April skies, they had a dark, distinct rim like Siamese cats' eyes. Sharp, piercing – not the kind of eyes you'd ever forget in a hurry.

So I never did get to see the Eiffel Tower. Or the Louvre. Or go back home to Oz.

We hung around in Paris for a week or so, sleeping in derelict houses or sometimes – after a good day of playing the queues, or the Metro, or the terraces on the Rive Gauche – in a ½ star sleaze-pit of a hotel. And later, we jumped the trains south – all the way down to the south of Spain and the Costa del Sol.

~

We're no longer together, and a badly busted arm means that he no longer plays guitar. And to think that that chance meeting happened nearly twenty years ago? We had some amazing times together and some tough ones, but the last few years were grim – wouldn't ever want to go through that with anyone, ever again.

But it was definitely worth it, because I'm the proud mother of four beautiful children. Four big(ish) teenagers. And all four of them have his drop-dead-gorgeous, dark-rimmed blue eyes.

Precarious Lives.

Heard some bad news relating to a friend today, who's had more than her fair share of tragedy already. Three years ago her husband had a heart attack in the kitchen at 8 o'clock on a Monday morning when the kids were all getting ready for school. They couldn't resuscitate him, and so he left behind a grieving wife and three boys – the youngest only a few months old at the time.

This afternoon we heard that her brother's wife had died unexpectedly in bed during the night. Only 38, she too leaves behind a grieving family. Ravena's since dashed off to Wales to support her brother and his children, whilst hers are in the care of friends here.

What must be going through their minds I wonder? How they must worry when their mum's away... just in case. And all the memories and emotions that will be stirred up by this new shock and sadness. Not to mention the immediate nightmare for this poor man and the kids who are dealing with their loss right now. How sweet life is, and how we take it so much for granted. I don't know how I would even begin to cope if one of mine were to die – can't face even thinking about it. And what would they do without me? Who would be there for them?

So sad, death. Not looking forward to the inevitable. I'm hoping for a long and healthy life for all of us, but in the natural order of things, I hope it's me that goes first.

Thinking of you Ravena.

Did it

Yes, against all odds, coursework all handed in, on time (just), last Friday as required. Unbelievably stressful, can't even begin to think why I/we put ourselves through these things. I mean, what purpose does it serve? And what is the point? I've started so I'll finish – kind of sums up why I'm carrying on with it. Over halfway, so that has to be good. Certainly felt good getting shot of it all. Nice to spend the rest of the day socialising for a change too (even if I did end up feeling rather ropey the next day).

Yep, the whole of Saturday more or less a right off, and I could've done without a last minute babysitting request – about the last thing I wanted to be doing with a hangover. But I owe lots of favours, so had to say 'yes'. Working at the Acorn later that evening not much fun either (to be expected seeing as it was a Jimmi Hendrix tribute band)! But was more to do with me being in such a state. Wendy on form though and desperately keen to get this Fi and Leigh birthday party idea of hers up and running. So this Saturday it is – 1970s theme, fondue and all things cheesy party. Should be a hoot, and I'm sure I'll rally round and be much more enthusiastic about it all next week. But too exhausted right now to think parties.

Did the dutiful mother taxi service thing today that involved several trips to gymnastics comps and nippers and back and forth in between. The in-betweening meant that I missed 3 out of 4 of Lucy's rotations, only catching her doing the beam apparatus. And bless her little cotton leotard, she was that close to being the outright winner in her age group – must have been hundredths of a point in it – just like last time when she ended up coming second overall. She did pick up gold medals for floor and bars, and silvers for beam and vault though, which I think is pretty damn impressive. More to the point, she was grinning her head off the whole time and wasn't even slightly phased about not winning the trophy – a really positive/good sportsman attitude. I'm ultra proud of her – such a star.

Promised a mate I'd turn up for their private view over at the Great Atlantic Mapworks gallery in St Just, so zoomed over there after having dumped the kids on the doorstep at home (literally). Coastal abstracts which I really quite liked – would happily have one up on the wall if I could afford to buy that sort of thing. Took a stroll down to Cape Cornwall to stretch out the cramped up legs, take in the sea and breathe in the salty air. So restorative and reminds me again why I live where I do. Makes me want to paint, or at least try and do the landscape justice in words. Tricky though. How do you capture a sense of place?

Flora Day

Traffic jams afoot on way to college this morning – Helston's annual knees up, or rather genteel furry dance down and around the town. Lots of ladies in posh frocks and Ascot stylee hats jigging about with blokes in morning suits. Still haven't made it there for the day – skirting the edge is as close as I've been so far. Maybe next year.

A day of electronic paper shuffling, tweaking and printing in readiness for this Friday's hand in – the end of Study Block 2. Think I might even be able to get the work done without having to stay up all Thursday night for a change. Hope so. Am planning on staying in Falmouth for student celebrations (sorted the kids out overnight as well as arranging a lift for Billy to a chess competitionso incredibly on the ball – even for me)!

Speaking of forward planning, called in to see Wendy after I'd dropped kids at scouts and over a half in the noisiest pub ever, she tells me to keep July 17^th free. Why? She's bought me a ticket to see Amy Winehouse at the Eden project – Yay!!!! It's going to be a fun summer I can tell already. Will be tricky to stay focused and crack on with writing my book though with all the distractions that are filling my diary already. But I will do it (power of positive affirmation) I know I can, and I will. (I'm probably supposed to repeat that to myself ten times a day in front of a mirror. Ha. About as likely as me flexing my pelvic floor muscles on a daily basis, or using moisturiser, or drinking 2 litres of water and all those other things I'm meant to be doing).

Eddie and Rosie were watching this hideous documentary about the seven sins of England: Binge Drinking, Consumerism, Hooliganism etc... Sat down and joined them for a rare ten minute interlude between chores, while I ate some of Rosie's leftover, fizzy (fermenting) strawberry cheesecake. Chavs & Chavettes, Lads & Ladettes, thugs and bimbos and raving loonies.

Welcome to Britain.

Found myself grinning as I stood at the sink, washing the never ending pile of dishes with Eddie practising his circular breathing on the didjeridoo. Can't say that happens very often. I still remember him as a tiny, skinny 9 year-old boy, ochered up and wearing a bright red nappy/loin cloth a la Mowgli, playing the didj with his Koori (Aborigine) 'brothers' on a massive outdoor stage in Kempsey. The only white fella, doing his bit for race relations. Fucking brilliant.

Inconsiderate teens (are there any other kind?)

I don't mind being woken up at all hours of the night when my partying/clubbing teenagers stagger in through the door (it's reassuring to know they've at least come home).

I don't even mind when they bring home various waifs and strays needing a bed.

I do mind being kept awake for ages because they're:

a) banging around the kitchen
b) gathered in the bathroom talking (loudly)
c) puking

So I wasn't really a very happy bunny at 5am this morning, spending ages trying to get back to sleep. Fortunately, I was offered a humble apology and a cup of tea in bed when darling daughter eventually surfaced, only slightly worse for wear.

(for once, she wasn't the one vomiting).

*Exciting plans afoot for girlie adventure up to Wales in a couple of weeks time as my birthday blow-out. Big party to got to... lots of bad things to get up to... Can't wait!*

Getting there

Have completed the critical rationale for features – the end is in sight.

I swam 90 laps today.

Whilst working at the Acorn the other night, someone told me I was a 'shining light in Penzance.'

Rosie's tea-party was a brilliant success – she came home on a total high (shame the gardeners wouldn't let them play croquet though: No ball games allowed).

My car seems to have stopped overheating and is running like a dream.

Helen, our MA tutor, says that my book will get published.

Billy won the Game of Life. He and Lucy were both teachers; I was a lawyer and came last.

I'll be 41 soon.

In the sing of it

Had a choir gig out at St Just Chapel tonight – a small but appreciative audience. Were diverted, due to an accident, on the drive out and passed through some new Penwith territory – hadn't been down those roads before. Really pretty and intriguing, so worth another look some time. Maybe by bike?

Yesterday I'd tried to get some laps in the pool in before work, but there was a swimming gala on, so not open to the public. Really wasn't keen on mooching back home, so decided to pedal off into the wild blue yonder. Thought I was going to be cycling into the sunset as I wended my way further and further away from Penzance.

My attempt at a shortcut ended up being a long one, but I eventually found my way back into familiar territory and even managed to get to work on time (well almost). Again, felt like I was somewhere totally different as couldn't see any recognisable landmarks, and each thing I came across was completely fresh and exciting. I'm so desperate to be out and about. These next three months writing up my dissertation are going to be a killer. Not sure I can sustain the level of self-discipline it's going to need to to get the bloody thing done. Perhaps I should be looking to apply for conservation jobs or something – anything that's based out in the country side. Or maybe I should become a farmer's wife?

Had an unexpected phone call earlier, from a Canadian friend who moved back to Vancouver 18months ago. She was trying to line me up with some mate of hers, Wes (icky name) match-making across the Atlantic. Was great to have a long chat and now she's trying to convince me to move over there, or at least come and visit. Would love to (visit that is) but a combination of not being able to afford loads of airfares, or to sort the little kids out with someone for 2 wks so that I could go by myself. I do have terribly itchy feet at the moment though – would love to go away. Anywhere!

Somewhere where you can go snorkeling in warm seas, and actually see some amazing marine life would be nice. Me and Lucy went snorkeling at Prussia Cove today, which was lovely in itself, but doesn't compare with the real thing. I saw one fish, from a distance, and the rest of the time it was just a bit of murky seaweed. And the water, freezing – couldn't even stay in all that long. Oh to be able to holiday frequently, and to exotic foreign parts. My wish list for places I'd love to go to is extremely long, and keeps being added to all the time. But for now, the only place I want to go to is bed.

More tea vicar?

Escaped from the computer's clutches lunchtime-ish – partly to take a much needed break from feature article tweaking and word counts; partly because of Eddie hassling me to let him get some work done; partly to run around town on various errands. Successful interlude, and great to be sucking in some fresh air into these atrophying lungs. Jobs done as follows:

• posted Eddie's surf comp entry for English Nationals being held this weekend

• paid (overdue) water rates

• banked housing benefit cheque

• bought some more pillar box red hair colour

• bought new home phone from Argos (£2.97 – bargain) as current one packed in last week

• dithered in Claire's accessories looking at potential girly presents

• found wicked chintzy tea set in charity shop for Rosie's birthday tea party on Saturday.
  Think it's hilarious that when she leaves home in a year or so's time, the only household items she'll have to take with her will probably be these totally impractical, delicate bone china cups, saucers, cake plates, milk jug and sugar bowl. (£6.25 – priceless).

• nearly bought her a copy of Sarah Walters' Night Watch, but then decided against it

• called in at the Acorn to sort shift swap and borrow teapots. Got the low down on the evil Beth – has been away in Morocco for ages, and apparently has some new guy on the scene. Ha ha Graham... loser(!)

• shopped at Co-op for essentials, but also tea party cakes and frippery

• grabbed a load of fruit and veg from... the fruit and veg shop

• put an order in at the music shop for a new melodica to replace clapped out one

Enjoyed being out and about so much, I couldn't bear the thought of trotting upstairs to carry on with the college stuff, so... leapt back onto my trusty bike, and cycled over to Marazion instead. Head wind all the way – all the better for shouting into; the sea a deep steel blue, choppy and flecked with white. The train crossing barrier was down at Longrock, and I was surprised to find myself being over-the-top annoyed at having to wait – impatient after only a minute's delay. Think I need to take some downtime real soon as my stress levels are peaking.

Good excuse to go to band practice then tonight, even though I said I wouldn't – was meant to be slogging away with assignments still. Well bollocks to that. Good session, and things getting easier with regards to being up at Graham's – having to physically be in his space. And he still hasn't had a haircut, so continues to look like a complete twat.

Came home to Eddie complaining of foreign body in his eye – big chunk of sand he thinks, washed in when he was surfing Gwenver earlier. Nothing to see as it was lodged too far back, but tried my darndest to flush it out by pouring water in it. A mother's work is never done. At least someone else had done the dishes for a change (miracle) just left me with the laundry to fold up and put away.

It's 1.23am. Had a text msge from Sarah, my lift-share, that she'll pick me up at 8.30am tomorrow – a whole 15 mins later than usual, so looking forward to my lie-in (joke). Thing is, my body clock's all shot to pieces from having to sporadically work all through the night, so now, when I do get to bed... I can't sleep. Mind spinning, thoughts racing, brain gone into overdrive – it's so incredibly annoying. Too tired to read or anything, so just have to keep still and wait for it all to subside.

Noticed the beginnings of forehead wrinkles today – my skin must be as shattered as the rest of me I guess. Best shuffle off to get my beauty seep then I suppose.

May Day! May Day!

No, not the Lost in Space Robot of the frantically waggling claws. Rather, the start of a new month, and the pagan start to the year.

Remembered with some fondness, dragging reluctant kiddies to a May Day gathering/celebration a couple of years back, up at Carn Bosavern (an unassuming hillock on the outskirts of St Just). All the pagan moot fraternity lot were there, in their loose flowing gowns and flower-garlanded hair. The only reason I even knew it was happening was because they were using the Acorn Theatre for their monthly meetings/guest speakers at the time. Being Antipodean, it was all new to us this May the 1^st frolicking etc..

A bizarre set up when we got there – one ancient, ex-army, khaki, square canvas tent, housing a share-a-plate festive banquet; several musicians playing suitably gay, folksy music; and one may pole. There's actually far more to dancing round a May Pole than you might think because,
a) it gets increasingly complicated the more times you wind in – all that up down up down is
pretty tricksy, and always seems to end up in a tangle, and
b) it's a surprisingly good work-out. Two attempts alone, utterly exhausting.

Jumping over the fire pit afterwards was particularly satisfying – not quite sure what you're supposed to do as you leap, make a wish no doubt? – always feels good to be doing something vaguely wrong/dangerous/scary (I'm easily thrilled).

But no hippy dippy stuff for me this year. I did, however, do my own communing with nature by taking an evening stroll round the back lanes above Newlyn whilst waiting to do the kids' scouts collection run. The lanes were lined with an abundance of bluebells and wild garlic, the occasional pink of campion, adding to the profusion of colour. So peaceful, so lush and so bursting with life. Cleared the doldrums that have been lurking in my muddied mind of late. As did the view at the top, over-looking Newlyn harbour (the biggest commercial fishing port in the UK) and Mounts Bay in all it's oceanic splendour. Nearly 9pm, and a kick-ass golden full moon was climbing its way up and over ( of course... that's why I've been a moody, grumpy cow of late! The moon effect).

Well whatever this month brings, it better not be fertility (mine or soon-to-be-seventeen-year-old daughter Rosie's) – any fertile vibes have to be strictly cerebral. Preferably expressed through the pen andor keyboard!