Mother at large

Let in Edinburgh

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 23:24:11 +0100

You can also find me blogging for a few weeks over at Let in Edinburgh. It's a site about things to do, see and enjoy here in Scotland's capital city. This posting about the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens was fun to write, as it brought back memories of many idyllic days spent in this haven. I've also done a posting about last weekend's Edinburgh Moon Walk.

Writing postings about Edinburgh has, of course, got me thinking more about how I like spending time in this city and I'd like to canvas opinions from those of you who also know the city, and perhaps even, like me, grew up here. What do you most enjoy about living here? Any recommendations for great places to visit?

Darkest before dawn - Moon Walk II

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 20:50:41 +0100

Moon Walk organisers warned us there would be hills aplenty in our night's walking. And we were barely out of the pink tented village (pictured left) at Inverleith Park, where the Moon Walk started this year, before we were climbing a street called East Fettes Avenue, a road notorious for both length and gradient.

One of my biggest fears beforehand was that I wouldn't be able to keep up with my sister, Auntie 'Ona, and her pals. But despite the hills, we quickly settled into a pace that felt right for all of us. By the time we turned into the West End, the heart of Edinburgh's commercial district, the butterflies in my stomach were settling down too.

I'm not sure which was the strangest part of the experience - walking on the roads (not pavements), walking at night-time, or walking in a feathered bra adorned with sequins (photographic evidence above left). Perhaps what was really strangest was just walking anywhere at all without a buggy.

Speaking of buggies, all the months of pushing the girls about town in the tank must have done me more good than I realised, because the tiredness didn't kick in until we had passed Edinburgh Castle, all lit up in pink for the Moon Walk, and we were at the foot of a large local hill called Arthur's Seat.

For anyone who doesn't know Edinburgh, Arthur's Seat is an outcrop of desolate volcanic rock that dominates the Edinburgh skyline and is often the first sight for anyone approaching the city. It is lovely to see when driving home, but not so great to climb in the dark with a dodgy pelvis. The organisers had done their best by fixing special flood lighting to cheer the place up, and there were dozens of volunteers about to ensure safety, but the darkness was still eery.

Then on the way down, at about 2am, we heard the first blackbird singing of the day. Our spirits lifted. The night was nearly over and the hardest part of the walk done. We walked on, then as we turned a corner, the most wonderful - and unexpected - sight greeted us. It was urban Edinburgh. Many of us laughed in relief to see the city's spires and lights spread out in front of us. "Keep going, girls, you've nearly done eight miles," called out one of the volunteers.

There's still time if you feel like supporting me -

The last five miles to follow soon....

Moon Walk - part one

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 21:25:04 +0100

If I'm being honest, I had serious doubts about whether I'd manage the thirteen miles for the Half Moon, but a combination of adrenalin, friendship, group solidarity and pasta got me over the finish line in Inverleith Park at 4.27am on Sunday. I staggered home at 5am and have only stopped sleeping since then to phone friends and family, take hot baths and gorge on yet more carbohydrates. We arrived at the giant pink fluorescent tent about 9pm the night before, checked out the loos, got temporary tattoos, took photos and feasted on the pasta the organisers had provided for all the walkers. We sat on the tent floor and arranged our decorated bras while a band called Swing Cats played. A doctor from a local hospital here in Edinburgh told us how the money raised is going to build a second operating theatre and rebuild the breast cancer ward there. She was crying as she spoke. Then we all stood up, linked hands and had a minute's silence while we thought about loved ones affected by breast cancer. Tears were pouring down many people's faces. The mood lightened when an aerobics instructor got on stage and had us all - all ten thousand of us, men as well as women, young and old - dancing and warming up.

Hundreds of Edinburgh residents came out onto the streets to cheer us on. A thousand volunteers stayed up all night to keep us all going, waiting on street corners to encourage us and give us bottles of water. Paramedics were driving about on quad bikes. The police held up traffic for us. Drivers tooted their horns. My sister was high-fiving people on the pavement who'd come to cheer us on.

A night to remember.

Further write-ups to follow.... when I've recovered sufficiently.

Windy city

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 19:20:28 +0100

The combination of hills and gales make Edinburgh tricky to navigate. I am pushing Button uphill in the Tank (imagine an armoured vehicle, but without the weapons of mass destruction) with one hand. With the other I am holding Beanie's hand. The ferocious wind is slowing progress. "Want cuddle, Mummy," says Beanie. I put the Tank brake on, and pick Beanie up with both hands. The wind is lashing our hair about our faces. As if in slow motion, the wind shifts, catches the buggy containing Button and whips it backwards. The Tank overturns, tipping Button back towards the pavement. My heart jumps out my chest. I thank my lucky stars I remembered to buckle Button into her seat before we set off. She is sprawling at pavement level in her harness but looks unharmed. And unpeturbed. Beanie and I rush to her side, expecting her to scream in distress. She just looks slightly taken aback. But pleased to be getting attention. I right the buggy. Look around - both daughters present and correct. The tight, panicky feeling in my chest subsides. And they call Chicago the Windy City?

Moon Walk

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 13:39:03 +0100

It's less than a week to go now until I set off with thousands of other men and women to walk a half-marathon in this year's Edinburgh Moon Walk to raise money to fight breast cancer. I have been worrying about making a idiot out of myself during this event, since I'll be wearing just a decorated bra and leggings for the occasion, with nothing to cover my flabby stomach from the elements. I'm nervous as hell about the challenge, not just because of the exposed flesh, but because I haven't done as much training as I should have done and I still have residual pelvic problems from my pregnancy-related pelvic girdle pain. But I'm going to get round that course. One reason why I'm not giving up is my on-line blog friend Iota, who often comments on this site and can be found at Not Wrong But Different writing about expatriate life as a British woman in the US. She and I have never met in real life, since our lives are separated by the Atlantic Ocean, but I like to think that if circumstances had been different and we lived closer to each other we would be the greatest of friends, in and out of each other's homes, sharing lots of silly jokes, quaffing white wine, enjoying the same pleasure in laughing at the ridiculous. We are from similar backgrounds and of similar ages. We both enjoy writing. We both have young families. When my daughter Button was born, Iota sent a present for her, wooden alphabet letters spelling out Button's real non-blog name that Va-vay took great pride in attaching to her bedroom door, and a book for Button's elder sister Beanie. You know the sort of person I mean, don't you? Iota is one of life's good people. Then not long ago, she discovered a lump in her breast. The lump turned out to be cancer. Iota has just had to undergo a double mastectomy. She's done so with exemplary courage and dignity, but still doesn't yet know if that's been enough for her to nail this disease. So walking thirteen miles in a bra across Edinburgh at night-time doesn't seem like much to ask in comparison. I know that times are tough for lots of us right now, but if any of you are feeling generous, please click on this link to sponsor me.

On safari

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 18:34:16 +0100

Husband Va-vay leaves tea in my favourite mug by my bedside, kisses me goodbye and heads out to work. He has even loaded the dishwasher and set it running before leaving. It's Monday morning and I am missing him after a weekend of dinners and fun. Some hours later, the girls and I finally manage to leave the flat. We're having a day out at the local zoo. We succeed in boarding a 26 bus, no mean feat given Edinburgh's draconian transport rules that stipulate drivers allow only one unfolded buggy on board their buses at any time. I have never known a driver agree to bend this rule, despite the most piteous pleading imaginable, so suspect they must enforce it on pain of the most terrible consequences. This unfolded buggy rule is one of those regulations that sounds meaningless. But it's more than a technicality. Please just believe me when I say that it can make a parent's life hell. Our side-by-side double buggy is too unwieldy to fold, so there have been many times when I've waited in the Edinburgh rain with the girls for a bus, then been turned away by the driver because there's already an unfolded buggy on board and have had to wait for the next bus to come along. Any Edinburgh parent could recount similar experiences. However, this morning I get lucky, we're the only buggy at the bus-stop and there are no buggies already on the bus, that's our green light to get on board and we head out through the city centre into the suburbs and Edinburgh Zoo, where we clamber aboard something called the Hilltop Safari (pictured). This bus does daily half-hour tours of the zoo. It's good for several reasons - Beanie loves the novelty and seeing all the animals, we find out more about what we're seeing from the guide, plus it spares Beanie from the climb and me from the effort of pushing the Panzer tank that doubles as their buggy. The guide makes no comment on the size of the tank, or its snowplough-shaped prow, but then I reflect that zoo workers must be used to transporting scary wild animals - this is small beer - and he stows it away in the back of the bus. I'm warming to this experience more by the minute. Edinburgh transport rules do not apply here - the bus is full of buggies, all in their full, unfolded glory, and their occupants. We pull away and the guide begins his spiel. "To your left you'll see the white-naped cranes, one of the several endangered species you'll find here at the zoo. High up in that tree you can see one of the females. She is what we call here a high-demand female." The adults on the bus laugh politely, though of course the children miss the joke. Unbidden, an image of Va-vay enters my mind. In it, he is looking at me with quizically raised eyebrows and an affectionate but distinctly wry smile. Quite suddenly, I no longer miss him as much as I did.

The family that eats chocolate together

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 11:42:40 +0100

The postman arrived early yesterday with a special delivery for us, which three year-old daughter Beanie, correctly sensing something good was afoot, persuaded him to hand over to her. "No, daddy," I heard her say, dismissing her father's efforts to help. "I do it." Despite her apparent will of steel, Beanie likes to remind us that she is 'still small'. She is prone to issuing these reminders when she perceives that her parents are giving too much attention to her smaller sister. Looking through some of her old toddler clothes the other day, I asked her: "How does it feel that you're not the baby anymore, Beanie?" She sighed, in a tone approaching resignation, and said: "It hurts." Anyway, yesterday's package cheered her up. It was so large that Beanie's diminutive stature meant she had to part-drag, part-carry it through to the bedroom. It was a bit like Christmas - lying in bed, waking up and already unwrapping a package that turned out to contain the most fabulous chocolate. Like Christmas, except for the glorious sunshine filtering through the curtains. The kind people at Hotel Chocolat, who specialise in chocolate gifts, had sent us a box of Exuberantly Fruity chocolates to sample. It was a good start to the day. Va-vay is fond of both chocolate (cocoa pods are pictured, above) and fruit, and nothing if not exuberant in personality (except when his laptop breaks down) so this was the perfect treat for him. He headed off to work in anticipation of gourmet delights later. Beanie's younger sister Button was delighted too - with the cardboard wrapper containing the chocolate box, and sat on the bed boffing at it. After lunch Beanie selected a Baltic Truffle, an understandable choice if I tell you if was sprinkled with fruity sugar - not just any old fruity sugar but pink fruity sugar. I had a Blackcurrant Bombe, and my mouth is watering as I sit here writing and remember the intense tang of the blackcurrant, set off by the chocolate's delicate sweetness. Beanie earmarked a Cherry Panacotta for later, swayed by its pink swirly writing. When Va-vay got home he had a manly Cognac and Orange - since he loves dark chocolate. We often joke that we're meant to be together - he loves dark chocolate, I much prefer milk, and we have a daughter who favours the white stuff. We all got a lot of fun and pleasure from the chocolates, which have the added bonus they're made with real fruit - though I doubt they'd qualify as one of your five-a-day. I'd recommend them to anyone looking for birthday gifts. Oh, and they do corporate gifts too. They also have a section of chocolates designed for men and lots of gift ideas. And, as our early-morning experience shows, they deliver.

Scottish childhood

Mon, 08 Jun 2009 11:59:05 +0100

The weekend got off to a good start when a Friday afternoon meet-up with Erica from Littlemummy re-introduced me to one of the treats of my Edinburgh childhood, ice cream from Luca's. Then on Saturday we had another blast from the past, when Va-vay, Button, Beanie, a friend and I visited the local school fair, the kind of event I loved as a child. Living a grown-up journalist's life in London meant I had to pretend to be too sophisticated for such simple pleasures. I missed out. Bagpipe players stood in the school playground wearing their Highland costume, arranged in circular formation, with the arms and legs of the pipes waving at visitors like friendly animals cavorting in the sunshine. This politician opened the event. People queued around the garden for the burgers, attracted by the smell of meat grilling on the barbeque. Delicious Polish dumplings were cooking at another stall. Kids jumped up and down on the bouncy castle. There was a tombola, a raffle and a cake stall. I bought a slab of home-made carrot cake and a second-hand Charlie and Lola book for 10 pence. Beanie had some more ice cream, on a roll after her Luca's trip the day before. The queue for face-painting was too long for us, but luckily someone had sent us these rather good face-paints just that morning, so we painted Beanie up as a butterfly later at home. Of course, no Scottish childhood is complete without its weather-related challenges. Mid-way through the afternoon we experienced the proto-typical Scottish experience of sheltering from unexpected rain under an awning, sipping tea from polystyrene cups for warmth. As we huddled there, shivering in inadequate clothing, feeling the rain slither down our backs, the tea tasted like nothing so much as the ambrosial nectar of the gods. Heaven.

Flowers and Stripes

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 13:40:14 +0100

Have I mentioned before that husband Va-vay writes verse? He wrote me a sonnet for our wedding day, and when he read out the bit about us both being "awake to happiness we dared not dream" as part of his speech he brought tears not just to my already reddened eyes, but also those of many other female guests. The following lines, Flowers and Stripes, are jokier than the wedding poem and were inspired by the arrival of our first daughter, Beanie. The background to the poem is that what with Va-vay being a bloke and everything, he initially found female clothing, especially female clothing for the under-ones, something of a mystery. I found myself giving him some advice and tips for those days when it was him getting Beanie ready, after we had some rather odd combinations of stripey trousers and flowered tops. Of course, if we'd had a 'boy baby' the tables would have been turned, since I have no brothers and went to an all-girls school. Even twenty years later I'm still no great shakes on the nuances of male dress, but as reproductive chance turned out, it was darling Va-vay who had to put up with lectures from me on what constituted stylish dress for the girl babies of 2006. Trinny and Susannah - remember them? - were popular at the time, and it appears from Va-vay's verses that I might have followed their bossy, stern ways too closely when I was advising him against mixing flowery items with stripey ones.

Flowers and Stripes

"No, no, no" said the little Beanie Boo.

"You must never dress me up in flowers and stripes.

You can dress me up in pink,

You can dress me up in blue,

You can take me to the park,

You can take me to the zoo,

You can put me in a rocket

And send me to the moon.

But....

Never, never, never," said the little Beanie Boo.

"You must never dress me up in flowers and stripes!"

Sometimes

Mon, 25 May 2009 09:44:42 +0100

Elder daughter Beanie is in the kitchen, toying with the pink plastic plate containing her supper. It's bananas, broken rice cakes and raisins tonight. Her choice. She glances down to where I am knelt on the kitchen floor, scooping up old rice cakes, encrusted porridge and moulted hairs.

"I love you, Mummy."

I wipe sweat from my face, push the hair out of my eyes and smile at her.

"I love you, Beanie."

She looks thoughtful for a second.

"Actually," (a favourite new word of the moment, signalling she is about to say something she knows I will not like) "Actually, sometimes I love you." She frowns. "And sometimes I don't." My heart sinks, part of it plummeting downwards towards my stomach.

Beanie now looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to provide an explanation of these difficult emotions. I'm not sure what to say. I put down the cleaning cloth and rifle through my memory for inspiration.

"You see, Beanie, when two people love each other and are close to each other, like we are, it's normal to have disagreements. Times when you argue or don't get on so well. That's part of loving someone. It's normal to get annoyed with each other, it's real, it doesn't mean you don't love them. The love is always there. You know like in your book?"

She looks thoughtful, clambers down from her turquoise booster seat and walks over to the other side of the kitchen, to her sticker board. It is festooned with 'trophies' - stickers from home and nursery given for good behaviour. She inspects the board, selects a sticker and unpeels it from the paper with painstaking care, worried in case she tears it.

She walks back to where I am sitting, having given up on floor cleaning, takes the sticker and presses it to the middle of my chest.

"There you go, Mummy."

I peer down at my chest.

Upside down, I can see the sticker has writing on it.

I look more closely. I can make out two words.

It reads: "Well done."

Powering down

Sat, 23 May 2009 14:00:51 +0100

Friday evening. The four of us have washed up on the shore of the weekend. We have survived the storms of the week and are relieved to have reached dry land. But husband Va-vay's weekend gets off to a bad start. He returns home bearing a broken laptop, silently carrying it up the stairs to our flat, held out in front of him like a bird with a broken wing that he intends to nurse back to health. His look is doleful. It's understandable. This calamity hurts Va-vay more than it would most people. Computers are not just computers to him. They are friends. With distinct personalities, feelings, hopes and dreams. Unlike most of us, Va-vay neither takes computers for granted nor loses his temper when one of them fails to co-operate. Instead, he is saddened. Equally, he tends to describe people - notably himself - in the language and terms of computers. Later that evening, almost too tired to talk after a relentless week of work and childcare, he explains to me that he cannot discuss the DVD we have just watched. He is going to sleep: "I think I might be powering down. It's like when the computer battery has gone. It just has to shut down. There's no option." Within seconds, he is snoring. Next to him the computer bag emits a companionable beep. I hear no more from either of them for some hours.

Days of your life

Tue, 19 May 2009 09:48:11 +0100

We had a blessing at our local church, St George's West in Edinburgh, on Sunday for Beanie and Button. The church pulled out all the stops for us - printing the order of service sheets in pink, in honour of the girls, placing pink carnations around the hall, presenting both girls with candles and small wooden camels as a reminder of their special day. We took the special christening cake along to the church for a little party afterwards. And sparkling wine too. Everyone there has made us feel so welcome over the last months. The lovely, kind people from the church helped me cut the cake and passed it out to the family and friends who had come to help celebrate, some of them making the journey from the south. It was a wonderful day. Tears came to my eyes when the wonderful minister said the bit: "May God bless you and keep you safe all the days of your life" and I haven't been able to get the phrase "days of your life" out of my head ever since. Younger daughter Button wore my old christening gown, which her Granny had kept safe for so many years. It fitted her perfectly, and I still get a thrill of happiness just thinking about us both wearing the same dress while going through that same rite of passage.

And although it was - officially - the girls who were being blessed on Sunday, as I stood at the altar, holding one daughter in my arms, the other by the hand, I felt blessed too.

Dawn raid

Fri, 15 May 2009 12:29:02 +0100

A small person materialised in our bedroom this morning. Out of nowhere. Like she'd come via Transporter. Friends had warned this might happen, and I have been half-expecting a matudinal visit for weeks. Elder daughter Beanie has spent many hours rattling the large, round door handle to her room in hope of early-morning release. It was still a shock when a voice broke into my dreams: "I need to go to the toilet, mummy. I really do need to go to the toilet. I really do!"

Count your blessings

Mon, 11 May 2009 15:54:49 +0100

I enjoy ordering cakes - so many enjoyable micro-decisions, such as choosing the colour of icing, agreeing the exact wording that will spiral across the cake's snowy surface, weighing up something called an "optional shimmer effect", deciding type and width of border, debating the merits of square cakes versus round, Victoria sponge or Madeira. It makes me feel in control making decisions like those, (as opposed to the biggies like where to live, how to get back to work, where our children will go to school). The last cake I ordered was for my wedding, a fantastical three-tiered arrangement iced with hearts and flowers that came from a cake-maker in Oxfordshire. Oh, I loved that cake. One of the tiers came to live with us afterwards and remained on top of a kitchen unit for several years, until, eventually, we had to give up on our plan of dusting it down and reviving it with brandy for Beanie's Christening and relinquished it, amid a cloud of dust, to the dustbin. Life at the time was so chaotic I'm not even sure the poor cake had the dignity of shuffling off its mortal coil by going to one of Vavay's favourite refuse bins. However, last week I ordered another special cake (lest you are wondering, a square Victoria sponge, filled with butter cream and jam, complete with optional shimmer effect) as we're about to have a blessing ceremony for our girls. Our great friend Vanessa from Fidra Books and my sister Auntie 'Ona are to be godmothers to Beanie. On Saturday The Godmothers (as Vavay calls Vanessa and 'Ona) and I piled round to Auntie 'Ona's for an evening of wine and fun at a girls-only dinner (our excuse being that we are doing the Moon Walk together) that felt like the feminine equivalent of wetting the baby's head. Childhood friend Zornhau and his lovely wife Kirsty are doing the same for Button. The cake is ordered. Let the festivities begin.

Third Man

Sun, 10 May 2009 16:06:50 +0100

The advent of cheap DVDs means I am filling in gaps in my film knowledge. On Friday evening husband Vavay and I watched the incomparable film noir The Third Man for the first time. Set in the murky world of post-war Vienna, the film tells of a naive American writer named Holly Martins who discovers his old friend Harry Lime has disappeared in mysterious circumstances and determines to find out what has happened to him. I should have watched the film years ago. At last I understand the meaning of references to zither music and hands reaching up out of the foul-smelling sewer.