Primeras Canciones - First Songs...

Jesus Christ was a PINKO...discuss...

2012-02-10T19:28:00.000Z

Interesting party going on over at my pal e.f. bartlam's post here

Have a read through those comments. That sweet Southern ~~US of A~~ Dixie boy has triggered a veritable tsunami of PINKO Brit political wetness... and mostly because he indicated a bit of resentment that his tax authorities were taking money from he and his partner - and then using it, for instance, to fund a public school system that he and his wife did not use for their son.

I was struggling with the basis for resentment, but I presume it is founded on the fact that neither e.f. nor Martha were deriving personal benefit from the tax take. (e.f. you are better placed to advise - forgive me the assumption if I am wrong).

I don't blame e.f. And he doesn't need my head-shaking bemusement and patronising lefty smiles either. I suspect that what he and I both need is to walk in the other's shoes for a while.

We are all products of our environments. Our worldviews shaped by the underlying assumptions and prejudices and taken-for-granted "givens" that litter the societies and cultures which we inhabit. We are not even aware of them. These are the culturally relative "facts" which we never question. That in Scotland, Sabbath is a Sunday. The vast majority of education (schools, further and Higher Education) is provided by the State - and that that is a GOOD THING. That the NHS is free at source. That in Scotland all medicines are free. And blah, blah.

e.f. is a product of a different world. With very different underlying assumptions and different "givens".

One last question for the theologically minded amongst you....

Was Christ (the historical figure, the real man - because he was a real human, honest, that much we can establish) a RED or a BLUE? Was he left-wing or right wing? Was he communist or fascist? A Democrat or a Republican? A Labourite or a Conservative...

(Just by way of a hint....go read:
Leviticus 25:35-38: "If one ... becomes poor ... help him ... so he can continue to live among you. Do not take interest of any kind from him, but fear your God ... You must not lend him money at interest or sell him food at a profit. I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt to give you the land of Canaan and to be your God."
and
Acts 4:32-35: "All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had ... there were no needy persons among them ... the money ... was distributed to anyone as he had need."
As well as
Acts 2:42-47: "They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching ... to the breaking of bread ... everyone was filled with awe ... all the believers were together and had everything in common ... they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they ... ate together with glad and sincere hearts ... "

And remember, this was a man who overturned the tables in the Temple. Who repudiated the economic system operating via the Levites which resulted in oppression and exploitation and poverty and dispossession...)

Anyway, peeps, I'm off to Yorkshire this weekend. For a few days in the freezing rain and the driving snow. If I don't get bumped off the road in Cumbria (the infamous A66) I will be back Tuesday...

The Holiday - The Road Home

2012-02-03T21:31:00.000Z

We counted off the junctions to home. There is a point on a familiar road where the car seems to embrace remembered contours. The engine hums a soothing pulsating home-coming. Seems to pull with new determination. Our magnetic North become home.

Motorway parallel with the hills and the West Coast train line.

Gretna, Ecclefechan, Dumfries, Moffat, Beattoc Summit, Drumlanrig, Abington, Douglas, Lanark...

The old water tower appears on the horizon. The church steeple rising above the toothy silhouette of a hill town splayed against a greying sky. Soon we are crossing the elegantly curving, 5 arch, single-track Hyndford Bridge. 1773 carved into its sandstone. Crossing the Clyde at the site of an ancient Ford - the old Ferry Toll House facing up towards Lanark, now blind, shuttered, unused.

Hyndford Bridge

The children are noisy at the sight of the broken racetrack. We are HOME we are home we are HOME...

And I feel that surge of love that HOME releases. Excitement. Strange excitement to be triggered by such a homely familiar, a tugging reminder of the ties that bind - surely natural when given thought now.

Ana begins to sing about Jaspar and Stan, the ginger and white family moggies.

Jamie begins to wonder about his football. Have Evan and Lewis used it and ruined it or lost it amongst the chaos of brambles in the garden...

The car gathers momentum as it swerves down the hill and swoops the 325 degree bend into New Lanark. The village suddenly unfolds. Tinto hill, Hill of Fire, the dense forestry - all framing the perfect sandstone Georgian surprise that is home.

View from the end of my house - need to get rid of that post!

You turn off the engine after driving long hours in a car and there is instant quiet. Bones fall silent. Relieved. Free from the gentle but omnipresent, humming vibration of engine and road. The kids don't notice that of course. They are unbuckled and out. Jumping from the rear and tumbling and squalling onto the cobbles and falling through the front door.

Robert and I look at one another. A look that says Robert is unpacking... I am going to the supermarket... What kind of mess will we find in there?

And then there is Evan. lumbering to the door. Grinning. Awwww Mummm thank God you're back... I'm starving...

He is pressed into unpacking service. The first bags just being lifted from the boot when we hear a bellow from the house -

Muuuuuuuummmm....Daaaaaddddddd....Theres a pongy smell in here.....
Yeuchhhhhhh...its STINKING.....

Progress Report

2012-01-27T13:48:00.000Z

I'd forgotten just how much hard work, work could be - especially if you are trying to fit in "life" as well!!

Things are beginning to 'hot-up'. Tensions are high. Major Projects are reaching fruition and the fears and stresses of colleagues are palpable. Mainly that the 'fruit' will not be either ripe or ready enough for roll-out OR that roll-out itself will go pear-shaped...

I have also begun to plan/do the 'staff engagement' work that my job is largely about. And staff are simply fatigued; fed-up; cynical about there ever being an end to 'change'; cynical about the nature of the 'change' they face. But at least I am beginning to really get back into it.

Plus ca change... I suppose. The same conditions that led to me having a meltdown still exist - in spades. But, I keep reassuring myself, I am better.

On the home front there is relief that Rebel Eldest appears to want to communicate meaningfully. She and I had what became a 'hug-in' last week. And it dawned on me that she appears very mature on the outside - but (like so many of us) is still a wee wain on the inside. Needing reassurance, support and guidance. All of which were previously on offer, of course - but all of which she has now decided she will take. As my auld Maw says: you can lead a horse to water, but you cannae make it drink....

We also have a car solution for my Dad (not to mention Rebel and the Lad - both of whom are learning how to drive). I'll leave shortly to collect a new Renault Twingo Pzaz for them to share. Dad using it Mon-Fri and taking the Passat Sat and Sun. The kids having access to the Twingo at nights and the weekend.

It is a wee sma' motor. No very braw. A bit of a wee toatie tiny box on toy wheels. Like a Dinky toy in fact. Hideous metallic blue. 4 seater. But delivering 65-75mpg on a 1.2L 16v engine. Don't even need to pay road tax for it cos it's one of them ECO cars... And aside from driving it back from the garage, I hope not to be seen dead in it... Ugh! street cred is now oot the windae!

Lad is dubious as to the benefits it will deliver - but given his sights were fixed on some souped up

Pimp-Mobile anything else is likely to be a bit of a climbdown...Thus he has decided he will embrace it as his route to highway heaven. All I can say is that with acceleration powers rivalling the Baby's pedal-car the car insurance comes cheap!

Rebel is over the moon. And planning to kit it out with new mats and little stickers.

I can just hear the squabbles already... Dad oblivious. The Lad disgusted and changing the interior decor on his turns. Rebel certain of her good taste...

My pal of the messy divorce will be up and staying over from Sunday for a couple of days. I've booked time off (un-taken annual leave from last year which I feel positively guilty using!) and she and I will face her latest court case on Mon-Tues together. I am so eager to see her. I really miss her presence here.

But, tonight I am off up to Lanark to celebrate my sculptor pal's birthday (it is she of the Gruffalo pumpkin fame) - which should be cheap good FUN. And that is always the best note to finish a working week on..

The Holiday - Return of the Natives and a theological argument with a cynical 10 year old

2012-01-22T23:21:00.000Z

The mad boy, my eldest boy, the lad, invited a squad down tonight to play pool in the basement - and consume copious amounts of lager and fortified wine. Some Russian Standard Vodka too (oh how I love Russian Standard - though it does not love me).

They left at 9pm to go to the clubs and pubs.

Four of the many will return much later to own the sofa bed and spare room. Or so I was informed, as the lad jumped into a taxi.

Baby giant returned from his friends at 10.45pm and is sitting with me as I type - and as Jaws plays out its gory suspense on terrestrial tv, yet again (I want to resurrect Roy Scheider and have a good time).

All this partying and the lad populating the house with his pals... I am reminded of my return from The Holiday... Thing is, this would ideally be the final installment in what I think of as my Holiday series. On the other hand, it seems mean to deny you the denouement, given I've been a bit slow with the in-between bits...

The Holiday - Return of the Natives

The journey back was unexpectedly quick. On reflection we agreed that this may well be due to the fact that on the way there we a) had literally no idea where the hell that single track road through the moors was taking us and b) had got lost despite the satnav anyway.

It started pissing with rain the minute we crossed the Anglo-Scots Border. We had the customary small cheer from the kids as we passed that massive, squinty, Border Saltire emblazoned with SCOTLAND and Cead Mile Failte and then the rain came down in sheets.

Thats God pee-ing on us stated Ana, quite matter-of-factly, Mamie told me.

I held my breath and glanced at R. We could sense Jamie pausing. His acute sense of dramatic timing pushing him to weigh his retort-options quickly. On the one hand he had patronising nonchalance and on the other, he had plain, outright, old scorn - though we knew he also he had a fine repertoire covering all the in-between options. He discarded nonchalance, this was not a time for nonchalance. He went straight to the main artery and struck.

Dont be so stupid. You are just so stupid. Duhhhhhh. You just know nothing.

There was a brief silence.

In the rear view I could see Ana begin to wind up to a whine. But Jamie had not finished yet.

God! God!! God doesn't EXIST!

Yip. There it just about was ...Yip... Ana whining...

Muuummmmmm Jamie's annoying me. He's annoying me. He said I'm stupid. I'm not stupid. If I'm stupid then Jamie thinks Mamie's stupid too. Mum, Mum, Mum, Jamie said Mamie was stupid too.

Jamie played his top trump card. Smugly.

Go on Mum. Tell her then Mum. Tell her that God doesn't exist. You don't believe he exists. Do you Mum.

Jamie and I have been here before. Debating God and world religions and the bible and why I studied Religious Studies at University. He knows the answer to that question. He is being a smart-arse. I decide I am going to be an annoying smart-arse.

Well, Jamie. What if I ask you a question first, before I confirm or deny anything.

He is all ears.

Imagine, Jamie, that you have just landed on Planet Earth. You are walking along a beach and see something at your feet. You bend to pick up what appears to you to be an intricate object. The object is a watch (but you don't know that because you've never been on earth before and never seen a watch). You study it closely. You open the casing and study the mechanics.

He was hooked. Round-eyed.

Do you think if you found a watch like that that you would believe it just appeared? Or would you think it had been made? Would you think someone or something had MADE it? That they had created it?

I could see him mustering all his powers of cynicism. And feigning nonchalance.

Well. Of course I would know someone had made it.

I hated this argument but felt compelled now to finish it.

Right. Now, just think about the human body, Jamie. Or the animals. Or all the plants and trees. Just think how complicated they are. How complicated your own body is. Your asthma. All those little villi in your lungs. A watch is really simple when you compare it to your body.

Total silence.

So, don't you think someone MUST have created your body. Someone we could call GOD, Jamie.

It didn't take him long. He was truly disgusted that he had allowed himself to be taken in in this way. And without weapons with which to beat me.

That's a STUPID argument. You KNOW that God doesn't exist. I don't CARE what you say.

(to be continued...cos we have still got 74 miles to go to find out whether we have a habitable home to return to or whether the lad and Baby Giant have managed to trash the place)

Work - a few reflections on the first week back.

2012-01-20T13:27:00.000Z

This is not a moaning post. I say that for my benefit. Setting out the rules. Trying to corral thoughts and shape meanings direction.

I am very tired. I underestimated the energy that returning would require. I started the week on a high - desperate to get back into the maelstrom. I whimpered to a bit of a stop yesterday with a sickness virus (which my Mother and Father and Baby now have). Today I am drained of energy.

Nothing at work has gone badly. It was good to see colleagues. I felt exhilaration that by Wednesday my contributions at the BIM (Big Important Meeting - the one upon which the future of the organisation appears to rest) were sharp and were adopted. I have begun to put together the changes which have occurred in my absence - I have begun to process the problems and to develop solutions. I look forward to more meetings and to doing.

So, what is different? Because something is. And I suspect that a post like this would not exist if there were not a "but" just lingering there in the background...

The "but"... Now... Ahh... I sense a bit of dissonance between pre-burnout me and new me. I sense a detachment that didn't previously exist. And there is the tiredness. And a new sensitivity to previously unconsidered personal limits. A certain confusion as to what really matters to me.

And the truth is that what does matter to me now has shifted slightly. I never have been a one for status and formal position - though latterly I know that I was beginning to be seduced. I have decisions to make about how I position myself in the organisation. About whether (and this is shocking to me even now) I reduce my hours (shock horror though no big decisions are being made just yet).

I have also been a bit shocked that the organisation I left 13 weeks ago appears to have lurched a little further down. Two completely unconnected individuals ended up crying (yes, really crying, real tears) in response to my gentle how are you? People whom I previously assumed were robust and would survive regardless - are off sick. Principle IT folk will shortly finish their contracts and will be gone. An already depleted band (due to restructuring, redundancies and early retirements etc) will face reduction again. There are a few maternity leaves amongst the gaps - absolutely wonderful for them, though admittedly maybe not so wonderful for those left behind - particularly when the skill gap is one that will be difficult to fill.

And that is just the essential backroom folk - the ones who ensure the front-line are able to continue working and that the infrastructure which supports field staff (and which I am certain that field staff are not even aware of needing) remains robust enough to support them.

If you turn to look at the staff who remain in the field - well, the low morale, the stress, the heavy workloads and build up of backlogs, the confusion and the disgruntlement regarding organisational change, the anger over pay freezes, the lack of trust or confidence in management (at any level) - all suggests a bit of a powder keg waiting to blow - or worse, a series of major mistakes waiting to happen.

I have always maintained that workload is manageable even in this dark period - but that management of that workload must change. The difficulty? That change takes time and that resistance to changing the ways of an organisational lifetime runs deep.

Add to that the implacable denial and refusal to recognise that public sector cuts are here to stay - that there is no general political will to reverse them and that the Coalition Government agenda on the need for cuts has largely been accepted as a "given" - and you have a recipe for very ugly resentful and angry Public Sector workforce.

My own skills are largely the bizarre ability to pour oil on troubled waters. To comfort and reassure beleaguered employees. To find the third way - or previously un-thought of solution. To mope up interpersonal mess. In other words, I oft times practice the dark arts - spinning and schmoozing and manipulating. None of which sounds pretty or reflects well upon me - but I do try to stick to an honest line and to protect people as best I can. I have standards honest.

Given all that though, maybe it is obvious that I might be under a fair bit of pressure attempting to grease the wheels...

I started by saying that this wasn't a moaning post. But I wasn't entirely sure what type of post it actually was. Now I see it was a personal taking stock post. Self-indulgent and boring for any reader - so apologies to those who've made it to the end...

Working Day

2012-01-16T22:55:00.000Z

Unexpectedly, I slept. Five hours of sound sleep. Waking to the lad thumping and clumping up and downstairs for his work clothes. Then breenging into my en suite, battering the door as he staggered, in the very early morning darkness. I lay, getting bearings, trying to remember what it was I had to do today.

Ah. Yes. Return to work.

I measured my extra bed time in ablution progress. That was the lad blowing his nose in the shower (filthy dirty habit which I scream at him for when I find bits of snot on the tiles - yes, he can and does blow that far and into the air - or his hand - I am divided about which is worse). That was the lad lathering his hair and dropping the shampoo bottle. That was the lad getting soap in his eyes. That was him reaching for the towel which is not where it should be...

Finished, he emerges in a fog of Eau de Young Stag, to moan about the towel not being where it should be and the shampoo not being the anti-dandruff stuff he likes. I say Did you get snot on those tiles again you little bugger? Cos if you did... I am too befuddled by the Eau de thingy to develop the threat into anything but thin air. He laughs. You don't even clean the shower! Now, this last is true. I don't. But that is not the point. I use the shower. I said But I use the shower you dirty boy! And your Mamie cleans it! And then she moans at me because shes convinced the snot is my snot! This last was a mistake. He laughs even harder and then says Well thats ok then. She thinks its yours so why should I stop!

This is the type of logic I find hard to argue with. Especially when the oxygen in my dark bedroom is being gradually displaced by his eau de pong-thing.

He goes to the kitchen where I can hear him raiding the fridge for enough supplies to feed his entire working shift. I shout at him to leave enough for the wee ones packed lunches. He grunts cos he is already stuffing his face.

I turn into the bed. The soft flannel warmth of the pillow against my face telling me to sleep some more. But I need to rouse and get washed and get out.

The new blue dress I bought for my first day back is discarded in favour of my customary comfortable invisible black. I take care with make-up. Pale face. Red lips. Black eye-liner in little corner flicks.

I am ready and out before the others are up. My Dad waves me away from the door. I am certain I can see relief on his face - now I can get my routine back he seems to be thinking.

I measure the journey in cigarettes. I've cut down whilst I've been off and only smoke 2 to my previous 4. I enjoy them. Being on my own in the car and smoking and choosing my own radio station - luxuries I had almost forgotten these last 12 weeks. I speed onto the motorway. The M80 is open now and - with a clear view on the straights - I push the hairdryer engine to 90. Never fails to irk me that this large 7-seater has only a 1.5 diesel engine. It is an affront I can only forget when it sails smoothly near the ton.

It is only when I am nearing Head Office that I feel the heavy fist of fear punch the air from me.

This is it. Soon I will be facing people. Making decisions. Taking meetings.

I park up and sit in the car and have a final cigarette. Then I hear me say oh fuck sake Y! Get a grip! Get out there and show them how a proper return is done!

I muster my bag and briefcase, shut the car door behind me and stride with purpose and determination to the Office door.

Where I stand. Staring at the security keypad. Feeling the momentum of determination leaking with every passing second. I have forgotten the security password...

And so the day began. I was my own, old, ordinary, human self. And when I got through the door I was passed from embrace to embrace.

Blogging - keeping it in the family...

2012-01-15T22:54:00.000Z

My youngest son - the Tricky one of the family - has decided to get some blog action of his own...

Argh! He is giving McGonagall a run for his money...with his own take on poetry, life and the universe.

Tricky is 11 years old. Into football (soccer to you e.f.) and Top Gear (though I have managed to explain that Jeremy Clarkson is NOT a good role model)...

His name, The Steelman references the football team of his heart - Motherwell F.C.

I will be monitoring his posts with interest...

* http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/

The Heidie's Family

2012-01-13T13:13:00.000Z

I had not understood that R's new job (High School Head Teacher or Principal a la American school names or Heidie a la Scottish monickers) would have such an impact on us all. Naive me.

Last night we trooped off - en famille (at least R, the two wee ones and me) - to the latest in a long line of School shows which 'his' school has staged in the last 12 weeks he's been there.

This is convention. Received wisdom being that the Heidie must display his familial credentials (if he/she has them) at every school show opportunity. The message being: your children are safe in this man's managerial hands...

In truth, I am glad to give support. To accompany him. To demonstrate (if demonstration is really necessary) that he is a good trustworthy professional and fellow parent (subtext - he shares the same worries as you).

However, since his appointment I've made a few discoveries. Some innocuous enough - others, well, you be the judge...

School Shows are not only endurable, they are actually enjoyable, when your own child/ren are not taking part. Instead of being impatient with the performers pre the performance of my child (and bored with all others after said performance), I settled to enjoy the entire show. And I did. Especially the accordionists and fiddlers - astonishing skills with jigs and reels, getting toes tapping and hands clapping - and the young composer debuting his latest ensemble piece for piano and 4 flutes.
That the partners of 'powerful men' (ok, ok, I am stretching powerful but this is a small rural area and the Heidie is a lynchpin of the community) are prized only for their ability to a) be decorative and b) be silent.
That the Heidie's family must be above and beyond social, moral and political reproach at all times...

Last night was - seriously - the first time I have experienced invisibility. Standing beside R, I seem to have lost my presence. Yes, people smiled and said hello. They would manage a few polite questions but with eyes darting continually to the main prize - an audience with the Heidie. Then, having done what they thought of as their duty they would turn to R when the opportunity presented itself. To schmooze. To impress. To curry favour. A few female parents managed to elbow me out of the way, from which vantage point I stood, observing the scrum wryly, inwardly laughing at the sycophancy (he picks his nose I thought and always splashes the toilet seat). I was also just a bit pissed off.

I was thankful I had dressed with semi-care; that the wee ones were in their Sunday best. For we were centre
stage when being escorted to our seats. Staring and nudging accompanying our progress down the aisle. Baby's hair needed to be washed - but for now the Tricky one was behaving impeccably.

During interval I attempted rapprochement with the families seated around us. But this back-fired. I had been seated beside a woman who, in plain speak, was so far up her own arse she was coming back down again. A woman who automatically decided to dismiss me - subtext: let me remind you, you are only a Headteacher's wife...

One mother did smile at me sympathetically. Gosh, you will have to suffer the agonies of lots of these shows, poor you...she said. And I am ashamed to say I responded sweetly (not sharply, honest) with This may be my last given future work commitments.

For the general assumption is - with R having made such a proud show of being a father of five - that his wife is a housewife, keeping the home fires burning whilst her man brings home the bacon. There is nowt wrong with being 'a housewife' - except that housewife, used in that particular context is used with an almost contemptuous dismissiveness - the only word missing being the prefixed only.

Of course, this is all just so much grumbling when the import of the last bullet point is given flesh...

After several weeks of local newspaper pictures and interviews R cannot go anywhere within a 50 mile radius without someone pointing him out or gushing oh Mr S....

The kids - and their behaviour (or misbehaviour) is now subject to greater scrutiny and higher standards than that of almost any of their peers. We cannot go to the pub without encountering a parent (or worse - a pupil). Woe betide if we get drunk as skunks, or even just a tiny wee bit inebriated... for there are a thousand eyes watching for clay feet...

In reality R has always been beyond reproach. Being neither a drinker nor party-lad. The same cannot really be said of Rebel Eldest or The Lad or Baby Giant...or me...

But R is happier than I have ever seen him. He has worked hard. Never (paradoxically) been ambitious. Always cared deeply about education and was a superb classroom teacher (one who took the first proffered promotion only because I was a student and we needed the money). I see him growing into this job with every passing day.

The other stuff will settle down. It will go. We will all find ways to accommodate its demands. And my pissed-off-ness will eventually pass....

The Waiting Room

2012-01-11T14:43:00.001Z

9am and the local clinic is beginning to fill. A warning sign, just through the double entry doors and three feet from the reception, greets with prohibition: 'Do not queue beyond this point'.

Three feet. The premium given to privacy.

The woman in front of me shuffles the crevasse between queue and receptionist, whispering her name, her appointment time, her address, the doctor she will see. All repeated by reception staff in a weary dismissive monotone that carries into the clinic's silence. The motif Please take a seat, your name will be called shortly echoing after each of us as we reach the head of the queue and are 'processed'.

The wheezing old man behind me shifts on bent legs. He coughs and farts. The woman behind him quietens a child's high laughing voice which pipes that man pooped mummy. The man seems oblivious. He smells of piss, cigarettes, unwashed body. I take my seat and observe the Receptionist's recoil and her wrinkled noise; her attempt to manage his deafness; the spraying of freshener whilst he struggles towards the waiting room.

The child runs towards the primary coloured kid's corner and begins whacking bricks. The mother attempts restraint in a reasonable voice. Look how patient and tolerant and understanding I am this voice says. I am a good Mother this voice says. But the child blithely ignores her. He fixes on the old man and runs towards him. You pooped. You smell. Why did you poop? He says in a voice that reaches into every corner of the large room.

People stare at left behind magazines as his mother gathers him up. The old man has not heard.

The Support of Friends

2012-01-11T11:43:00.000Z

I am compelled to share this. I received it this morning. It came from just one of the Directors I work with...

"What can I say, Yvonne? Our conversations these last two nights have been lovely landmarks in your journey into, through and out of your dark places. It feels as though you have found the optimism, drive and humour which you had mislaid and I’m really chuffed for you that you are feeling so much you.

You’ll have worked out by now that all of life is a metaphor. Well, not quite all but near enough. The picture above is on the way up to that fabulous vantage point. The Chinese are right that every journey starts with a single step. What they don’t say is that every summit is reached through hard work, perseverance, some bad words, a bit of pain and a lot of pleasure. All made so much better by having the right companions on the journey – the speck in the picture is my pal Alan who is a right companion for a hill journey.

Keep on the climb. Remember that there are sometimes false summits. Sometimes you have to go down a wee bit to go up again (though I have a personal campaign with the Lord of the Mountains about this!). Sometimes you have to pause a while to recover your breath, look around and take in where you are. Sometimes you have to cross mushy ground where the boot eating bog monster lurks. Sometimes it all looks impossibly steep but usually there is a path threading its way through the obstacles. Sometimes the top stays out of reach or is stolen by the mist fairies. But every step, no matter how small, how slow and how much it hurts, is another step on your journey.

And the reward? You own the view and gain your perspective.

See you next week …………………"

We will go for a curry in Glasgow next week. I have a great many reasons to be grateful.

Home

2012-01-09T20:58:00.001Z

White winter sun spills through the kitchen window. Illuminates cobwebs which are become white garlands in the startling brightness.

The cat sits on the window ledge scratching at the panes to come in. His little breath puffs in frosted explosions against the glass.

The hoary garden stretches up behind him. Terraces of sandstone spattered with bare whitened branches of hedge and tree. Tendrils of summer's planting darkened to stark fossil etchings on the blond sandstone rockeries.

The Clyde sings into the silence of the morning. Swollen throated. Bringing the voices of ice and waterfall, of rain and snow-melt from high in the valley. A peregrine circles in the stark light of a clear sky and the crows scatter raucous, wheeling clumsy and indignant to the bare black tree husks which cling precariously to the valley side.

Last year men came with chainsaws and permits to slash and burn the blackened ghosts. Their towering height a skeletal tree-cathedral reigning over the valley. Crashing with every storm into the ravine that yawns just before the tenements. This year there are rotting stumps amongst the wooden girders that hold up the valley sky and are hung with the jetted jewels of crows nests and rookeries.

Spilling the over-ripened fruit basket into the garden I see the badgers have begun earth-moving. The old ginger cat has followed me up the garden steps. He paws the turned earth, sniffing and scenting it. Then moves lazily to the seat where the white sunlight has warmed frost from the old wooden boards.

I look back down to the house. Neglect has nurtured grass which grows from the guttering at the gable-end. The storms of the last weeks have loosened slates. The chimney granny is crooked and still - smoke from the wood-burner spilling in a crazed arc from its several mouths.

This place is Home.

And yet, there are still some who would ask why I live here.

Happy New Year - the Big Party!

2012-01-04T15:09:00.000Z

The annual Stewart "Day of Madness" is over for another year. I survived!! The house remains intact! We all had a ball.

Hogmanay came and went with the usual mix of fireworks, bells ringing in the village square and 63 bodies drinking, dancing, drinking, eating, drinking and falling down in my house...

Managed to piss off only one (very grumpy snitchy non-partying) neighbour (the neighbour who wasn't invited to the party) and managed to break only one glass. The jumbo pot of my special chilli vanished within 3 hours of the party opening - with little size 0 Jodie scoffing the last three bowls on her own. The soup had been supped by 4am. The chicken korma eaten by 4.10am. The crisps, nut and sundry prawns and nibbles disappeared within minutes of being served. We were out of beer by 6.30am...

The lad and his many numerous (46) pals turned the bottom 2 levels into a club - techno and dance and DJ sets eventually topping the Indie and old sounds being played by the adults on the 3rd and 4th floors. Who needs The Fall or Massive Attack or Underworld when you can have Deadmau5 and Tiesto? (well, me actually! but I am clearly past it).

The beautiful young women tottered and teetered up and down the stairs on 6" heels and micro minis - much to the disgust of the mature females assembled and the delight of the heterosexual men. There was the usual lesbian love tryst in the upstairs bathroom - though only one lad coming out (as opposed to the usual three). Marc (20yrs) swore undying lust for me this year - the effect of Snow leopard vodka... Jo and I elevated Calvin - the 18 stone doe-eyed rugby boy - with "the power of belief" and only four fingers (difficult to explain though I will oblige if you really want me to)...

The die-hards - a few neighbours and a few of the lads pals - were still up at 7.30am. They had graduated to spirits by then (though admittedly a few had been on spirits all night).

The lad had introduced the male neighbours to his "Beer Bomb" - and this caused a massive macho stir of competitive spirit... This improvised device (a funnel, firmly attached to a metre long length of hose - the funnel filled to brimming with a cocktail of drinks and the hose attached to the victim - sorry, the drinkers - mouth) is designed to introduce alcohol very rapidly... According to the lad it "sorts the men from the boys"... Suffice to say only three of the male (middle-class and very proper professionals) neighbours managed to sup the funnel contents as they were delivered at high speed and had to be supped in one long swallow... It never ceases to amaze me how otherwise clever and mature men can metamorphose into wee daft laddies and how "mature" male pride MUST beat "the youngsters"!

We went to sleep at 9am and woke at 1.40pm. I served the bacon rolls and fried stodge to the remaining 12 bodies and eventually the house had emptied of all but 2 guests by 6pm on the 1st of January.

It has taken till today to really thoroughly clean and clear party debris - but it was worth it. So many happy faces. So many hilarious memories to feed stories for the rest of the year.

My pal and her daughter left only an hour ago.

That is us for another year... all that remains for me to say is -

Much love and Happy Happy Happy 2012 to you all!

Christmas Poem - A Communist Scottish Granpa's Contribution...

2011-12-24T19:14:00.001Z

My old Granpa recited this every Xmas. He'd be unco fu, be bouncing one of the multitude of wains on his knee, every now and then removing his black NHS-framed glasses to wipe the sweat from his brow - for the room would be heaving and every pot in the small house would be bubbling...

I warn you - it is long. It is political. He also did a funny version - but my Mum and I cannot remember how it went...(apologies)...

It might help you to know that he was a founder member of the Wishaw Young Communists....

http://www.christmas-time.com/cp-work.html

And despite the contribution.... HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!

Battles of the Sexes

2011-12-24T00:06:00.000Z

The Committee was 18 strong. There were three women appointees (including me) - the other two were, respectively, a District Council elected representative and a retired Social Work Assistant/now Labour Party activist. The men were all, without exception, elected representatives - with the Committee Office Holders being drawn from the Strathclyde Regional Council reps. They were all (with two exceptions) Labour Party members, but, young as I was, it surprised me to discover that status was very important to them - and Regional reps were clearly considered of greater significance than District Council reps...

I knew Jackie, the ex Social Work Assistant, well. I was the local Party Chair and she was the Treasurer. But she was more than that to me - even at that stage. A whirlwind of force and fury and anger against "the establishment", against "privilege" and poverty and inequality. Self-taught. life-battered. Ex-Trade union Steward who was active in the Plessey sit-in (here). Vociferous proponent of the under-dog - prisoners and abused and neglected children in particular. She would rapidly become a second mother to me. Helping me cope with the demands of my 2nd child whom I found initially difficult to parent and to bond with.

The gender imbalance was typical of politics and public service of that time. The 90s saw the introduction of One-member-one-vote (Omov - though the electoral college rules water that down) and latterly women-only shortlists for the Labour Party (under John Smith) - but "equality" was a concept viewed with very deep suspicion in the 80s and 90s West of Scotland (in truth, it still is).

This is an area that the Swinging 60s completely bypassed. An area where 50s attitudes, particularly in relation to the divisions between the sexes, reigned supreme - where, in 1985, my school taxi-driver felt comfortable enough to seriously and at-length give me chapter and verse as to why it was a "waste of time educating lassies because they would only give it all up to have wains"...

I lost count of the number of fights I witnessed and joined, attempting to shift the attitudes of the cabals of Party misogynists who would be up in arms about their preferred male candidate being sidelined in preference to a "stupid wee lassie ootsider wi nae experience"... It always amazed me that many women supported these men. And at a time when women reps were as rare as hens teeth.

Vera, the other woman member, was one of those women. She and I never did see eye-to-eye.

(to be continued)

Committee Business

2011-12-21T14:03:00.001Z

There was more chair-shifting and shrinking. A florid sweaty man to my left wrung his hands. The very small elderly Chairman, (a man with pretty eyelashes under rimless glasses) laughed with a forced, high jollity -

Haha! now then, now then, we don't want any "outrageous assertions". Haha, we all know you Ken. But the Governor has been kind enough to explain just how the service has changed from your days. (and at this the Chair paused, to nod and smile at the Governor). Then he added more quietly And I will be grateful if you would remember that I'm Chairman here - we are not in the Social work Committee now.

Ken smiled very graciously and said You are all fools if you believe there has been any change for the better.

Business moved on. I had stopped note-taking.

It was clear the scene that had been long in the making. That at the very least it involved a history of personal and political antipathy. I had that spine-shiver that intrigue always provoked. I was studying Ken with real interest now. Clearly he had been in the Service. But for how long and in what capacity? What did he do now that involved the Regions Social Work Committee?

There was a break for tea and biscuits. A prisoner, small dark and elderly wheeled in the trolley. He bobbed his head to left and right acknowledging the Committee members who were indulgently praising the quality of the tea. One said not long now then Alec. Eh? Not long at all. Eh? The sweaty florid man chipped in, with a laugh least you'll be able to make tea out there when you go! and continued to laugh at his own words as he looked around the room for appreciation.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/2007/oct/11/guardianobituaries.prisonsandprobation

(follow link for background info re Ken)
(to be continued again...)

A wee bit for the CV

2011-12-20T11:45:00.002Z

At the age of 24 close political contacts ensured my appointment to the local H.M.Prison Visiting Committee. Corruption? Nepotism? Of course it was.

I had just had my first child and had begun the law degree. The Committee appeared to ask very little of me but seemed a good CV bet. There was nothing more in it for me than that. I gave the shift little thought.

I was the youngest Committee member by at least 35 years. The combo of gender and age meant that I was quickly appointed to the paid position of Committee Clerk. A lowly unattractive admin position - but one which I shortly realised was the real power behind the Chairs illusory throne.

The then Prison Governor was a bastard of a man. Ex-military. Dictatorial. Capriciously and gratuitously bullying. Misogynistic. loved by the old Officers and respected by prisoners habituated to a hard unbending institutional violence. He was due to retire within the year but had the offer of a contractual extension - he had reigned over the Prison for an unusual trouble-free twenty two months.

He despised the Committee do-gooders. Displaying contempt in late arrivals to meetings. In eye-rolling dismissals. In hard stares. I watched that first day. He fixed his gaze on each emerging source of irritation - and simply stared potential dissent down. Big grown men - leaders in their own fields - cowered, shifted in their seats, ahemed, and then back-tracked.

As the Agenda stuttered and faltered, Governor would distribute a short typed report. Speak to it. And, finishing it, would raise his gaze, looking over his half-moon glasses to fix the company with a stare which dared response.

I remember that first meeting. The tense silence. Eyes looking to the table top. One cough. Then another. Men seeming to shrink in their seats.

All, in fact, but one man. A big tall craggy attractive man in his 60s who had caught my attention earlier. A man with a twinkle in his eye. I remember him catching my bemused stare,winking at me, then turning to the Governor to say, with a slow, deliberate nonchalance, that acted like a slap, Now, George...You and I both know that that's not quite true...is it?

(to be continued)

A first love

2011-12-19T20:28:00.000Z

We were together when I was 14. You, 3 years older - dark and serious, the brightest in your year, capped for the Scottish under 21s football team, reading William Blake, listening to the old pre-Collins Genesis. A moral young man, struggling with fundamental religion, a family history of suicide and a Mother who suffered severest depressions.

I would never have looked at you. You headed that league of senior kids who appeared in corridors dressed in blazers trimmed with the prefects red ribbon of authority. You were firm but fair to us wee ones. Even though we were cheeky bastards who decried your puny authority.

I was occasionally rude to you. I had just opened the mansion marked sexuality and was loitering in the doorway. Flexing a power that appeared - to my 14 yr old self - simultaneously hilarious, exhilarating and just a bit alarming. Discovering that a male gaze held momentarily and then dropped and then held again briefly seemed to mesmorise even the coolest seniors. That a school skirt always benefited from the upward turn of the waistband. That boys appeared to be fascinated by the bad girls but ultimately favoured the good - so, the trick was to blend both...

I flirted my way to higher sales on the market stalls I worked, learning the hard way just how far I could take the game before it became serious - and the buyer thought he'd bought more than a pair of shoes. I worked the hamburger van every weekend in Muirhouse, the toughest Motherwell estate, charming the approved school boys and the hardest of girls buzzed on glue and the lifer out on licence who stole the big onion knife from the counter. I rode the waltzer and laughed harsh teenage laughs and was spun by the fairground lads. I learned to survive a hard life - the type of life my mother and father despaired of and warned against, wanting better for me.

Poverty and necessity made me tougher than you. But my intelligence was more than a match for yours. Free music lessons from a woman convinced of my musical genius (I was good but - in the end - lazy and just not good enough) meant I was more familiar with Faure than pop - a fact I had to learn to hide. A skill with the English language meant that my achievements were most often compared to your previous achievements - you in turn being compared to R (an older former pupil and school dux whom I would meet much later).

You started to smile at me. Study me. Blush when you saw me. I was aware but not that interested. You were just a bit wet. And anyway, it was not the done thing - a senior with a junior - and you stood for the done thing.

I played school concerts - solos with my flute. And at one you turned up, selling tickets on the door. You spoke to me to say how good my playing was - an easy piece I said. You asked how I was getting home. Could you walk with me? And I laughed and said but we live at opposite ends of the town. You quietly responded Oh I just thought...and tailed off into silence.

looking back I did not make it easy for you. It took - so you said - several weeks to woo me. But I know it was months.

In the end we were inseperable. We became two sides of the same coin. We spoke the others thoughts aloud. Had a closeness of spirit that liberated and empowered. Without you - without Us - I would be less than I am.

It has been over 25 years and I mourn your loss still today.

Girls Night Out

2011-12-18T21:29:00.000Z

My pal-of-the-messy-divorce and I managed a "Girls pre-Xmas night out" in Leeds last night. I am suffering...mildly, but definitely suffering, having belatedly investigated the reason why we are warned never to mix the grape and the barley... (Oh! but that wine was divine - and the whisky! Smooth and rich - an icy fire begging to be savoured).

I made it to Marton-cum-Grafton (gorgeous wee Yorkshire village where she is currently living) in a record 2hrs and 34 mins - despite snow at Beattock Summit, a ten mile stretch of densest fog over the A66 and an average speed (50mph) section on the M1 roadworks after Scotch Corner. The old Passat did the ton, eating up road, lunging forward ever faster with the lightest touch on the pedal - yet, strangely, delivering an impressive 43.6mpg (ok ok, it can do much better than that - but it would involve killing the speed)... It might look a wee bit scruffy now (scratch on rear bumper from an idiot driving a Chelsea Tractor - aka a 4x4) and it needs cleaning on the inside. But it is a dependable beast of a turbo diesel.

Of course I am a faithless shallow besom. Which means... that I promptly ditched the Passat to climb into my pals Audi TT.

And this is when the real fun began.

The M62 passed in a blur of muscular car-power.

The QPark staff handed us free handmade chocolate as we parked.

Then the Leeds Malmaisons dark glamour embraced us - sultry, Stygian, obliquely hinting at debauchery... excess... secrets... Interior metalwork intrigues with a style that nods to Gaudi. Upholstery whispers, insistent, touch me, stroke me, caress me... Walls are densest navy. The intricate metal-worked wall lights echo the designed metalwork beauty of the entrance.

Reception staff were attentive, recognising us from our visit just a couple of weeks ago.

We had a room upgrade. And that was a good thing. Linen to die for. Vast bed. LCD screen, surround-sound. Champagne mini-bar and luxury snacks. A huge en suite that dwarfed my bathroom at home... Malmaisons own fragrant toiletries...

We cracked open the red wine. And took precious wonderful child-free time to adorn ourselves.

I had a wee panic when I thought the black leather jeans I had bought (but not actually tried on for lack of time...never a good idea) were going to be too tight. But no! They were perfect. Ahhhhh. Heaven... Then the silk t-shirt, the crystal-pleated cobalt blue satin scarf, the new earrings, my Fornarina boots... (yip I am shallow... fashion fascinates me...I take pleasure from new shapes, from textures, and colours...)

My pal has a stunning sense of style. She has a dark and dramatic, arresting beauty. She turns heads. And she looked painfully good in a simple satin shift teamed with astonishing, chunky, faceted and gleaming jet necklaces.

The taxi turned up on time. Just as we had finished that night out cigarette.

We met up with some others. Began laughing. Drank some more. Hunted out the best bars. Danced for hours and hours and hours. And at 3.20am we ate a big bag of fat chips with mayonnaise on the hilarious and inebriated walk back to the Mal.

I am old enough to know that funny, happy, on-top-of-the-world nights like last night rarely occur when you plan and rely upon them to happen. But it all came together last night. We were the right people in the best of places and at the perfect time.

We are now beginning to plan for the next time!

My memory sucks...

2011-12-16T12:24:00.000Z

BG has just reminded me that I promised The Lad a prawn cocktail, roast lamb and all the trimmings and carrot cake dinner tonight as a belated birthday treat.

Tonight. Oh my god! In four hours time. A dinner for 12. And I haven't even started.

I need to get to the butchers, the fruit n veg shop and the fish-mongers.

I need to get off this laptop!

Baby Giant gets his mojo back...

2011-12-16T12:02:00.001Z

And just as suddenly as fear visited, it is gone.

Baby Giant is declared "normal". The lumps just anatomical anomalies. Though urine will be tested.

We can breath again.

BG is warned off amateur self-diagnosis via Google.

He has recovered his joie de vivre. As evidenced by the following -

Bumping into several of his schoolmates on the walk back he greeted the questions Hey mate where ye been? Whit ye no it school the day fur? With the nonchalant Hey mate A wis jist away fur a baw check...

Whhhhh-iiitttt? says his discombobulated mate, glancing at me and then rapidly away.

Aye says BG A baw check.

Jist a random baw check then mate? queries the mate.

Aye says BG Jist a random baw check.

Awww-right, mate says the mate It wis jist a random baw check then mate. Cool.

Baby Giant nurses some fears...

2011-12-16T09:24:00.000Z

Turns out Baby Giant has been nursing dark fears for the last month. Fears which finally saw light late last night.

I had gone to bed - was idly wondering how long it would be before I managed to sleep - when he came to use my en suite.

I wryly listened to his strong young-man-flow, trying to guess how much would be splashed on the seat. I suffered the sounds of long teenage ablutions and nodded knowingly to myself when the mirror-studying silence fell. Then he burst into my room again to simply stand in silence.

I was pretending to read. Just hoping he would say his usual "night Mum. I love you". And then go away. But he remained. A silent presence at the foot of my bed.

My gaze flickered up and I raised my eyebrows, smiling what I hoped was just a tiny dismissive goodnight smile. He coughed. Then, oh god, he covered his face with his hands and his shoulders began to heave.

I could make no sense of what was happening, nor what he was trying to say through the noisy sobs.

I cradled his head as he lay down on my bed. And when he had calmed sufficiently he was able to tell me that he was pee-ing blood. That he knew he had a varicocele on his left testicle. That he also had a lump on his right testicle. That he was never going to have children and that he was going to die.

My sobbing half-man half-child had diagnosed himself from google searches. Has been passing blood for "at least two months". Sobbingly relates "some sexual contact" (cos I was inwardly pondering STDs) and described what sounded (to me) like hideous testicular lumps. He had been worried for a couple of months but couldn't find the right time to say anything.

After checking with him that it was alright (and reasoning that as I didn't have testicles I wasn't best placed to really know normal from abnormal) I shouted on R.

We comforted and jollied Baby Giant who wanted to sob a wee bit more before assuming calm again. We discussed matters calmly and matter-of-factly. He indicated he wanted me to come with his to see the family doctor.

I telephoned this morning and he has an appointment at 11.10am. He is still sleeping as I type - Ill rouse him in just a minute. But reckon he needs some peace after the dreadful worrying he has been doing.

Parenting an Adult Child...

2011-12-08T15:11:00.000Z

I've never been good at practicing what I preach. I know what I should be doing. I just don't like doing it.

Which is why I am struggling hard with Rebel Eldest and the path she has drifted onto. Asking myself what right I have to intervene or disapprove or preach or feel as hurt as I do. I have no special wisdom - nor superior access to the truth or what matters...

She will be 21 on the 26th of this month. An adult.

She was a precocious child. Gifted. Absolutely everything she touched she excelled at. Her musical abilities - singing, violin and xylophone (which she mastered in 3 months) garnered praise and admiration from serious professional musicians. Her soprano voice was sublime. Her maths and science skills rapidly outstripped what her school could offer her. She was bilingual by the age of 13 and her analytical skills used to frighten me.Though neither her father nor I were aware of any of this until the school began to call when she was barely 5 years old. Were we aware that our daughter could read? That she had a reading age of 12.6 and a comprehension age of 12.3? What did we want them to do about it?

In retrospect we should have put the phone down. Ignored it. Allowed her to bump along with her chronologically right age group. But we bowed to the pressure. The tests to define her ability. Her placement - initially - with 12 year olds for lessons (she was 5!!).

She went to High School at 10. By which point she was like a mini and earnestly serious adult.

Amongst the pride, we began to feel alarm. By the time she was 16 she had gone way beyond anything her High School could offer. And in an attempt to slow things down for her we - belatedly - talked her into taking a year out between school and university. We felt deep unease at the thought of her going at the age of 15 or even 16.

In her year "out" she began to spread her wings a bit. She joined an indie pop band. Sang. Broke into an older, more glamorous crowd - where she was a bit of curiosity. Began to stay away overnights. Rapidly went through a series of daft boyfriends. Finally introduced us to The One. A peculiar looking 30 yr old dwarf session musician who had played with all the big names...and appeared to finance his current life via a toxic combo of the bank of Mum and Dad and the supply of grass/green/cannabis...

He was fantastic in bed she giggled.

His own cannabis habit meant he could barely speak coherently. His emotional development has stopped with his first draw back in 1994. He had partied hard for a few years, played a few gigs and then come to a big fat dead-end. Peddling myths of glamour - a big fish in a small pond.

We tolerated the relationship. Poorly. But we did.

Rebel Eldest went ahead with her planned entry to uni to study law. After that we barely saw her - unless she wanted help with an essay.

She was vague about how academia was suiting her. Seemed to spend an inordinate time viewing web-casts of lectures.

Two years into the degree she dropped out. Refused to talk about what was happening. And until June of this year she was firmly ensconced in his flat.

For it was in June that The One decided to go on a bender of rage. leaving her with a black and blue face - and a body like a punch bag. We had always suspected he was violent. Or could be violent. Of course Rebel Eldest defended him - insisting that she had given as good as she got. That she had provoked him. I have no doubt she did. But no excuse.

I read to her from the Womens Aid literature I had hoarded.

She seemed to settle for a little while. She worked two menial jobs. Began to talk about going back to uni. She flitted through the house. Rarely actually seeing anyone - but that is fine, we just wanted to know she was safe - not live her life for her.

And then she decided - almost overnight - that she needed space.

And then, on the day of my final meltdown, I heard that she was actually back with The One.

We are now in a peculiar situation where every conversation we have is like a minefield. If I so much as say anything positive about her siblings or her old school friends I am accused of really saying that she has failed - and of rubbing her nose in it. If I express concern I am accused of stifling her. If I buy her something she asks if I don't think she can do it on her own. She is spiteful about The lad and his current success. She blames me for pushing her into the law degree - when everyone recalls me advising her to do something creative. She looks and sounds depressed - but I cannot get into a place where we can have that conversation. I have tried writing to her. But nowt has worked.

My mother (Mamie) says all will come good. That she is an adult. That I need to stop worrying and fretting. But she is silent when I ask if that is what she has done as a Mother...

I am not a consistently fabulous role model. I have made my own mistakes. Which is why I remind myself that I cannot rightfully preach - particularly when I still ignore even my own good advice to myself.

In the meantime...well...I watch and wait and worry.

Page 3 Confession - Ultimate!

2011-12-07T20:24:00.002Z

I have toyed quite long enough, dear reader, with your patience. In fact your tolerance of my verbosity is to be commended. Or indicates, perhaps, - and I mean no offense with this observation - that you are idling whilst at work, or have a dearth of more productive tasks with which to occupy your time...

Page 3 is just a few small moments away...in fact, it may assist if you think burlesque... think tease...imagine these words as the flimsiest of garments...think narrative as a peeling of the layers between you and I...

Of course, it is also only courtesy on my part to warn, again, of impending graphic and biological content...

You find yourself, now, in my old 5th floor bedroom. Dawn has not yet broken. The night remains dark. I am awakened by a distinctive and growing, cramping, pain. My body has decided that 42 weeks is quite long enough, thank you very much, in which to bake the baby. Certain that the process will take a couple of hours at least I creep (alright, alright, I haul my huge lumbering frame) from the marital bed. I gently rouse the snoring R, telling him that I believe we have lift off – and that he might want to get us a coffee, call Mamie n Papa, rouse the wee ones ready for departure, warn his resident padre that the show had begun and then phone the midwives. Whereupon I puff to the bathroom, to run a warm, deep bath...mentally preparing for the intensification of pain ahead...beginning to wish I had cut Rs bullocks off pre-June 2002...

I recall swaying and blowing whilst grasping the bathroom basin. Mildly disturbed by the force of the cramp, I hastened my descent into the bath. I sat in the water. Rocked by another cramping pain, deep within, I shifted position. Ohhh by jeeeezzussss, a tidal wave of pain gripped me. I shouted on R to hurry the f* up, to help me out of the f*n bath.

I struggled to stand and was caught, slam!, mid-exit by a tsunami of a contraction.

This was fast. This was going too fast.

I pulled on the night tent I had discarded and waddled to the stairs. I heard my mother and father coming in on the 3rd floor and shouted to them. We met on the 4th floor – me gripping the middle window sill and swaying and puffing like a demented wild-eyed coo.

My mother went into hyper-house-proud hyper drive. Screaming at my father to get that plastic floor covering. Screaming at me Don’t you DARE give birth on this carpet! Dont you DARE give birth HERE! And then hauling me across the floor, delivering me just 5 feet away, to stand atop the plastic and beside the gas n air...

My father was kneeling behind. Laying out the last of the plastic cover. I recall looking to the stair well and seeing two wee faces watching intently. I recall a bursting POP and Dad shouting Ooooohhhhh my god, its here... The shuddering relief of pressure as something large simply dropped from between my legs, in a veritable flume of fluid. My father screaming. Him trying to catch the slippery thing and it sliding and slapping to the floor. My mother crying out Oh look! Oh my God! It’s another lovely big boy. And my Fathers rejoinder It’s a gey queer boy Mary! It’s a lovely big lassie! And all the time, me thinking Oh bloody hell, my faither has seen ma “bits”...

R missed the whole 4 minutes as he was still on the phone to the midwives. Baby arrived to be caught by her grandfather. Watched on by her grandmother and her eldest brother and sister. Heard by her Papa Ralph.

By the time that Anne, the senior midwife had arrived, Mamie had clamped the cord, the placenta was delivered, Mamie had taken my BP, baby was on the breast and we were all drinking tea.

Papa Jaime (my father) was sitting silent, shell-shocked, traumatised by events.

I had endured a 34 minute labour...

Addendum

I do take my duty to be honest and truthful to you my dear reader...

And so, to Page 3...

Just four days after the birth, and whilst we were all assembled gazing at the babe, there came a knock at the door...

It was a journalist. With a photographer. He was independent, though representing the local Gazette. They had received a call from a midwife. Was I YS, the mother of five, whose father, in her own home, had delivered her new baby? Would I consent to an interview? Some pictures? It was such a “good news” story...

There are times in your life when you should simply shut the door and walk away...or when you should check credentials...or when you should simply pause for thought. Sadly, it is my experience. that we seldom recognise those times when they appear.

We did the interview. We did the photoshoot. All nine of us. R, Rs resident father, my Mother and Father, rebel eldest, the lad, baby giant, the tricky-one, new baby and me. And then we forgot all about it – bar the occasional I wonder when - or if -we will see those photos.

The following week, mid nappy change, mid shout-at-middle-child, mid re-dawning of realisation that babies are hard work, the telephone rang. Rebel eldest. In hysterics. Laughing. Crying. Shouting so loud down the phone that I couldn’t hear her words.

Eventually I made out – you are on Page 3 of the Sun. You and Ana are on Page 3 of the Sun. You are feeding Ana on Page 3 of the Sun. Mum! I am mortified! Everyone at school has seen the picture! You are an idiot Mum! I am soooo embarrassed by you Mum!

Yes, dear, patient and by now, sorely disappointed reader, I was indeed on Page 3 of the Sun.

Baby and I. Sans nudie wummin. Me nursing her. Under the banner headline Grrrr-eight to see you...

........................................................................................................................

PS Forgive me my friend. Just smile. And now, tell me, would you have read this story if I had entitled it “The Birth Story of Baby Number 5”....

Confessions of a Page 3 STUNNAH (cont)

2011-12-06T19:06:00.002Z

Revealed of course, slowly. With dignity. And at the appropriate moment...

Impatience increasing? Agitation with my inability to simply cut to the chase growing?

Ahhh, console yourself dear reader, for gratification delayed is also (according to that oracle – my Mother) Good for the Soul...and I promise to get there...eventually.

On hearing he was to be a father yet again, R adopted the time-honoured method of dealing with a reality you do not want to hear and which flies contrary to all those vehement protestations you have made i.e. that four children was quite enough for him – there would not be another baby in his house – he would be getting a vasectomy as soon as possible and she (for he meant me, dear reader) would have to find another man if she wanted another baby.

Yes, that’s right, my increasingly irritated and impatient page 3 seeking reader. He decided to ignore it.

Fully aware that he was ignoring it I flaunted the consequences of my fecundity at every opportunity. Ohhhh the heartburn. The prodded awake requests for gaviscon at 3am. The muscle aches that required massage. For long, long periods of time. The inability to carry large bags of shopping (some men really are saps for this pregnancy and female weakness lark...). The mood swings... The haemorrhoids...

Time passed. Christmas came and went. 2003 dawned without personal enjoyment of the Hogmanay beer-goggles. Until, reaching the 7th month of gestation and a day off work, and with narry a baby product purchased, I deduced that R appeared to have omitted to inform his work colleagues of his impending fatherhood such was the extent of his denial.

Puzzled. In fact thoroughly irritated by his ability to ignore impending birth, I did what any good woman will do. I decided to out him and thus offered to pick him up from work.

He insisted that I not put myself out. I insisted that it would be a pleasure to save him the unpleasant train journey. He said he would need to work a little later. I said I would spend a pleasant hour or so with those colleagues of his that I knew and loved. He said there was a terrible stomach bug doing the rounds.

Ah reader. I did it. I went early to the school. I waddled to the reception, brandishing my belly in the blackest, snuggest, lycra form-fitting dress in my wardrobe. I smiled a wide hello at the office staff with whom I had had at least telephone contact with over the past 11 years.

What followed was my own peculiar lesson in cognitive dissonance. Until then a phrase I understood in terms only of my non-pregnant cigarette habit and an ability to banish tobacco-induced cancer from my own personal health neuroses.

Yes, I anticipated a little surprise. Perhaps minor confusion of the type – is she just carrying a lot of fat in an unfortunate place or is she pregnant? Minor and only momentary of course.

I waddled into the office. I was greeted by silence. One mouth sagged open. The oldest hand emerged to stutter Oh Yvonne... and then sputtered into silence again. Then stammered a bit. How did...? when did...? how did...? how...?... are you...?...

A young face, an office newbie smiled, oblivious, when’re yi due?

Someone recovered manners and I was given a seat. Someone said they’d tell R I was there.

And so passed 20 minutes whilst I waited for R to deliver me, cursing the day I decided to out him. I gabbled a bit. Laughed too loud.

And discovered that there is a brain freeze which accompanies expectation being met in such an expectation-defying manner...

As I explicitly patted my big tum they tacitly fixed their gaze on my face. As I groaned about my sore back they decided to get on with their work.

One woman – the oldest secretarial hand – tutted. It was a tut. A real obvious big TUT.

And then the sound of laughter. Of someone fit to piss themselves. Of my husband slapping doors and walls choking fit to expire. Of him opening his mouth to speak and nothing but his snorted saliva spraying my face. He was apoplectic. He was convulsed. They thought.... Hhhahahahahaaaa.... hahahahahahhahahaha....SHE thought (he was pointing at the woman who’d gone to fetch him).....hahahahahhhahahahaaahahahah....THEY thought.....

I am not an ungenerous woman my reader. The carrot has always had more appeal to me than the stick... Ahhh, you deserve some explanation. Some light to be shed.

Picture the scene then. R in his office. The secretary approaches. Awkwardly. Apologetically. As though embarrassed.

What’s up Liz? says R. Is something wrong?

Ah. Mr S... says she... It’s your wife. She’s here. In the school. In the office.

Tell her I’ll be right there...says he...

Silence.

Tell her I’m just finishing this last paper.

Silence. A stare.

Is there something else Liz?

A cough. An audible gulp.

Oh Mr S. Are you alright? We didnae know. Are you alright wi...dramatic pause... that?

Alright? With what? says R. Increasingly bemused.

Well, the new ... audible swallow... the new... pause... the new... baby.

Eh? says the slow-witted R. Eh?

Aye. Says she. Whit wi you havin a vasectomy and aw that....

May this be a lesson to you all. When issuing vehement denials and statements of intent - beware. For some people may take you at your word. May even believe that you are capable of following through on stated intention...

Ahhh, yessss... Page 3? I hear you ask.

Well that comes next.

Sure as Summer follows Spring and rabbits breed like, well, rabbits...

Confession - I was a Sun newspaper Page 3 STUNNAH.

2011-12-05T19:11:00.001Z

I was a Sun newspaper Page 3 stunnah.

There. I’ve said it.

Clearly, I have no shame. Though I do believe that I can justify this sudden and shocking revelation on the basis that my mother has always said Confession Is Good for the Soul.

Ahhhh the memories...(of course, the wags amongst you – those this side of the pond who understand the significance of page 3 – will be saying that should more properly be the mammaries...).

I know, I know, you want an explanation. Maybe even the nitty gritty details...?

Ahhhh, confession may be good for my soul but digression is not so good for you, dear reader, not when there are vital details awaited. In fact, I can feel your irritation with my prevarication...

So....

The story’s true beginning is sometime in June 2002. Perhaps it was the 13^th of June, my birth date, a potential day of excess and rejoicing (at least for me) – though for the record I do accept that the precise date will forever be a matter for joint bemusement.

...WARNING. And before I proceed any further I feel that I must warn the sensitive males amongst my readership. The following contains scenes of a graphic and biological nature. WARNING...

As expected, July followed June, and as usual we decamped en masse and en famille to anywhere but Scotland. In fact it was to an 8 berth caravan in deepest, darkest, slate-mining, miserable Wales – but that doesn’t really matter.

One day, in the middle of that holiday – the holiday that Robert saw, in the raw, my Mothers full moon derriere – the holiday that I forgot to pack any clothes for myself – the holiday that middle boy managed the fantastical feat of pissing a four foot high parabola of wee, hitting his sister who was sitting in the third row of the big car and all whilst I was tanking along the motorway at 90 mph... Yes, it was in the middle of that holiday, whilst miserably chugging through the miserable Welsh countryside in a miserably slow steam train on the way to the utterly damnable and miserable Blaenau Ffestiniog slate mine, that I turned to my husband and said If I didn’t know any better I would think that I were pregnant and that he responded, saying Don’t be so bloody stupid. How could you possibly be pregnant.

Thus are our moments of idle abandon casually forgotten. And so it is that the baby of this house is ostensibly my immaculate conception. Or – speaking somewhat less sacrilegiously – a product perhaps of coital amnesia. The consequence of me, or he, or both actually managing that miraculous feat of procreation whilst deeply asleep.

Fast forward to the pharmacy isle of good ole Tesco’s, sometime in late July 2002 and the purchase of a home-testing kit. Thence to the 3 minute wait for the single blue line to confirm that I was suffering phantom pregnancy symptoms. And to the final twin blue lines screaming loud and clear – Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

I remember Rs face as he peered at the stick.

Eh? Whits this? What? Youve got it wrong. This is faulty. Do another test.

Silence.

How the f*** did that happen?

To which I, disgusted, not-so-calmly responded (shouted really) – well, if you don’t know after 4 wains, you’ll never bloody know.

And if you have read this far, dear reader, you are bemused. Nay, I have conned you. Where are the sordid details of page 3-dom you are pursuing...

Dinnae fash. I’m coming to that. Bear with me. All will be revealed...

(to be continued...)