Lillies

The lillies in the kitchen smell of jasmine, strangely, and every time I get a waft I am taken back to San Pedro de Alcantara in February 2001. It was a hard time back then and life was a minefield to be tiptoed through, so during the February half term we scooped the children up and flew off to San Pedro. Afterwards they told us that the best bit was the lemonade and peanuts on the aeroplane. They had never flown before and aged 7, 4 and 3 didn't grasp the magic of sunlight and warm wind on bare skin in winter. And perhaps they forgot about the terrapin we found on the beach called Terry. And maybe they didn't smell the jasmine.

We stayed in one of those desperate all inclusive compounds, where the red wine is sweet and fizzy and the white wine is just sweet and the coffee seems to lack a vital ingredient. Actually, the entertainment in the evenings lacked something too. I think we only went once, out of curiosity. I remember that the week cost £1,200 for the five of us and neither of us complained about any of it. We were just grateful to be somewhere different. Light in the darkness.

Transformation and the Epiphany

Last night the kitchen transformed into a cyber cafe. Boy 15 sat at one end of the kitchen table, Daughter of Eve, 45 at the other, girl 12 at what used to be the 'art table' on the family PC, and girl 13 curled up on a big leather chair on her Blackberry. The arse fell out of that chair about 5 years ago so it stands in a permanent puddle of hessian and horse hair and it was once heavily patched by me, using UHU and a piece of leather that I found in the garage. My iPod did its usual trick. It lulled us all into peaceful melodic silence playing David Gray and Eva Cassidy and then suddenly threw something really heavy at us just to make sure we were still listening. Darling was next door watching Sharpe DVDs, his Christmas present from Boy 15. And he was wearing the socks I gave him. If he'd given me the iPhone I was after I might have been in there too, but as it was, there was a companionable atmosphere in the kitchen, broken only by occasional laughter or an entreaty to come and look at something on a screen. And I suppose 12 pairs of socks wouldn't really be fair exchange for an iPhone.

I wonder if this calmness comes from knowing that whatever is in the diary cannot be done? Or from David Gray. Or if it's my hormones. Or if it is something else that I don't even know about, an epiphany. I am going to pour myself a glass of wine and ponder that one on the back door step whilst I get some fresh air. I hope I see a shooting star.

Alarm bells ringing.

I woke at 2.30am to the noise of the barn alarm going off. I leapt out of bed, pulled on my mink to cover my nakedness, grabbed the hockey stick, ran down the stairs, pulled on my gum boots, unlocked the backdoor and realised two things. Firstly, it wasn't our alarm, it was the farm across the fields. Secondly I had a hangover. Not good hun... where did that come from? An inventory of the empties suggested that I'd got the Louis Allowance single bottle of dry white to stay down using a litre of Peroni. Well what the hell? Worse things have happened at sea. Rum, buggery and the lash for instance.

Moments later I was fast asleep again, conscience and hangover put back into the box with a triple paracetamol washed down with a Berocca on the rocks.

When I woke for the second time I felt as if I'd been cage fighting all night. Even my teeth felt loose. This must be the after effects of that Pilates class I went to yesterday. They all looked like flakes so how come it hurt me, the tough little yoga bod so much? I mixed another Berocca (can't be too careful) which I promptly knocked over and then had to spend half an hour on my hands and knees mopping up bright orange sticky liquid with bog paper. Today it was important to be fit, be well, be perky and get my children back to their schools, a 200 mile round trip, without showing how much it hurts. I always pray for sunshine on days like this, so I can wear my sunnies.

And then the snows came. We decided after the third snowflake settled that enough was enough and binned the Back To School plan and went for a great walk in the snow. As we walked home, I noticed that next door's cows were singing Meat is Murder by The Smiths. Truly. Listen to it. Maybe the alarm was cattle rustlers over at theirs?

Shooting cans off a shelf at the funfair, in spite of the crooked sights.

This not getting sloshed/applying the brakes mallarkey of my mentor Louis's has some interesting side effects. Firstly, it is truly wierd to lie in bed from 11pm to 2am, not sleeping, but not being that bothered. I remember my asking my Great Aunt ten years ago when she was dying if she would come back and haunt me. She said, no, but when I was curled up foetally in bed and unable to sleep, I should imagine her arms around me. She was a bit gross, physically, so I edit the image and take comfort from the idea.

And then to wake and think logical, ordered thoughts. Odd but good.

During the last few week we have worked out that there would need to be changes. One (which Louis didn't come up with because he is too polite) was that I should do more to help other people and stop being so infinitely selfish. On New Year's Day I received an e-mail asking if I would man the Safety Boat during Sailability sessions at the lake where I sail. Sailability is sailing for the disabled. I agreed very happily. What a great way to help out, zooming about in a speed boat and looking out for other people. One improvement in place.

Secondly, we decided that I should take more care of my muscles and bones and thirdly that I should try and mix with interesting creative people more often and stop sitting downing gallons of wine on my own every evening. Darling and I went out to see friends later on NYD for a Bloody Mary, and within moments of arriving two women I don't know bounced up to me and begged me to join their Pilates class. One was an artist, the other was a writer, and the Pilates teacher is a musician who used to be a rock star. Two and three. Bingo, I think. Bingo, I hope.

I went to Pilates today and managed not to fart or fall over. An improvement on the last six weeks already.

Sunday Roast

I woke with that feeling of impending gloom that comes with the belief that it is Monday morning. And then I remembered we hadn't done Sunday yet, and there was a huge hunk of beef in the fridge waiting for me to come roast. And Uncle and Nephew on their way down from London to visit us. So I went and got tea and snuggled up with my Pete McCarthy book for an hour.

When I finally tore myself away, I realised I hadn't left enough time for all my chores (laundry, logs, lunch) with the additional embuggerance of Getting The Sunday Paper (which no one will read), making a pudding (which I certainly will not eat) and the pleasure of popping down to a neighbour for village bonhomie to fit in. So,I asked Darling to make the ice cream which he is so desirous of - having bought the machine and ingredients. The answer came, 'I am in the middle of doing something, and you are asking me to do something else which I have no interest in'. Me too, and it's the middle of my life. I hate ice cream so much I had 'a note' from Mum at prep school to say I didn't have to eat it. And I loathe gadgets of any sort. I can just about handle a wooden spoon and a sharp knife.

If I sounded bleak yesterday by the way, I am back on it today. No reason to mourn for the loss of approval forever. It isn't how it should have been, but it's not all bad and I am a tough little sod.

So meat was roasted, spuds and 'snips gilded and Yorkshires ready for the off. But by lunchtime itself I begun to doubt to arrival of the rellies. I telephoned and my doubts were confirmed. They had forgotten. So I went to the village party for a preprandial and said hello to the new folk I'd been wanting to meet and kissed or smiled at the others who are all decent and kind and generally OK. I guess I conformed to the rule 'Always leave them wanting more'. I was only there for twenty minutes and I would have been happy to do the full two hours. But I was alone, as ever, and there was lunch to serve back at base camp.

And finally after everyone had used 'their fists and the back of their spoons' (stolen from Pete McCarthy) to ram yet another damn meal down their overstuffed gullets like a flock of foie gras geese, I took the dog out for her pre-birthday walk in the freezing dusk sunlight. The iPod gave me Jem Its Amazing, Sonny J Can't Stop Moving and Labbi Siffre Something Inside So Good. Good call DJ. Tomorrow is Monday and I am sticking to the rules.

January 2nd 2010

We went to my parents. My cousins, nephews and nieces were there. I drank champagne and sat in the garden with my sister. She gave me a product called 'Piss Off' for christmas - it's to wash my wetsuit. I gave her something called 'Bugger off' to keep the midges off. We planned our summer camping holiday together.

Nothing else funny happened.

New Year's Day 2010.

To get the full impact of this one, you will need to download Nina Simone, Feeling Good and play it damn loud.

So Happy New Year (kiss kiss) all round and on we slog. It was a blue moon last night and I didn't get paralytic because I don't really know my hosts intimately enough to go into total free fall. And anyway, I am limbering up for the New Order, remember. We had a good time, I got to suck on a Cohiba and compare two ports, and whilst I didn't grow a beard on the spot I was grateful to be treated like an honorary boy. And, to top it all, we got a lift home which was a relief. Whilst the blue moon was interesting at 8pm going downhill, I suspect it might have lost it's thrall at 1am slogging up a steep hill through woods, quagmires and muddy muddy fields.

I woke early and smug. After all, by normal standards, last night was a quiet night in. I lay in bed and read McCarthy's Bar by the hilarious Pete McCarthy for an hour whilst Darling went off in a hungover huff to chuff on his roll-ups and drink coffee in the garden. But then he made a tactical error. He came in and apologised for being wantonly blind and brutish recently. Dear God, I cannot deal with that level of despair. No one ever surrenders in this warzone. I, in turn disolved into floods and together we hatched a strategy for surviving 2010. It was like a football match in No Man's Land. We made deals, agreed terms, spat on the palms of our hands and shook on it. We left no grievance unaired and touched on some dangerous ground but got through it. We drew the line at cutting open our thumbs and squashing them together though.

And no, this isn't a euphemism for an intimate fireworks party Rupert Garcia you perve. That is what happened.

And I'm feeling good de dum, de dum, de dum.