A Happy Mothers’ Day

by Mothership on May 10, 2009

We are back home again after our long weekend of fire-enforced evacuation, just in time for Mother’s day.

I am pleased to be back in my own bed and very happy to see Husband, the cat and some clean clothes, but I must admit I was enjoying my jaunt to Monterey enormously and felt slightly regretful to be leaving so soon.
By strange coincidence I ran into some friends at the Monterey Aquarium and we tootled around together. Later they rang to invite us to dinner at their home in Carmel which was enormous fun with the little ones playing riotous games and keeping each other entertained  so we grownups could get down to the serious business of drinking margaritas and watching our town burn on Google Earth.

The next day I was graced by an impromptu visit by the lovely Liberty London Girl, passing through on her way down south. This was our first meeting in real life and despite Four falling passionately in love and therefore constantly pestering her with questions, comments, and non-sequiturs, and One running laps around the coffee shop/ throwing himself off stairs or showing off madly by doing his breakdancing moves we actually managed to have a reasonably coherent grownup conversation which I enjoyed enormously despite the interruptions from the peanut gallery. She was lovely to the children and didn’t bat an eyelid at One’s apparent crack habit or at the TERRIBLE FOOTWEAR they were sporting.  The day before, in a moment of weakness, I had allowed them to bully me into buying them matching light-up shoes. They looked at me pleadingly with their big, wide, evacuee eyes and One even strung three words together (“No! Shoes, Mine!”) and I caved. Then they literally jumped for joy for 10 minutes so the shoes would flash over and over like a cheap motel sign. I do need to admit that a small part of me also wants light up shoes because they look really fun but I also think they look like they go with hats that hold beer cans and t shirts with pictures of pro wrestlers on them. I am aware that I am a sartorial joke these days, but I do try, on the whole, to stop my children from looking like trailer trash.

But really, the shoes are an automatic F.

Needless to say, and I’m sure you’d have guessed this if you read her blog, LLG herself looked a picture, particularly in the shoe department with a fab pair of red wedge sandals with matching toenails. Four pointed out to me later, scathingly, that I only had one pair of yucky sneakers and they were dirty. I did say in my defense that I had run away from a fire and I did have more shoes at home.
Yes, she knew, she said, but they were all boring and anyway my feet were old and smelly.

I wonder if there is anywhere one can exchange one’s feet for new ones? Perhaps easier to exchange one’s children..

This week I must wash away the ash from the house and garden, plan Four’s birthday party and most importantly PACK FOR LONDON.

Cannot WAIT.

One thing that LLG said really struck me, and that is that she has made many friends through blogging and Twitter, and that these are through choice and shared interest, rather than circumstance or inheritance. And this made me feel SO much better about all my virtual friends who seem much more real to me than the people around me in Stepford, most of whom I just can’t relate to.  Funnily enough I never thought of meeting any of them in real life because.. well… I don’t know- the internet is weird and full of scary people (like.. me)? I’m a hermit? Wasn’t sure what the protocol was (what a dweeb I am!)?

But now I’m extra excited about my lunch in London with the blogging ladies and I have plans to meet a couple of Twitter friends in LA when I return.

I feel like Sleeping Booty (as Four calls her, how apt) awakening from my 100 year slump-ber.

And as it’s Mother’s day, I am rather hoping that someone will bring me tea in bed.

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Evacuees

by Mothership on May 7, 2009

I was always fascinated by the children who were evacuated from London during WWII, sent into the countryside en-masse and taken in by strangers in villages all over Britain clutching their little gas masks and perhaps a younger sibling’s hand as they left behind everything and everyone they knew, quite possibly forever.
I used to wonder what it would feel like to be sent away from your home and fear never seeing your own bed again, or your parents, your pets and I thought it would be the worst thing in the whole world, even if it was a lovely place that you were sent to.

Watching the Jesusita fire rage in the last few days has been incredibly unnerving and frightening. Husband has been remarkably cool about the whole affair but I have been unable to concentrate on anything much other than think about what to do in case we get the mandatory evacuation order.

I spent almost all of Wednesday opening and closing drawers without removing anything, and looking at – but not packing – my best teapot and signed copies of beloved books. I also lay on the bed with Bagpurrito and thought about how I didn’t want to take him to a shelter because he wouldn’t like it and how all the people who had offered to take us in, in the case of a mandatory evacuation order were allergic to cats. This was such a terrible quandary that I felt completely unable to do anything other than lay there and allow him to comfort me with his gentle, purring presence.
Husband came home on Wednesday evening and we observed the fire going in the opposite direction to our house. This seemed like good news. However that type of thing, we knew, could change in less than an hour as it had that very day and we needed to be ready for anything.

Then all three phones rang at once- his cell, my cell and the land line.

It was the reverse 911 service telling us we were officially on an evacuation warning. This means that you are advised to get ready to go – pack all the essential documents and things you cant bear to lose, and be on standby for a mandatory evacuation order which could come at any time (or not at all, if you’re lucky).
We actually knew this already, but there was something very freaky about having all phones ring simultaneously to tell us the bad news. I felt like a cat with all her hair standing up on end and I couldn’t calm down for hours.
When i woke up this morning there was ash everywhere outside and a warning to keep indoors due to air quality had been issued to the entire city.

How was I going to keep the children indoors for a whole day in the hot weather like this? It wasn’t going to work.

I just wanted to get as far as I could from all of this stress and filth and ash, plus poor Husband was desperately trying to get some work done and we were constantly underfoot whenever he had a moment away from his fire-related duties.
So this morning I decided on the spur of the moment to take the children up the coast to the Monterey Aquarium which they have never seen and we’ll spend a few days here. We are staying in Pacific Grove, which is quite lovely and when we arrived at our hotel room which at first looked like it was going to be pokey and nasty and sort of sub-basementish, we realised that the other side of the room had a huge sliding glass door directly on to a giant stretch of grass that led into a park and there were two DEER nibbling on grass not 100 meters away. Astonishing and delightful. The children were so happy to be there and ran around crazily in the grass. As I put my bag down and rushed out to join them, laughing, I realised that I was starting to relax and that this is a sign of how keyed up the threat of the fire has made me.

I tried to call Husband but my cellphone has no reception here, and eventually I got hold of him on the old fashioned hotel phone (imagine!). He told me that the fire was much closer and he was going to hang up because he was busy packing and trying to get the cat out from under the bed. He thought there was a good chance they’d have to go.

Later on, after I got the children to sleep I checked emails, Facebook and Twitter as well as the news, and we have now been issued the mandatory evacuation. I can’t ring Husband because the little ones are asleep here in the room and he doesn’t Twitter or FB, or even use his email much so I have NO IDEA of where he or the cat might be.

I hope they’re safe.

I’ll drop in with updates on the comments

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Fire Fire! Fire Fire! Pour on Water, Pour on Water,

by Mothership on May 5, 2009

Another brush fire, but this one scarily close. We have been put on evacuation warning, which means that you are not actually obliged to leave your home, but you are strongly advised to seek shelter outside the evacuation area.
Most people take it as a sign to look very hard at everything they have, decide what they really want to take with them in the event of a mandatory order, pack it up, and be ready to go at a moment’s notice. However this might not come for some time, if ever. 

So it’s basically a case of hurry up and wait.

I’ve packed the essential things – the teapot, photographs, paintings, my computers, my nerdy music software, a few beloved books, the children’s teddies etc. and located the important documents like passports, insurance policies, birth certificates and so forth and badgered Husband until he loaded them into the car.  
We bickered pleasantly for a bit over which clothes we thought we should take; all of them (me) or just a pair of socks (him).  We elected to follow our own instincts in the end and I have a giant suitcase and he has .. a pair of socks.
Then we argued, less pleasantly, over whether we should actually go now or wait for the mandatory order. I was in favour of leaving sooner for a friend’s house who had thoughtfully phoned to offer his family’s guest room, but Husband was in favour of staying put as he thought the risk was negligible of the fire reaching us and he thought the children would 
“..think it’ll be fun to go to a shelter in the middle of the night. It will be an adventure!”

I was so appalled by this spectacularly ill considered thought  that I could no longer speak so I just finished my packing and gave in with the caveat that he had to stay up all night and listen to the news on his own, I was going to bed, and that we would not go to a shelter or wake our friends up in the awful case of being evacuated, we’d go to a hotel. Once this was agreed, I felt better and headed off to bed, completely exhausted and desperate for sleep.

Instead of going straight to sleep, though, I Twittered about the fire for an hour, and now I’m writing this.

Very stupid. I really, really hope we are not forced to go. Even more I really hope our house doesn’t get burned down. I can’t bear to think of all we would lose. Not so much because it would cost us money to replace it, but all of the memories that would be lost.
That’s what would really burn me up.

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The Dormouse

by Mothership on May 2, 2009

When I was a child this poem used to reduce me, unfailingly, to fits of uncontrollable weeping.

There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red),
And all the day long he’d a wonderful view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).

A Doctor came hurrying round, and he said:
“Tut-tut, I am sorry to find you in bed.
Just say ‘Ninety-nine’ while I look at your chest….
Don’t you find that chrysanthemums answer the best?”

The Dormouse looked round at the view and replied
(When he’d said “Ninety-nine”) that he’d tried and he’d tried,
And much the most answering things that he knew
Were geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).

The Doctor stood frowning and shaking his head,
And he took up his shiny silk hat as he said:
“What the patient requires is a change,” and he went
To see some chrysanthemum people in Kent.

The Dormouse lay there, and he gazed at the view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue),
And he knew there was nothing he wanted instead
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).

The Doctor came back and, to show what he meant,
He had brought some chrysanthemum cuttings from Kent.
“Now these,” he remarked, “give a much better view
Than geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).”

They took out their spades and they dug up the bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red),
And they planted chrysanthemums (yellow and white).
“And now,” said the Doctor, “we’ll soon have you right.”

The Dormouse looked out, and he said with a sigh:
“I suppose all these people know better than I.
It was silly, perhaps, but I did like the view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).”

The Doctor came round and examined his chest,
And ordered him Nourishment, Tonics, and Rest.
“How very effective,” he said, as he shook
The thermometer, “all these chrysanthemums look!”

The Dormouse turned over to shut out the sight
Of the endless chrysanthemums (yellow and white).
“How lovely,” he thought, “to be back in a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red.)”

The Doctor said, “Tut! It’s another attack!”
And ordered him Milk and Massage-of-the-back,
And Freedom-from-worry and Drives-in-a-car,
And murmured, “How sweet your chrysanthemums are!”

The Dormouse lay there with his paws to his eyes,
And imagined himself such a pleasant surprise:
“I’ll pretend the chrysanthemums turn to a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)!”

The Doctor next morning was rubbing his hands,
And saying, “There’s nobody quite understands
These cases as I do! The cure has begun!
How fresh the chrysanthemums look in the sun!”

The Dormouse lay happy, his eyes were so tight
He could see no chrysanthemums, yellow or white.
And all that he felt at the back of his head
Were delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).

And that is the reason (Aunt Emily said)
 If a Dormouse gets in a chrysanthemum bed,
 You will find (so Aunt Emily says) that he lies
 Fast asleep on his front with his paws to his eyes.

I identified very keenly with the poor Dormouse who only wanted to be left in peace in his beautiful garden and I was completely undone by the colonial arrogance of the dreaded Doctor who was determined to improve the lot of the poor, hapless rodent without any regard for his preference or the simple needs of his gentle furry soul.
I have loathed chrysanthemums ever since (such a vulgar flower, anyway, reeking of late-night forecourts and last minute, desperate mixed bunch guilt) and for several years running I cultivated a bed of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue) in my London garden in honor of the Dormouse. He never came to live there in person, but I believe his spirit dozed there happily on warm afternoons amongst the blooms.

I have been thinking about the Dormouse a great deal over the last few weeks, and reading the poem to Four, quite often having to stop to wipe away a tear or two before continuing. She is very curious and wants to know 

“WHY does the Doctor want to dig up the flowers?”

Because he thinks he knows better

“But WHY doesn’t the Dormouse say no?”

Because he thinks the Doctor might know better, and he does not feel brave enough to disagree.

“But WHY, if he didn’t like it, doesn’t he just go to another flower bed?”

Um. I don’t know. Good question. Maybe he was too scared to look? Or too sleepy?

“That’s silly. I would look. I don’t want to be asleep all my life” 

Oh.. No.  Me neither.

But I have been asleep. 

Like the Dormouse in the ‘mums (surely no coincidence in that name!) and Dorothy in the poppies (the California state flower!) I have been in a quiet Stepford stupor for an indecently long period and have almost forgotten who I was before I came here.

But fortunately I have not completely forgotten. And Four is not my daughter for nothing.

I am awake now, and have decided to take myself off for a change of scenery. I shall be viewing some delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red) at the end of the month on a very long overdue trip back to London ON MY OWN.

I am so excited I can hardly sit still. 

There were so many reasons I need to go back this year: a wedding, a christening, aging grandparents, a house that needs attention, friends, family, boring administrative matters to handle, banks to shout at, bluebells to look at, walks to take, tea to drink, critical shopping to do,getting my hair fixed properly, the list goes on.. None of them, however, managed to get me off my bottom and actually book the flight. Mostly because I kept on thinking about bringing the children. EOS. It only occurred to me on Friday that I could LEAVE THEM BEHIND and go off on my own. 

Duh.

Funnily enough it was a casual invitation to lunch with a group of people I don’t actually know that made me go “Oh fuck it, why not?” and reach for the credit card.

Yes, that feels MUCH more like me.

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It’s all about Meme

by Mothership on May 1, 2009

Even more contagious than Swine Flu are the memes floating around the blogosphere, and I have been tagged by the lovely Jo at SoapBox Mummy with a list of questions. 

I am not sure you really want to know the answers to them, but hey, it’s Friday night and you might not have a babysitter or anything on telly to watch, so you can glance through the answers and learn all sorts of things you never knew which will take up valuable space in your brain, but probably not for long, if you’re anything like me, so that’s some kind of consolation, no?
Here goes.

Oh, by the way, one of the things about this is that I have to infect 6 other people at the end of it so if you’re a blogger who comes here a lot, there is a chance I’m going to give you cooties.

1. What are your current obsessions?
 Do you think that my new, incredibly expensive skincare regime, sold to me by the creepy dermatolagist, Dr. Slime, which promises to rid me of sun damage and fine lines in 6 – 12 weeks is actually working?
I know I’m on week 3 so it’s too early to tell, right?  I am peeling like a reptile so that is probably progress, isn’t it?  Is it? I’d better go and check in the mirror…
But do I look any younger/clearer skinned? You can’t tell? Oh okay….
….But do you think I look better or worse than when I started?
Should I carry on and see it through? I looked it up on the internet and it said to suck it up and carry on but I am worried. Oh? You think I should follow the directions and not worry. Yes, you’re  probably right. But anyway, do I look reasonably okay, not too awful? Darling? Darling? Are you asleep?  Hello?

2. Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often?
Is it:
a) a ballgown fashioned of gossamer and fairy dust

b) whatever is on the top of the laundry basket

c) my dance clothes as I am in class 3 or 4 times a week

(hint: it is probably not the first answer)

3. Last dream you had?
Had terrifying dream involving car crashes, dead children and careless drivers on bridges. Had to wake Husband, I was so upset (blame antibiotics, totally gruesome)

4. Last thing you bought?
Purchased black cat costume on internet for Four who has outgrown the last one that she has worn for every single dressing up occasion since she was two. She turns 5 in a couple of weeks and is planning, predictably, to dress up as…a black cat at her birthday party. At $16.99 I am getting extremely good mileage out of these costumes.

5. What are you listening to?
The ticking of the clock, purring of the cat
My thoughts across the keyboard, ratatatat

6. If you were a god/goddess who would you be?
Look, I’m here aren’t I? What more could you ask?

7. Favourite holiday spots?
In the bush in Africa. Set me free upon the earth and let me roam.

8. Reading right now?
For the umpteenth time ‘The Blind Assasin’ Margaret Atwood, ‘Peace is Every Step’ Thich Nhat Hanh, ‘Hot, Flat and Crowded’, Thomas L Friedman, ‘Five Children and It’ E Nesbit.

9. Four words to describe yourself.
Irreverent, funny, complex, thinker

10. Guilty pleasure?
Mind is blank. Usually quite upfront and shameless about bad habits.

11. Who or what makes you laugh until you’re weak?
My mother can reduce me to tears of hysterical laughter just by looking at me in a certain way, usually in a situation where we are not supposed to laugh. I am prone to getting the giggles at inopportune moments and she is the mistress of setting me off. It usually ends with both of us falling on the floor, writhing and frothing at the mouth unable to speak. 

12. Favourite spring thing to do?
We went on a family picnic to see the incredible spectacle of purple lupines and orange California poppies on the mountainside a few weeks ago. It was quite breathtaking and is becoming an annual tradition.

13. When you die, what would you like people to say about you at your funeral?
Wow, she lived a REALLY long time, and everyone loved her SO much! And she never looked a day over 30, that was quite extraordinary…

14. Best thing you ate or drank lately?
I ate three slices of very buttery marmite toast with a giant pot of earl grey tea, followed by a packet of Cadbury’s chocolate fingers. This is nothing to you, but for me, stuck in STEPFORD, far far away from all things home, it was pure bliss.

15. When did you last go for a night out?
A couple of weeks ago I went to dinner with a friend. Since then we have been battling various boring viruses. Not that it’s a hotbed of scintillating nightlife here, or anything.

16. Favourite ever film?
“This Is Spinal Tap”.  It’s so real.

17. Care to share some wisdom?
“The morning is wiser than the evening.”

18. Song you can’t get out of your head?
Whatever I have been working on lately thrums around my head and will not leave, but usually it separates itself into different parts (snare pattern, backing vocals, synth line etc). Can be maddening.

19. Thing you are looking forward to?
I am greatly looking forward to my headache going away, my hair being its rightful colour again (see previous posts for agonising drama) and to my seeing my children when they get home from school.

20. If money were no object, which shoe designer would you wear?
I don’t think I would like to wear a shoe designer. I would prefer to wear shoes.

Rules of the game. Respond and rework. Answer questions on your own blog. Replace one question. Add one question. Tag 6 people.

You’re it:

Razor Kitty

Cranky is the New Perky

Noble Savage

Not Wrong Just Different

Supply and Demands

It’s not just me is it


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Quickie

by Mothership on April 30, 2009

So, my lovely snot-nosed hacking cough invited its second cousin sinusitis to stay this week and I have been feeling completely dreadful, thus the lack of posts. Anyway, you probably haven’t noticed due to the amazing number of carnival entries which made for a week of fabulous reading. I intend to put something vaguely intelligible down as soon as my horse-pill antibiotics (and no doubt accompanying thrush) kick in.

Last week I wrote a post for Bambino Goodies in which I confessed what a complete and utter HYPOCRITE I am. 

I now wish I hadn’t sent it in as I have actually been saved from this particular trip by swine flu – it’s good for something, I suppose -and none of you would know how incredibly two-faced I am, at least in regards to my own values.

However, it’s up , so you can go over and guffaw at my expense. Poor Four. Just when her mother had softened her stance, a bloody pandemic comes along and ruins her life..

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Carnival Time!

by Mothership on April 27, 2009

I briefly considered doing something clever to kick off this British Mummy Bloggers carnival, but after the incredible rhyming couplets of MTJAM last time there was really only one way to go and that was for a despairing lie-down while I broodily contemplated my anticipated failure over a cup of tea and the remainder of Four’s Easter egg stash (shh!, don’t TELL on me!).

I brightened somewhat after reading my way through all of your fabulous posts, though and distracted myself from my lack of Shakespearean iambic pentameterbility by listing them all in an orderly fashion and linking them all up properly – Good Grief! It’s almost like… WORK! Reeling from the shock..

I encourage you to visit all of these fabulous blogs and add them to your blogroll.
Some will make you laugh out loud, some will make you weep, some will make you think about things you had not considered before, but all of them will enrich your day in some way. They are listed in the order they turned up, in case anyone is wondering, and the posts themselves are marked with an asterisk.

I’m being VERY UNSPORTING and highlighting my own post first. You don’t have to look at it, of course. The virus I’ve cleverly embedded which will detonate if you try to read any others before mine *might* not take over your hard drive and give you a nasty case of cystitis. It’s entirely up to you, I won’t hold it against you if you don’t look..  
MTFF: Inspiration Station

Muddling Along Mummy thinks that home births rock, but more importantly, we should all have the *right to choose where we give birth

MTJAM will have you literally wetting yourselves (kegels, anyone?) with her hilarious post *is there sex after babies? Warning: this piece contains uncomfortable visual imagery you may not be able to rid yourself of afterwards. I keep thinking about certain Harry Potter character’s clothes. That’s all I’m saying.

Cranky is the New Perky takes us on a fashion catwalk down memory lane as she does *Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

Amy from And 1 more means Four is reminded of how it feels to be *17 again in this nostalgic, romantic post 

Cassandra at Jacob Wrestling is a girl after my own heart on the Easter Egg front as she explains in this post *Elephantine

Potty Mummy is puzzling over how her boys learned, without any outside lessons, to get so, well, boyish.. *Of Slugs and Snails

Little Mummy is getting ready to go on a Magical Trip to Disneyworld without her little one, and is feeling a little strange about it..

A Modern Mother thinks that she’s Losing It!  (don’t worry, Susanna, my entire wardrobe is like that)

Nappy Valley Girl has been skiing with her family and tells us *how to prepare for the slopes..or not

Over at Are we nearly there yet Mummy, Laura’s four year old grapples with *the word ‘wee’ & its multiple uses, and also loving tadpoles 

Nixd Minx  goes in search of a room with a view in *Ciao Ciao Bling Bling, Hello London

Cavemother ponders* what apes can teach us, and if our babies would just learn to sit up, crawl and walk without hothousing?

Clare at It’s Not Just Me, Is It? has made some great new friends recently. And if you don’t really understand it, she tells us Twitter – it’s a girl thing

Guinea Pig Mum wrote this very moving and thoughtful post:   *On friends. I tried to write something to sum it up, but really, you should read her words. Beautiful.

Violet Posy gives us some  *Small Gardening tips – a thing of beauty and bevy of helpful hints, her blog is!

Maternal Tales takes her kids on a banyard outing and reflects on how different childbirth is for us: *Childbirth and Sheep Farms

Over at Alpha Mummy, Caitlin Moran brings us a hilarious piece on a *Weekend away from the kids with the kids.  I think that says it all.

Rebel Mother tells us a touching and informative story about autism – a must read:  *Ollys Tale

Amanda at Glamumous lends 10 Thrifty Style Tips for Mummies on a Budget

Sarah at SchoolGate is *feeling sad about her son starting school, even though it’s months away (I know how she feels, SOB! Four starts in the fall too)

Time Management Mum introduces us to an *ahem* intimate product we just can’t live without -or can we? *For the woman who has everything

At Raising Kids, Charlotte Moerman *Has a cunning idea this week

The very lovely Dulwich Divorcee muses over GBH and amour in *Puppy Love

Raving Mary temporarily loses her husband to his other lover – she’s*Tired of using technology

Mummy Do That tells us all about raising bilingual kids in *One child two languages   (my husband should read this! He’s FAILED with ours)

WAHM discusses *Parenting Choices, how we make, change and defend them in this intelligent and well thought out post. I wish all of mine had been good. Ahem.

Moments from Suburbia gets asked some VERY awkward questions about sex – *Well you did ask!

And last, but MOST DEFINITELY NOT LEAST, we have  daddy blogger (but honorary BritMumBlogger)

Tim Atkinson at Bringing Up Charlie with a CONTEST, so get on over there and WIN:  *Dead Giveaway


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Creative Recovery – By the Book

by Mothership on April 24, 2009

Some of you may have noticed that I have not posted all week.

This is partly due to the fact that I caught a disgusting and miserable cough/streaming snot combo from One and also because I found myself at the bottom of a pit of creative despair so deep that I could barely reach the keys of my computer when I stood on tiptoe and scrabbled around the edges.
It’s not that I haven’t been here before. I have. I have the occasional stumple-trip into the odd pothole of ennui before dusting myself off and gamely carrying on, but this time I had to admit to myself that it just wasn’t going to get any better without some outside assistance.

I have been a practising artist for most of my adult life. From the point where I managed to escape the confines of my family of origin (do you know it took me YEARS to work out that that was what FOO was in Foo Fighters – duh!) I pursued a creative life as a singer, composer and lyricist, eventually finding the commercial and financial success I longed for and moving in circles where I was surrounded by other interesting people of all bents and persuasions.
This was all good for a while, but then I became disillusioned with the music industry and decided to work as a freelance composer which only worked up to a point as I didn’t really have the impetus to go out and get loads of work and I was getting a bit lonely sitting at home. Also, dare I say it, I was getting a bit bored of writing music. I’d been doing it for so long that I didn’t feel that any new parts of my brain were being challenged.
Around this time I met Husband, who is not an artist, he is a scientist. He is very sensible and logical. I felt I needed to step up to the plate in some way. I arbitrarily decided that it might be time to get a ‘proper’ job, having never had a salary of any kind or worked for anyone else, so I subsequently got one.
It was HELL, I tell you. Pure hell.
I am not cut out for the 9-5 of life, and even though it was actually quite a good job, as they go, and I miraculously was given money to buy a recording studio and write music for the company and nobody ever checked if I was actually in the building (usually, I wasn’t), it put a severe dent in my sense of self and in some ways I have never recovered. After leaving, I set up my own company doing the same sort of thing I’d done for the job and this, astonishingly, made huge amounts of money in a very short time, and perhaps I would be doing this still if it were not for the fact that Husband was suddenly offered his dream job in Stepford, CA and we had three weeks to decide if we should go for it or not.

We flew over in mid February and had a look at the beautiful, sunny campus with offices overlooking the beach. The town was beautiful, no litter, everyone smiled, I could wear a summer clothes the whole year round and they even had a Saks 5th Avenue which seemed slightly implausible for a town of that size, but I wasn’t arguing.

They offered him the job. Should we go?

He wanted to. I hesitated.

The clincher: A baby.
We’d been married six months and I’d been hoping we’d have a child sooner rather than later and here would be the perfect place, the perfect timing.
Everything perfect, perfect, perfect.

Okay, let’s go.

So I left behind my friends, my family, my house, my business, my contacts, my life. 

I also, seemingly, left behind my creativity.

For the past five years, Christ, FIVE YEARS, I have felt myself digging that pit I mentioned in the first paragraph.

It’s not that I have done anything creative. I have written two film scores, written quite a bit of advertising music, learned to dance hiphop, started a blog, started a book (ok, still on page 1, admittedly) and done various other bits and pieces, but especially since I had One, who is nearly two now, I have pretty much lost the sense of myself that identifies me primarily as an artist, a creative, and I spend quite a bit of time muttering resentfully about being ‘wife and mother’ and loathing the duties that come with that.
In my clearer moments I can see that I am not only missing out on myself and my creative essence, but I am also missing out on some of the pleasures of my small children because I’m so fucking pissed off about how I ended up in this impotent and miserable position.  And poor Husband is at a total loss as to how to help as he really just wants to deliver scientific solutions and his constructive suggestions are more likely to send me into an uncontrollable rage than to ease my pain.

But

As I think I’m at the bottom now, I have remembered the good news which is that the only way is back up.

And in a timely fashion I suddenly remembered the last time I felt this completely, terribly, utterly, creatively SHITTY and spent, and that right at that moment a man who I hardly knew gave me a book which changed my life.

I, in turn, have been giving this book to friends and strangers for over fifteen years and recommending it to anyone who will listen, who might possibly find it useful (and really, anyone can find it useful)

It’s called The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.

It’s sort of a cross between a 12 week course and a self-help book and a recovery book and a comfort book.  I had never seen anything like it when I first read it and although I was a cynical, resistant, fearful, angry, hurt, and desperate young woman, it cut through all that rubbish and as I worked through the exercises week after week,  I found my life turned around to such a point that I went from a blocked, wounded wannabe musician to a successful, happy, productive, open and joyous artist in a remarkably short space of time. It was, in a way, like magic. Funnily enough, I didn’t really expect it to work. I almost didn’t want it to. I just did the suggested exercises to spite the author, to prove that she was wrong and then I would really be able to curl up in despair like the tortured soul that I was.

Thankfully I was wrong and she was right.

When I had my children, though, I sort of lost my path. I forgot to adhere to the disciplines that I had learned and practised for so long, to nurture and care for my creative self, to look after and cherish that spark within me that needs to be watched over like another of my children, my first child, if you will.
Unsurprisingly, I suppose, I am finding myself behaving and thinking not a million miles away from that miserable, cynical girl of years gone by, before a kindly stranger gave her his own copy of the book. This time, though, I just needed to pull it from the shelf and decide to give myself the gift of a 12 week course in creative recovery.
I started this morning.

I’ll be setting my alarm to get up before the kids every day so I can write my morning pages (curious as to what they are or why you need them? GET THE BOOK!) and I am going to make the time to do the tasks each week and take myself out alone, without appendages, for a little excursion just to suit myself. I’m even going to see if there is anyone in my town doing the book right now: Thanks to the internet you can find groups all over the world who are doing the book together, this was not the case when I first started it.

At any rate, I have high hopes for myself, and even this is a sign that something has shifted.

For any of you who are feeling just the tiniest bit creatively blocked, thwarted, fatalistic, cynical, jealous of other artists, angry or just a bit hacked off. I cannot recommend this book enough. And keeping it a secret is even better -like having a lover nobody knows about, except that lover is the person you dream of becoming.

Once again. The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.

I’ll be reporting back.

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Disney Cashing In? Surely not!

by Mothership on April 20, 2009

I read today that Disney is releasing their first princess movie in over a decade and it will be making history by featuring their very first black princess.

How very shrewd of them, and how timely.

It is called The Princess and the Frog (a reworking of the classic fairy tale The Frog Prince )*, set in New Orleans in the 1920’s.  

Here’s the plot:
A prince named Naveen from the land of Maldonia,is transformed into a frog by the evil scheming voodoo magician Dr. Facilier. The frog prince asks a waitress named Tiana to break the spell by kissing him. However, the kiss doesn’t break the spell but rather makes Tiana a frog, as well. Together the two of them must reach the good voodoo priestess of the Bayou, Mama Odie, while befriending a trumpet-playing alligator and a hopelessly romantic firefly along the way.  

Warning!! SPOILER ALERT!!

Apparently, in the end Tiana will get to have both her career and her handsome prince.
Hurrah for progress, you CAN have it all!

My first thought is to wonder, anxiously,  if she’s set to lose at least one of them following the crash of ’29 and the subsequent depression, but probably not, because this is a fairy tale and they are going to live happily ever after despite racial discrimination, the terrible floods of ’37 and no breath of a civil rights movement for nearly forty years.

*I would like to point out that in the original Frog Prince, the heroine throws the frog against the wall with great force, she doesn’t kiss him, and it is that action causes him to turn into a prince. I WISH I had got that memo when I was a child, it would have saved me quite a few skanky boyfriends, but I digress..

I am trying very hard not to be hugely cynical about this post Obama move (surely no coincidence that this is also the year that black Barbie comes out?) and not see it merely as a giant KERCHIIINGGG! opportunity for Walt and co. to bring millions of people of colour the world over into the Disney marketing fold.

Yes, trying, but largely failing.

I am sure that it is hugely meaningful for African American girls to have some kind of fantasy princess representation out there in the mainstream culture where they have been sidelined for so long. However I so loathe the genre and all they stand for that I am wondering why this was the gift we had to give to this generation of children?

I don’t believe that a Disney film has the primary motive of teaching our little girls morality and ragtime, nor do I think that it’s from a noble place of historic significance that they decided to make Tiana African American.  You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to work out that the Obamas did their free market research for them..

“Why yes, I think the American public might be ready to accept a black princess, now and spend some coin on it.. What do you think, guys, now that every woman in the country is having secret fantasies about sex with Barack and Michelle is on the cover of People Magazine and Vogue and all..?”

The Frog Princess is undoubtedly going to be a box office smash, as all the princess films are, but far more importantly for the Disney cash registers it is going to sell untold billions in related merchandise to a market that will suddenly feel related to and embraced for the first time by Uncle Walt (who may be perceived by now to be more All-American than Uncle Sam himself.)

So, that will be several billion tons of Tiana sippy cups, acrylic ballgowns, plastic crowns, talking frogs,  t-shirts, bikes, balls, stickers, colouring books, pencils, chicken noodle soup, beach towels, earrings, crackers, fruit roll ups, knickers, diapers, etc. which will spend a short time with another little princess before it becomes landfill in a kingdom far away.

But that part is not Disney’s problem.

That part will be our little princesses’ problem when they are bigger and not living so happily ever after.

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Laughing all the way to the Bank

by Mothership on April 17, 2009

Recently the financial sector has gotten some bad press.

There have been some people who took a few gazillions more than they should and scuppered a few retirement plans, it’s true, but I’m sure that they felt bad while they were doing it.  At least they probably did when they weren’t busy shopping for designer suits or having sex with beautiful Russian teenagers.  They probably didn’t have time to feel too terrible when they were working out the clever rationalising algorithms that enabled us to borrow the noose to hang the stability of our children’s futures, but now that we’ve sent them off to retire to the Bahamas on their government sponsored golden handshakes they’ll have plenty of time to reflect and feel remorseful, I’m certain of it.

But they’re not all greedy, thieving bastards, you know! Try to remember that for the most part they are an honest group of charming people who are only trying to prevent the constant wear and tear on our mattresses that keeping our salaries under them would surely cause. They charge us astronomical sums for seemingly nonsensical administrative matters for our own good.
We all need to learn a little responsibility with our money (B. Madoff excluded, naturally).

Some people consider the financial sector to be a dry and dull group of people.

I contest this.
Banks have an enormous sense of good, old fashioned fun and love nothing more than the jolly jape of a practial joke! We all love a wheeze of this nature, and if you can’t take it, well, you’re just an old stick in the mud!

I’m going to tell you a little story that is sure to have you rolling in the aisles (and goodness knows we all need a chuckle in these uncertain times)

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bank..

The Client has been customer of a certain High Street bank for twenty years (since infancy, you understand).

Whilst there have been times in the distant past that she was perhaps not quite the darling of Rushey Green, we must acknowledge that these early years were due to the folly of youth and the unavoidable period that a fledgling artist must spend slaving in a garret, partaking of the frugal, yet nourishing, cuisine du DHSS.

Menu du Jour

Pan-continental noodles boiled in their own plastic pot
cooled with organic Thames Valley water

followed by

Smoked infusion of Morrocan Black & Marlborough Light in a handmade paper casing

**

Nescafe

 However, for well over a decade now, there has been a steady stream of respectable income interspersed with a few spectacular spikes into the business account, the latter causing The Client to be telephoned personally by her branch manager with thanks for her continued patronage. Shocking but true.

In the mid 2000’s The Client moved for an unspecified period of time to another country and time zone. Prior to leaving she informed the bank and enquired as to how she would be able to move Sterling to her new US bank account. Irritatingly, the new-fangled internet banking would obstinately not allow international transfers as it does not believe that anywhere beyond the boundaries of Great Britain should exist (fair point, but still..)

The bank manager assured her she could access her funds almost instantly by faxing a request, they would keep an authorisation on file,  or by telephoning the branch, they were very happy to help, thank you for not taking your money away from us and out of the country etc.

This was where the fun began! 

Once the client was safely out of the country, the bank immediately changed all of its phone numbers to 0800 or 0845 numbers so that nobody outside of the UK could telephone them. In addition they elected to assign “Business Managers” or BM‘s to anyone who held a business account with them. These BM‘s would then exclusively be in charge of all financial transactions between their assigned clients and the bank and would, theoretically, make themselves available via mobile telephone during normal office hours of 11am – 2pm GMT (minus lunch hour, of course). In order to qualify for this position within the bank they would have to be a maximum of 12 years old, have an IQ of 87 or below and it would be mandatory to skip the customer service training workshop or know how to dial international numbers.

To make sure things don’t get too dull and predictable, the bank also enjoys switching BM‘s on clients every six months or so without actually informing them of the change in personnel, so when a client tries to call or fax about their account they are met with a disconnected line. Boy, we’d love to see their faces when that happens in this economy!

Priceless!

From here, we invite you to take your seat at the Theatre of the Absurd.
Don’t be shy, we could all do with an evening out.

Shh! The curtain is rising!

Enter The Client

Deciding that it is time, once again, to transfer some money to the USA, she searches through her files and uncovers details for the last BM that she has details for and pens a letter requesting a sum be sent to her US bank.
Dusting off the antiquated fax machine and plugging it in she feeds the paper in, which is digested rather poorly and with not a few grumbles. Eventually, after half an hour and considerable swearing, it goes through. Several days pass. No money appears.
The Client phones the mobile number for her BM only to find it, alarmingly, disconnected. Hunting through the website of NutFest Bank, she finds the one telephone number that is accessible from overseas for lost or stolen cards.. In desperation she rings. After being on hold for 20 minutes listening to the soundtrack from Hell’s waiting room and some arguing back and forth, she is put through to Customer Service (CS)  in a call center in Birmingham

Client:  Hello, I am calling from California and I am trying to find out who my Business Manager is and why my request for fund transfer has not been responded to.  Can you help?

CS: Who is your Business Manager? 

Client: That is MY question for YOU. I do not know as the last one has had their phone disconnected and I cannot call my branch. 0800 and 0845 numbers do not work from the USA.

CS: Call your branch, they can help. Here is the number 0845..

Client: Um, I think I just said that I can’t call 0845 numbers from overseas. Do you have another number for them?

CS: No. But you can ring them on 0845…

Client: Ok, let me explain. I CANNOT ring them on that, it is not physically possible. Can you tell me who my business manager is?

CS: Let me look…Yes. Her name is Idiot Mc Idiot and her mobile is 0785 ….. and her fax number is 0208 …

Client then rings the BM who, of course,does not answer and leaves three messages on three consecutive days explaining that she has resent the fax to the correct number, please telephone and confirm that the fax has arrived and the funds have been sent. 
No money arrives. No call comes. Nada.
Once again, phone call center in Hades:

Client: Hello, I am calling from California. 0800 and 0845 numbers do not work from the USA. Can you please put me through to the supervisor of Idiot McIdiot, my Business Manager? I would like to make a complaint.

CS: Yes, the number is 0845..

Client: No, as I said I cannot dial that number. Can you put me through or give me a mobile number?

CS: We don’t have a mobile number for that person. I can’t put you through either as it’s in the business center which is in Richmond (???)

Client: Can you tell me who it is?

CS: It’s JR Hartley and he’s on holiday, fly fishing.

Client: Is there anyone in the entire bank who can actually be spoken to about sending me my own money? I am now fairly annoyed that you are assigning incompetents to ‘look after’ me who seem to specialise in avoiding phone calls and not doing their job.

CS: Why don’t you telephone your branch and speak to your branch manager? The phone number is 0845…

Client: I. Can’t. Dial. 0845. or.0800. Numbers. From. Here.

CS: I completely understand your frustration, Madam, and I totally comprehend your problem. Why don’t you speak to our Customer Complaints line? I’ll give you their number. 

Client: Oh, can you wait a second? I just need to get a pen… Ok, ready:

CS: Ok, it’s 0845… Hello? Is there a problem, Madam? Madam? Hello? It’s 0845 0800 0845 0800..

Curtain closes on Client stabbing self to death with blue biro. Audience claps and cheers wildly and compares playwright to Ionesco/Sartre in bar afterwards. NutFest Bank sponsors transfer of production to NYC.

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