Car

PostingEaster break

MelroseEasterMarch2008019_Small.JPGSo, our Easter break in the Scottish Borders. First, the good bits: daffodils, teashops, time with husband and child, ruined abbeys, Easter eggs (Beanie's egg is pictured left) and cherry cake. Plus I managed to drive us there and back - a big deal for me, as I must be one of the most timid drivers in Scotland. And the bad bits? Freak weather conditions: hailstorms and snow. Va-vay and I arguing about the route. And about my driving. And - worst bit - a group of fifty 10-year-old boys invading our youth hostel on Saturday night, banging on the door of our family room, rattling the door handle and shouting at us, forcing Va-vay, Beanie and me to flee in terror to a local hotel at 9pm. Though in a way, moving to the hotel was one of the good bits, because it (unlike the hostel) had central heating, lavender toiletries, coal fires, wood panelling, good cheer, tranquillity, attentive but unobtrusive staff, ensuite bathrooms, a television and top-notch bedding. I will never take any of these for granted again. Not after Schoolboy Saturday. And yesterday, Va-vay came home bearing a new piece of geekery - a Sat Nav system for the car to avoid further map-reading arguments. He has already had hours of fun programming it and is now talking excitedly about future trips. I should have known the way to win him round to driving was via technology. I had best get back to my (paid) work to find funds to pay for it all.

Posted 25 March 2008 12:08 | Number of comments: 10 | Comments

Activities Car Holidays

PostingSomething in the air

One of the worst things about being an 'older' mum is the humiliation of being disabused of this fantasy that I am competent at the business of life. Having a daughter at the age of 38 has pushed me in new and uncomfortable directions. Take driving, for example. Before Beanie arrived I didn't drive. I never needed a car and I never much fancied having one. It didn't matter that I was a bad driver.

Now I need wheels to ferry Beanie around town. The problem is that I am still rubbish at driving. Actually, no, that's unfair, I'm being too hard on myself. I'm a reasonably good driver, though a bit slow. It's parking that's the problem. On the way home the other day I attempted to find a parking space in our street. No luck. So Beanie and I drove round in circles until I spied a small space in a lane next to a large stone wall. I tried and tried and tried and tried and tried and tried to park. Into reverse. Cue grinding of machinery. Back into first. Edge forward a few inches. Grind the gear back back down into reverse. And so on. The air stank of some vile mechanical malfunction.

As I craned my neck back to see where I was reversing I met Beanie's alarmed gaze. "Don't worry, Beanie, Mummy knows what she's doing," I lied. She wasn't fooled. I wedged the car so close to the wall the wing mirror was brushing against lichen and stone. I could feel the sweat trickling down my arms. Then a man appeared at my window. He seemed like a good guy, so I wound down the window. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Can I help?" You know that way when you've been holding tears at bay and a moment of unexpected kindness makes them flood out? Well, I started to cry. "I can't do this," I said. "Are you trying to park or to get out?" he asked. "To park," I snuffled, as I noticed for the first time a group of people standing around watching my parking, looks of concern on their faces. I was half in and half out but couldn't move either way. "That's my car behind you," he said, and I thought, "Oh my God, I really hope I haven't scratched it." He must have seen the look on my face because he said: "No, don't worry, it's fine. Would you like me to move my car? Would that make it easier?" So he moved his car, but somehow by then I'd lost all confidence so I still couldn't park. Then the man said: "Would you like me to park your car for you?" And I said "Yes, please. Would you mind? Thank you". As he got in the car it crossed my mind this might be some ploy to steal Beanie from me and I said: "You won't drive off with my daughter, will you?" He said: "Oh my goodness, I hadn't realised you had a baby in the back." But he came across as a nice, trustworthy chap, and the onlookers appeared to know him, so I decided it was okay to let him park the car.

I got out and chatted to a couple of other people who'd come out of their houses. In different circumstances it would have been quite nice to meet the neighbours, but my legs were still shaky and I felt at a bit of a disadvantage after the fiasco they'd just witnessed. "Quite a smell of clutch fluid, isn't there?" said one, conversationally. "Is the clutch slipping?" I wouldn't even have known that was the smell and didn't know what he meant by 'clutch slipping' but nodded and rolled my eyes. I haven't felt that helpless and girly since I was a teenager. Beanie looked completely unpeturbed in her throne in the back as the neighbour reversed out with her. She looked less hassled with him than when I was trying to park, in fact. And the job was done in a couple of minutes. The next day, though, when I went back to check on the car there was still a smell of clutch fluid in the air.

Posted 19 February 2008 16:36 | Number of comments: 30 | Comments

Angst Car Daughter Home Older mother Buses

PostingTake to the hills

ChristmasandHarlaw2007061_Small.JPG Edinburgh residents reading this will know about the beauty of the Pentland Hills that surround the city to the south, guarding it in a semi-circle of heather, hill, reservoir and woodland that gives views stretching over the town to the sea beyond. It is easy to forget Edinburgh is a coastal town, coming to a halt at the water's edge, perhaps because the weather does so little to encourage a trip to the seaside. Yet out on the hills, the city looks like an island or peninsula, lapped by water.

Before we bought a car earlier this year, we had limited means of getting out to the hills. On one occasion we resorted to taking a taxi to the start of a walk, dressed in walking boots, fleeces and gaiters (buses didn't go there). It reminded me of a journalist who boasted he had to take a taxi to the front line of a war somewhere in Africa. I forget where exactly. Hope he was still able to claim on expenses.

Now we have the noble beast, we drove out to Harlaw Reservoir under our own steam. I still find driving stressful, almost a year after buying the car, but there doesn't seem much alternative if we're to go anywhere interesting.

We waited inside the car until all the dogs barking and milling about the carpark had moved on. I'm useless with dogs. Beanie used to love them; now I fear I've passed my phobias onto her. She gets nervous too.

Beanie travelled in a backpack carried by her father. We managed a full circuit of the reservoir, overseen by the charred hulk of Black Hill (501m), whose blackened slopes are the result of 'muirburn'.

We spotted greylag and pink-footed geese, that roost in the Pentlands in winter-time (living in Greenland the rest of the year, greylag geese see Edinburgh as the equivalent of a winter holiday in the Caribbean or Florida), sheep, horses and some cows. Beanie greeted them all, except the geese, with the word: 'bear'.

On our return to the car we realised we'd lost one of Beanie's shoes somewhere on our walk. If anyone reading this spots a girl's shoe (size 4.5) out by Harlaw reservoir, please drop me a line.

Posted 30 December 2007 22:52 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Activities Car Daughter Out and about

PostingComing over all McCall Smith

l48_Small.jpgAn incident last week involving the Noble Beast - our car - has proved what I've long suspected: my life is turning into something out of one of Alexander McCall Smith's books about Edinburgh. It was past midnight, my husband Va-vay was snoring lightly by my side, Beanie was asleep next door in her room - the 'Beanerarium’. I couldn’t sleep for worrying if I remembered to tether the Noble Beast properly.

In my defence, just after I stabled the Beast earlier that evening I got a bit flustered because as I was putting Beanie into her buggy - the 'Travelling Beanerarium’ - a large silver Mercedes drew up very, very close to us.

“Could you be careful! There’s a little girl here,” I shouted, pushing the buggy away as fast as I could. Unfortunately progress was slow on the uneven cobbles of the Edinburgh New Town.

images_Small.jpgThe man wound down his window and drawled in a hateful, posh accent, as if he couldn’t be bothered if he mowed over an entire kindergarten: “I am fully aware of that.”

Still a bit upset about that, and busy thinking up pithy rejoinders it was too late to deliver, I couldn't sleep. So instead I lay there for another half hour, keeping myself entertained by running through the possibilities of what might happen to the poor Beast:

a) Drunken pub-goers break into car, urinate everywhere, trash her.

b) Car thieves steal the Beast and take her to Glasgow, where Lard McConnell, well-known Glaswegian crime lord and good friend of Bertie Pollock is waiting to take delivery of her

c) Insurers refuse to pay up because it was my mistake. S**t!!!!

"Va-vay," I say, quite loudly, in the darkness. "Va-vay, I think I forgot to lock the car."

The poor man gets dressed, stumbles out of the house looking half-asleep and heads back to the scene of the crime.

He returns twenty minutes later, gets undressed again, and climbs back into bed. All without saying a word.

"So, err... was it okay?" I say apologetically.

"Yes, all locked up." Within seconds he's snoring gently again.

Oh dear. A classic Irene Pollock moment.

Posted 03 November 2007 16:47 | Number of comments: 9 | Comments

Angst Car Edinburgh Out and about

PostingFamily outing

Wildflower Garden FlotterstoneIt's an effort to have a family day out, but these days the effort's more than worth it, especially now The Bean is a little bit older. It wasn't always like that.

For about a year after she was born I was too scared to leave the square mile around home. Can't say why, but the post-natal world can be a scary place. I began to think dragons lurked outside the city centre.

Also the effort of getting anywhere with a baby seemed to outweigh any actual pleasure from the outing.

Then in February we bought our first car, after I finally got fed up with the hassle of getting a buggy on a bus.

We've spent the last few months practising our driving and today headed out to some of the hills surrounding Edinburgh for a day in the countryside.

Even a few months ago a trip like today's would have involved 70% hard work to 30% enjoyment. Today's ratio was the exact reversal - lots more fun than effort. The Bean's Dad and I held hands a lot and didn't even bicker about the route.

The Bean perched aloft her father's back in her Vamoose rucksack, surveying cows, flowers, hills and trees with intense curiosity. While covered in a rain hood that made her look like a trainee bee-keeper.

We marched along muddy paths, past old filter beds, stopping in the Wildflower Garden to smell the honeysuckle (pictured), until we reached the Glencourse Reservoir, which provides some of the city's water.

We got some great pictures of The Bean playing with buttercups, surrounded by long grass nearly as tall as her.

Even though we're city-dwellers, I'd like it if The Bean learns something about the countryside, as I love the outdoors. "Look, Beanie! Cows!" her father and I chorused. Then mooed in unison. Good fun.

The Vamoose carrier got properly broken in, too - it's mud-spattered! So not just another piece of expensive, hardly-used kit she'll outgrow in months, unlike a lot of the stuff we bought when she first arrived.

We even managed a bite to eat at the child-friendly and welcoming Flotterstone Inn on the way back. I hardly felt traumatised or hassled at all during the entire trip - a novel sensation. Now I can't wait for our next outing.

 

Posted 08 July 2007 20:55 | Number of comments: 12 | Comments

Car Daughter Edinburgh Fun Husband Kit Likes/Dislikes Out and about

PostingAll in good time

Set in stone My husband and I cannot agree on what “leaving in good time” means. Last week was our  first parents’ evening at nursery – a momentous event in our small household. We built up to this for days beforehand. Somehow we still ended up half-running through Edinburgh’s early evening drizzle, sans umbrella. We arrived dishevelled, damp and out of breath.

When I'm not blaming my husband for our poor time management,  I blame poor Granny. After she arrived to babysit for our big night, an hour slid by. We rifled through cupboards filled with small plastic containers, tidied away toys. I produced breadsticks, cereal bars, potted apple puree; lifted down boxes of formula. Made cups of tea; relocated the remotes, chatted, got daughter to bed, and there we were, time to go. Another ten minutes vanished looking for glasses, applying lipstick, brushing hair, smoothing on “product”. Whoosh.

Jack and I clattered downstairs, giddy with the freedom of a rare night out. Then we looked at his watch, and panicked.

“We should have left earlier,” I began.

“I was ready a good half hour before you,” he said, in a mild way.

“No, you weren’t,” I retorted, knowing what he said was true.

“I think you'll find I was. I was waiting for you but didn't say anything as I didn't want to rush you.”

"You should have said something!" I blustered.

We began half-running/half-walking along Edinburgh's cobbled lanes, skeetering in our haste over treacherous, uneven stones lying sleek and smooth with rain. Every so often Edinburgh Council erects huge tents over the road, digs up these cobbles, cleans them and replaces them to make road surfaces smoother. Within months they revert to the default of their old uneven ways, set, as it where, in stone. The butterflies in my stomach refused to settle. Not a product in the world could have stopped my hair frizzing.

We could have driven, but decided lack of both parking skills and spaces might make it quicker on foot.

“You can slow down. We’ve got a good ten minutes to get there,” my husband tried to persuade me.

“No! We can’t be late. We’ve got to keep going, it'll take at least ten minutes to get there,” I insisted.

Of course I caved.  Ground to a halt. Wheezed.

“We should slow down. I don’t want to be all out of breath when we get there. I want to make a good impression. What will all the other parents think if we arrive like this?” I preached to my converted husband.

"Why do you care so much what other people think?" he asked.

I had no answer.

The grown-ups had reclaimed nursery for the evening. Someone showed us into a large room with drinks set out next to the Wendy House. We demisted our glasses. Under the felt-tipped airplane with pictures of children's heads pasted to the seats stood one mother. Over by the window stood another. That made four of us in the room. A nursery assistant brought us our drinks. Grimaced.

"Nice weather, isn't it? The other parents'll be along shortly I expect. Must have got held up by the weather."

Posted 06 June 2007 11:00 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Angst Car Dilemmas Domestic chaos Etiquette Husband Mistakes Nursery

PostingNursery parting such sweet sorrow



Dropped K off at nursery this morning, an event that's become a regular torment for both of us.

Mentioned this trouble to my mother, who spent her early wartime childhood evacuated onto the family farm in Yorkshire. "Whenever the farmers separated a cow and a calf into different fields both of them mooed for days afterwards," she tells me. "Yes, both of them."

She shook her head. In sympathy? confusion? Remembering her own similar experiences? With me? With her own mother? For years I thought myself alone in missing her as a child when work took her away. Now I realise she must have felt the same.

However, unlike the poor cows, my daughter and I have not gone been forced apart forever, at least I hope not. I have every confidence we will be reunited at 5.30pm today, or even earlier, if I can tear myself away from this blog and get through my professional work sooner.

But believe me, when her face crumples and the tears start falling, it feels like we could be on that windswept Yorkshire farm, cruel fate intervening as bluff farmer.

Staff assure me that she soon settles down happily to "floor play" or whatever else they're doing. "She's a cheeky monkey, guilt-tripping you like this!" says one girl, trying, I think, to reassure me. I don't believe her. I think K really prefers to be with me, even if we don't do all the "singing, dancing, music" at home that I read about in her nursery report cards.

We go through a rigmarole of cuddles, putting her down, her crying, then back to more cuddles and so on. After a few rounds like that they promise to call me if she doesn't settle. Furtively, I creep away while her back's turned to examine a dreamcatcher. As I leave, I peer through the window, thinking people will take me for a nutter, to catch a glimpse of her and check she is indeed okay. She's settled fine. Phew.

Nobody else in my entire life has ever wanted to be with me this much. Probably no-one else, save future children, ever will again. Yet I don't really know how to deal with it. Is there something wrong with me that I don't always embrace this, that sometimes this dependance and love is claustrophobic, even oppressive? I'm flattered, touched - but also daunted and guilty.

Why is it that I persist with my professional writing, when I could be 24/7 with someone who so plainly favours me over all others? I doubt myself, wonder so often if I'm doing the right thing, even though I'm only working a  two-day week. Being a modern mum, there's so much pressure to be all things to all people, nurturing earth mother and career woman, both so at odds with each other, and I waste so much of my time missing one whenever I'm doing the other.

So why do I work? Well, the income is useful; also, the sense of continuity with my old life  is reassuring; then there's the thought that in a few years K will be at school and I must keep my links with the adult world of work that I'll need even more then. And finally, most shamefully, sometimes I like to have a break. It's as simple as that. There, I've said it.

Does that make me a bad mother? Sometimes it's nice to tidy the kitchen, and know it won't be messy again in four minutes. It's nice to focus on me, without half or all my mind on another person all the time. It's nice to eat lunch without feeding my beautiful daughter home-made organic gloop she'll probably reject or flick on my new trousers.

And yet, the emptiness is intense as I walk away from nursery towards the car, where her Maxi Cosi throne sits empty and untenanted, bare save for a discarded pink sock. I pick up the sock and bring it home, where it now sits on the table in my otherwise pristine kitchen, awaiting the return of its pair this evening.

Posted 30 April 2007 12:30 | Number of comments: 3 | Comments

Car Daughter Granny Home Nursery Pregnancy Work