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Edinburgh
Choosing trams over education?
The carnival against Edinburgh education budget cuts took place last
week. Children, teachers and parents gathered in the front quad at the Council's Victorian City
Chambers. Shouted, sang and waved placards.
I would never have dared go along, without fellow parent
and musician Susanna Macdonald. But we both have school-age children. And parenting makes you militant, you see. It makes you care, where previously you might not have.
A couple of days later Edinburgh Council passed the proposed 1% budget cut. Despite our protests. So there will be £2m less for Edinburgh schools from this April, bringing the budget down to £198m.
Schools were already under pressure, even without this latest set-back.
Anecdotal stories exist of parents having to buy children jotters. Maybe not such a problem for more affluent families, but what about the ones who are struggling? You hear of broken
plumbing that goes without repair for weeks.
The cut will mean fewer learning assistants, the end of specialist
teachers in drama, art, PE and music and further delays to building
repairs. There will be fewer books and learning materials.
The Edinburgh tram project is costing the city more than twice as much
(£512m) as the entire annual education budget for the city. Really, sometimes I could get
quite annoyed about how Edinburgh Council is using our money.
Hundreds at education rally
Parents, children and teachers from schools all over Edinburgh gathered in the Council City Chambers to protest at planned education budget cuts. We chanted, sang and shouted. Posed for photos. And talked to the press.
Reporters, camera crew and police watched as small children chanted "No more cuts". Council officials took pictures of us from upstairs windows. Drummers kept up a soundtrack. Parents hoisted kids up onto their shoulders for them to get a better view.
"If this was France,we would sue the council," said one parent. "No way would people just put up with this."
Up until last week Edinburgh Council was planning 3% cuts to the education budget. Then, in a piece of interesting timing, it climbed down from that position. Instead of the announced figure, our schools would suffer 'only' a 1% cutback. Lucky us.
Call me cynical, but it's hard not to see the scaling back as a deliberate political manoeuvre. The sort of move that might have been planned all along to make the cuts more palatable.
The sort of timing that makes a 1% cut to over-stretched budgets actually start to look like a good deal. I suspect the council was planning on 1% cuts all along, but started with the threat of three times as much at that.
That way we would all breathe a (misplaced) sigh of relief when they climbed down and the council would look, yes, almost generous. Sometimes I wonder why I bother paying my council tax. The council doesn't seem bothered about honouring its side of the deal and providing my kids with a decent education.
Failing to deliver on their commitments
With inflation running at around 2%, cutting the Edinburgh education budget by 1% means that - in real terms of what the money can buy - it's set to fall by 3%. It's important not to forget that inflation will eat away at the budget, even without politicians tampering with it.
Even without any cuts, the existing budget will be worth less this time next year than it is now. Simply because of inflation stripping away purchasing power.
We deserve better
Add the cuts into the equation, and our schools will be even more dilapidated, teachers even more over-worked, supplies even scarcer.
The proposed cut-backs go to a council vote tomorrow.
Parents hold rally against Edinburgh School Cuts - Evening News Edinburgh
School rally goes ahead in Edinburgh
Tuesday's
rally in Edinburgh against planned education cuts is going ahead. Yes,
it's good that Edinburgh Council has agreed to scale back cuts from
2.5% to 1%. But it's not much of a victory. Allowing for inflation, we're facing cuts of
3% in real terms.
The proposed cut means £10,000 less for the average Edinburgh primary school, according to education experts. And the typical secondary school stands to lose four times that sum.
"The cuts come on top of the 1.5% efficiency saving schools have had to
make in their budgets for the last two financial years," says one Edinburgh parents' council. "Schools are
starting each year with less money."
More, not less
Money is tight. Schools across Scotland have to implement a new curriculum, the Curriculum for Excellence, by August. They need more, not less funding at a time like this.
The battle is far from over. The rally is going ahead because
scaled-back cuts are only a partial victory. "The council may have
backed down for this coming financial year but they have given no assurances beyond that," said one parent.
"Lack of strategic planning?"
The number of 0-15 year olds in Edinburgh is set to grow by 11%
between now and 2023. Parent councils are concerned about what they
cite as: "the council's lack of strategic planning when it comes to
delivering education to our children."
Our schools cannot face this extra pressure. Our children deserve better. Let's use Tuesday afternoon to prove that. Bring banners, colourful clothes and musical instruments.
City leaders vow no more schools will be axed - Edinburgh Evening News
Schools take biggest hit - Scotland on Sunday
Leave our kids alone
Edinburgh Council wants to cut the city's education budget by 9% over the next three years. Our children will suffer if these cuts go ahead. Jobs, facilities, even entire schools are on the line.
Stand up and make your voice heard at a carnival next Tuesday (9 Feb), after school. It runs from 4.15
to 4.45pm outside the City Chambers (pictured) on Edinburgh's High Street, opposite St Giles' Cathedral.
All affected by the cuts are welcome to attend. It'll be a child-friendly event. Please bring your kids along.
Be there
Meet up with groups at local schools after pick-up. Or make your way to the City Chambers on your own. The more of us there, the more attention we'll get.
Organisers are asking people to bring along musical instruments, sports kit, art work and drama costumes. Get your kids in face paints or fancy dress.
Bring banners, have fun
Mine will bring tiaras, wings and wands. Please bring along banners too. The message is "No more cuts".
Make them see sense
Last
year's protests were enough to change Edinburgh Council's decision on the
cuts. This year the plan is to show we are more worried, and even more engaged. Let's get out on the streets next Tuesday. We can make the council see sense.
We might not be strong enough as individuals. Together, we can do it.
Here's an audio briefing on the issues.
Bruntsfield has more details on the carnival here
No to education budget cuts
Edinburgh Council is voting next month on controversial proposals to cut the city's education budget by 2.5%. Please visit this website to sign an on-line petition registering your opposition to the proposed budget cuts.
Education could suffer
Education in Edinburgh will suffer if these budget cuts go ahead, with teaching jobs on the line. We need as many signatures as possible to show the council that education is a priority. Our children will miss out if we allow these cuts to go ahead. Please sign the petition and give your support to this worthy cause as soon as you can. The vote takes place on February 11th.
No to school budget cuts in Edinburgh
High street Christmas hardship
Attempted at lunchtime to wheel the tank, our double buggy, containing both girls into local hardware shop. Shop owner came out from behind counter, stood in front of door and barred us entrance. Said it was "ridiculous" to bring a buggy of that size into his shop. "It's only a small shop," he said. Like I had artillery fitted to the tank. Like I was planning to decimate the washing-up bowls, washing lines and moth repellant in our way. Like one mother and two little girls were going to harm his shelves of clothes pegs, faded price tickets marked by hand in red felt tip pen, yellowing displays of kettles and dusty tins of furniture polish.
"What do you want me to do?" I said. "I'm not leaving my children outside on the pavement." He shrugged. "You're not coming in here with that," he said. I gave up hope of buying turkey tin foil in his shop and reversed the buggy. We did not say "Happy Christmas" to each other. Went into nearby shop to vent. "Don't worry about him," said shop keeper. "He's notorious for that kind of behaviour."
Apple a day
Friday was one of those glorious autumn days when much-discussed hopes of an Indian summer finally materialised, so it seemed only right to indulge in a spot of apple picking in Granny's back garden. After all, the sun was shining and ripe apples were - quite literally - dropping about our feet in what felt like a series of Keatsian moments. It would have been a shame to let all that lovely fruit - and ambience - go to waste.
I began by picking fruit with my hands from the lower branches, being careful, of course, not to get mud on my new sheepskin boots while stretching across flower beds. Then I moved on to a clothes pole, which proved just the thing for knocking fruit down from higher branches. Granny sensibly removed Button to a place of safety as apples tumbled down around us. Not so much clothes pole as mediaeval jousting spear.
In no time at all, we filled up two large plastic bags with the cookers, easy to forget how much bigger they are than eating apples. Granny brought out more bags; we filled those too.
That evening, back home, we feasted on baked apples, stuffed with raisins, honey and cinnamon. Topped off with a tin of custard. I love eating in tune with the seasons, I am the most die-hard townie, but that makes me feel more in harmony with nature.
The next day I gouged, cut, cored, peeled, quartered, sugared and boiled about twenty more apples. Husband Va-vay even made a special trip to the shops to buy more plastic tubs for freezing the apple puree.
Oh, the satisfaction of a job well done. The pleasure of packing away rows of small boxes, each with their freezer-proof label stating date and contents. A proud moment, if I might be allowed to say so.
Granny rang on Sunday evening to enquire about the apples.
"How did you get on?" she asked.
"Pretty well," I said. "I've done a big batch of them."
Then she popped round on Monday morning and looked round the kitchen.
"I thought you said you'd done a big batch of apples," she said.
"I did," I told her, trying not to sound hurt. "I made a tonne of puree and we've been baking them too."
"What are all these, then?" she said, pointing to half a dozen repurposed plant pots, scattered around the kitchen, each one of them packed with apples.
"Those are the rest of them."
"Ah," said Granny. "Don't worry. Plenty of time yet. They used to keep cookers until Christmas."
Button Daughters Edinburgh Food Fun Granny Health Home Out and about
Full circle
Sat in café yesterday morning eating wholewheat croissant. Yes, wholewheat croissant. Surely a contradiction in terms, you must be thinking? Can something as unhealthy as croissant also be wholesome? Apparently yes. "They're very popular, the wholewheat ones," said the assistant at Henderson's Vegetarian Café, picking up a croissant with her tongs. Was first time I have ever tasted such a thing, despite living with vegetarian Va-vay for many years. Chewing on the croissant proved more of an effort than expected. Could almost hear digestive system grinding more slowly in protest. But a pleasure to be back in Henderson's. The last time I was in this café without children was when I was practically a child myself. Aged 18, I used to come to Henderson's with my sister and friends on Friday evenings. Waitressing and cleaning jobs meant we could just about manage the 8p bus fare to Princes Street in the centre of town and a 90p glass of house white. I remember standing at the dimly-lit wooden bar, counting out my 10p pieces, worried I might not have enough money and thinking the 1970s pine fittings the height of sophistication. I might even have been wearing an outfit from Laura Ashley - oh dear. We never got drunk; we couldn't afford it, but lingered there for hours, eking out our drinks and discussing our dreams until staff got fed up and slung us out. These days nights out with girlfriends have become special again, maybe because so few of us parents take them for granted like we once did. But don't worry, Laura Ashley, bless her, no longer figures in the dress code.
Fireworks
We joined a party of friends and neighbours last night for a picnic in Princes Street Gardens to watch the Fireworks Concert that traditionally celebrates the last night of the Edinburgh International Festival. Despite living in Edinburgh most of my life (apart from the 15-year aberration that kept me exile from my native land in London) I have never up until last night managed to get hold of tickets to this concert. My only glimpse of the fireworks is usually from my sitting room window. And, to be honest, since Beanie arrived in our lives my joy at the Fireworks Concert has mingled slightly with dread; the banging overhead often wakes her up and gives her night terrors for weeks afterwards, with bed-time involving her asking me: "And there will not be fireworks tonight, Mummy?" and me saying, uncertainly, "I can't be sure, Beanie, but I'm not expecting any." Then her asking the same question another half-dozen times until I admit: "I have no idea about fireworks, just come and find me if you get scared."
The twenty eight of us last night took along tarpaulins, rugs, fleeces, thermos flasks of tea, quiche, bread, dips, beer and wine. We arranged ourselves on a grassy bank facing Edinburgh Castle and lay down on the grass to watch the explosions cascading above our heads. I last met one woman in the party when we were both languishing in one of the lower divisions for maths at school more than twenty years ago. Our numeracy must have improved since then; she is now an advocate and I work as a financial journalist. After we re-introduced ourselves, we got chatting about what we're doing now, husbands, kids, houses, work, that kind of stuff and discovered we have children of roughly the same age.
"Ah, so you're like me. You waited a while before having kids. It's great having them at this age, isn't it?" she said. Had I not been dragging a tarpaulin across a steep, grassy slope, progress impeded by the dodgy pelvis that is attributable to difficult pregnancies and advancing middle age, I could have hugged her.
"How the cat purred and how the witch grinned"
Let me start by confessing that I was not expecting to enjoy Room on the Broom at the Pleasance anything like as much as I did. Being a grown-up and everything, I thought my only fun would be from watching my daughter's delight at this musical stage adaptation of the Julia Donaldson classic. How wrong could I be? I was bellowing with laughter all the way through this production from Tall Stories. It was a treat, from start to finish. Tall Stories are the same people who made hit show The Gruffalo a few years back. You might have seen it on DVD. Based on our experiences today, I'd be surprised if Room on the Broom doesn't enjoy similar success. Beanie's face lit up with delight when she recognised the characters from one of her best-loved stories. Together with the rest of a packed house, adults and children alike, I too couldn't hide my pleasure in a witty, fast-paced production. Somehow, it pulled off the feat of staying true to the fairytale spirit of the original book, complete with witch, dragon and flying broomstick. While making it work on stage. The show used puppets for the dog, bird and frog, a device which, if I'd heard about it beforehand, might have made me sceptical. Somehow, though, it worked. The show has a few differences to the book - there's comic bickering between the witch and her cat that doesn't feature in the book and the witch is even more scatterbrained on stage. The dragon is, inexplicably, Welsh. But it all rang true and author Julia Donaldson, who was in the audience at today's show, looked like she approved. She kindly signed copies of her books afterwards in the Pleasance Tipi. 'That looks well-thumbed,' she said kindly, preparing to autograph our copy of Room on the Broom. Then she posed for photos outside the Tipi with cast members and the 'truly magnificent broom' that they had just magicked up from the witch's cauldron half an hour previously. Beanie gazed in wonder at the actors playing the witch, cat and other characters and went over to say hello. They were lovely to her and she insisted on sticking around, watching them pose for photos on the broom, until I suggested it was time to go home. "No, Mummy," she said. "No, Mummy. I don't want to go home. I want to stay." "Come on, we've got to go now. Look, everyone else is going home," I said.
"Mummy, no. I'm staying. I want to see them go home on the broom."
Room on the Broom, Pleasance, Edinburgh, 2.30pm, daily, until 31 August. Tel: 0131 556 6550
Edinburgh nights
Some people say the original spirit of the Edinburgh Fringe has gone; that raw young comedians like Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, who got their first breaks at Edinburgh, would never nowadays be 'discovered' here. Others point out that we Edinburgh residents either a) take the annual August carnival in our city horribly for granted, unmoved by having the world's biggest arts festival here on our doorsteps or, b) get annoyed at the thespy types who invade our home city, taking over local cafes and bars, smoking and shoving leaflets into our hands at every turn, all while taking themselves much too seriously. Some say all that fun, innovation and excitement from when the Fringe started in the immediate post-war years has shrivelled under the dullness of corporate spreadsheets.
But I'm not so sure. I'm looking at the picture I was lucky enough to acquire on Friday evening. In it a crescent moon is glowing above the spires of St Stephen's Church. Next to it twinkles a star. Bernie O'Donnell
- a local artist, friend and neighbour - tells me that Jupiter appeared above St Stephen's Church back in the
winter of 2002, when she first began painting this picture. The moon
and star are what you notice first, but if you look again more
carefully, it is possible also to make out Georgian tenement buildings,
standing four stories high, underneath the planet of Jupiter. Their
contours softened by the light from a sinking sun. Acrylic paint
has made them a beacon of smudgy warmth. For months, I pushed my daughter home from nursery along these same streets in the tank-like buggy, blind in one eye following complications with the birth of my second child. We had some good times - like when daughter shouted out "moon", or, at other times, "star". But sometimes, if daughter was tired at the end of a long day, like most two-year-olds, she didn't bother talking, she just wailed. And there were many times when I felt like joining her. Perhaps that's why I like this picture so much - its serenity allows you to forget the pavement-level struggles.
Further down the picture, the deep blue of the Edinburgh sky mellows into turquoise, and then into yellow, as it touches the black hulk of
St Stephen's, where a troupe of actors has again taken up residence this year. Bernie's love of Edinburgh shines through in this picture, as it does in so much of her work. It is people like Bernie, you see, who keep the original spirit of the Fringe alive. On Friday evening she held a private view of her Fringe exhibition - in her own home. "Hello
Helen," she said, when she saw me looking through a box of pictures in the room that normally serves as her sitting room. "Lovely to see you. I see you've found something you
like. Tell me, have I already given you a picture for the girls?" She picked up the print and put it into my hands. "For the
children".
Exhibition by Bernie O'Donnell, 48 Cumberland Street, Edinburgh, EH3 6RG. Runs until 5 September. From 12 till 5pm (not Sunday).
Let in Edinburgh
You can also find me blogging for a few weeks over at Let in Edinburgh. It's a site about things to do, see and enjoy here in Scotland's capital city. This posting about the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens was fun to write, as it brought back memories of many idyllic days spent in this haven. I've also done a posting about last weekend's Edinburgh Moon Walk.
Writing postings about Edinburgh has, of course, got me thinking more about how I like spending time in this city and I'd like to canvas opinions from those of you who also know the city, and perhaps even, like me, grew up here. What do you most enjoy about living here? Any recommendations for great places to visit?
Moon Walk - part one
If I'm being honest, I had serious doubts about whether I'd manage the thirteen miles for the Half Moon, but a combination of adrenalin, friendship, group solidarity and pasta got me over the finish line in Inverleith Park at 4.27am on Sunday. I staggered home at 5am and have only stopped sleeping since then to phone friends and family, take hot baths and gorge on yet more carbohydrates. We arrived at the giant pink fluorescent tent about 9pm the night before, checked out the loos, got temporary tattoos, took photos and feasted on the pasta the organisers had provided for all the walkers. 
We sat on the tent floor and arranged our decorated bras while a band called Swing Cats played. A doctor from a local hospital here in Edinburgh told us how the money raised is going to build a second operating theatre and rebuild the breast cancer ward there. She was crying as she spoke. Then we all stood up, linked hands and had a minute's silence while we thought about loved ones affected by breast cancer. Tears were pouring down many people's faces. The mood lightened when an aerobics instructor got on stage and had us all - all ten thousand of us, men as well as women, young and old - dancing and warming up. 
Hundreds of Edinburgh residents came out onto the streets to cheer us on. A thousand volunteers stayed up all night to keep us all going, waiting on street corners to encourage us and give us bottles of water. Paramedics were driving about on quad bikes. The police held up traffic for us. Drivers tooted their horns. My sister was high-fiving people on the pavement who'd come to cheer us on.
A night to remember.
Further write-ups to follow.... when I've recovered sufficiently.
Windy city
The combination of hills and gales make Edinburgh tricky to navigate. I am pushing Button uphill in the Tank (imagine an armoured vehicle, but without the weapons of mass destruction) with one hand. With the other I am holding Beanie's hand. The ferocious wind is slowing progress. "Want cuddle, Mummy," says Beanie. I put the Tank brake on, and pick Beanie up with both hands. The wind is lashing our hair about our faces. As if in slow motion, the wind shifts, catches the buggy containing Button and whips it backwards. The Tank overturns, tipping Button back towards the pavement. My heart jumps out my chest. I thank my lucky stars I remembered to buckle Button into her seat before we set off. She is sprawling at pavement level in her harness but looks unharmed. And unpeturbed. Beanie and I rush to her side, expecting her to scream in distress. She just looks slightly taken aback. But pleased to be getting attention. I right the buggy. Look around - both daughters present and correct. The tight, panicky feeling in my chest subsides. And they call Chicago the Windy City?
Moon Walk
It's less than a week to go now until I set off with thousands of other men and women to walk a half-marathon in this year's Edinburgh Moon Walk to raise money to fight breast cancer. I have been worrying about making a idiot out of myself during this event, since I'll be wearing just a decorated bra and leggings for the occasion, with nothing to cover my flabby stomach from the elements. I'm nervous as hell about the challenge, not just because of the exposed flesh, but because I haven't done as much training as I should have done and I still have residual pelvic problems from my pregnancy-related pelvic girdle pain. But I'm going to get round that course. One reason why I'm not giving up is my on-line blog friend Iota, who often comments on this site and can be found at Not Wrong But Different writing about expatriate life as a British woman in the US. She and I have never met in real life, since our lives are separated by the Atlantic Ocean, but I like to think that if circumstances had been different and we lived closer to each other we would be the greatest of friends, in and out of each other's homes, sharing lots of silly jokes, quaffing white wine, enjoying the same pleasure in laughing at the ridiculous. We are from similar backgrounds and of similar ages. We both enjoy writing. We both have young families. When my daughter Button was born, Iota sent a present for her, wooden alphabet letters spelling out Button's real non-blog name that Va-vay took great pride in attaching to her bedroom door, and a book for Button's elder sister Beanie. You know the sort of person I mean, don't you? Iota is one of life's good people. Then not long ago, she discovered a lump in her breast. The lump turned out to be cancer. Iota has just had to undergo a double mastectomy. She's done so with exemplary courage and dignity, but still doesn't yet know if that's been enough for her to nail this disease. So walking thirteen miles in a bra across Edinburgh at night-time doesn't seem like much to ask in comparison. I know that times are tough for lots of us right now, but if any of you are feeling generous, please click on this link to sponsor me.
On safari
Husband Va-vay leaves tea in my favourite mug
by my bedside, kisses me goodbye and heads out to work. He has even
loaded the dishwasher and set it running before leaving. It's Monday
morning and I am missing him after a weekend of dinners and fun. Some
hours later, the girls and I finally manage to leave the flat. We're having a day
out at the local zoo.
We succeed in boarding a 26 bus, no mean feat given Edinburgh's
draconian transport rules that stipulate drivers allow only one
unfolded buggy on board their buses at any time. I have never known a driver agree
to bend this rule, despite the most piteous pleading imaginable, so suspect they must enforce it on pain of
the most terrible consequences. This
unfolded buggy rule is one of those regulations that sounds
meaningless. But it's more than a technicality. Please just believe me when I say that it can
make a parent's life hell. Our side-by-side double buggy is too
unwieldy to fold, so there have been many times when I've waited in the
Edinburgh rain with the girls for a bus, then been turned away by the
driver because there's already an unfolded buggy on board and have had
to wait for the next bus to come along. Any Edinburgh parent could
recount similar experiences. However, this morning I get lucky, we're
the only buggy at the bus-stop and there are no buggies already on the
bus, that's our green light to get on board and we head out through the
city centre into the suburbs and Edinburgh Zoo, where we clamber aboard something called the Hilltop Safari
(pictured). This bus does daily half-hour tours of the zoo. It's good
for several reasons - Beanie loves the novelty and seeing all the
animals, we find out more about what we're seeing from the guide, plus
it spares Beanie from the climb and me from the effort of pushing the Panzer tank that doubles as their buggy.
The guide makes no comment on the size of the tank, or its
snowplough-shaped prow, but then I reflect that zoo workers must be used to transporting scary wild animals - this is small beer - and he stows it away in the back of the bus. I'm
warming to this experience more by the minute. Edinburgh transport
rules do not apply here - the bus is full of buggies, all in their
full, unfolded glory, and their occupants. We pull away and the guide
begins his spiel. "To your left you'll see the white-naped cranes, one
of the several endangered species you'll find here at the zoo. High up
in that tree you can see one of the females. She is what we call here a
high-demand female." The adults on the bus laugh politely, though of
course the children miss the joke. Unbidden, an image of Va-vay enters
my mind. In it, he is looking at me with quizically raised eyebrows and
an affectionate but distinctly wry smile. Quite suddenly, I no longer
miss him as much as I did.
Activities Buses Daughters Edinburgh Fun Home Husband Out and about Paradoxes
Scottish childhood
The weekend got off to a good start when a Friday afternoon meet-up with Erica from Littlemummy re-introduced me to one of the treats of my Edinburgh childhood, ice cream from Luca's. Then on Saturday we had another blast from the past, when Va-vay, Button, Beanie, a friend and I visited the local school fair, the kind of event I loved as a child. Living a grown-up journalist's life in London meant I had to pretend to be too sophisticated for such simple pleasures. I missed out. Bagpipe players stood in the school playground wearing their Highland costume, arranged in circular formation, with the arms and legs of the pipes waving at visitors like friendly animals cavorting in the sunshine. This politician opened the event. People queued around the garden for the burgers, attracted by the smell of meat grilling on the barbeque. Delicious Polish dumplings were cooking at another stall. Kids jumped up and down on the bouncy castle. There was a tombola, a raffle and a cake stall. I bought a slab of home-made carrot cake and a second-hand Charlie and Lola book for 10 pence. Beanie had some more ice cream, on a roll after her Luca's trip the day before. The queue for face-painting was too long for us, but luckily someone had sent us these rather good face-paints just that morning, so we painted Beanie up as a butterfly later at home. Of course, no Scottish childhood is complete without its weather-related challenges. Mid-way through the afternoon we experienced the proto-typical Scottish experience of sheltering from unexpected rain under an awning, sipping tea from polystyrene cups for warmth. As we huddled there, shivering in inadequate clothing, feeling the rain slither down our backs, the tea tasted like nothing so much as the ambrosial nectar of the gods. Heaven.
Days of your life
We had a blessing at our local church, St George's West in Edinburgh, on Sunday for Beanie and Button. The church pulled out all the stops for us - printing the order of service sheets in pink, in honour of the girls, placing pink carnations around the hall, presenting both girls with candles and small wooden camels as a reminder of their special day. We took the special christening cake along to the church for a little party afterwards. And sparkling wine too. Everyone there has made us feel so welcome over the last months. The lovely, kind people from the church helped me cut the cake and passed it out to the family and friends who had come to help celebrate, some of them making the journey from the south. It was a wonderful day. Tears came to my eyes when the wonderful minister said the bit: "May God bless you and keep you safe all the days of your life" and I haven't been able to get the phrase "days of your life" out of my head ever since. Younger daughter Button wore my old christening gown, which her Granny had kept safe for so many years. It fitted her perfectly, and I still get a thrill of happiness just thinking about us both wearing the same dress while going through that same rite of passage.
And although it was - officially - the girls who were being blessed on Sunday, as I stood at the altar, holding one daughter in my arms, the other by the hand, I felt blessed too.
Herbs of the Highlands
A weekly evening class at our local botanical gardens has become my equivalent of Tom's Midnight Garden. Herbs of the Highlands is a chance to visit the place after official closing time, and experience an alternative reality to the diurnal grind. When the lawns, paths and glasshouses have emptied of buggies and their noisy occupants, we get the place to ourselves to wander through the wilder sections of the garden, where we can discover Scotland's bio-medicinal heritage. We've already made antiseptic bath milk by grinding up pine needles in a pestle and mortar with powdered milk, drunk hawthorn tea to celebrate Beltane and donned gloves to gather nettles for a health-giving herbal infusion. This week we were making alcoholic tinctures, one with heather, the other with blueberries. We decanted handfuls of heather flowers and dried blueberries into jam jars filled with.... a leading Swedish brand of vodka. Bet no-one realised that was part of Scottish Highland heritage.
"Eglantine, Eglantine...."
After promising to post at least once a week, I've been most remiss in failing to hit my stated target. Apologies. I'm not yet back at (paid) work but, as many of you would know, life spent looking after two small children is busy (I've written this before, haven't I?) - and also, let's be honest here, more fun than messing about in the blogosphere. Am stealing a few moments to write this as both girls watch Bedknobs and Broomsticks - only the eighteenth such viewing in two weeks. This is a quick round-up post. Beanie has started ballet lessons and I am extremely proud. Va-vay is singing again - mostly snatches from Beanie's DVDs, a sample being "Eglantine, Eglantine, my how you shine!" We have joined Edinburgh Zoo - a year's family membership costs a stiff £110, but since we've already been there three times in just one week, and an individual visit costs close to £30, it's not looking like bad value. Button finds her elder sister vastly entertaining and does everything in her ability to copy Beanie's escapades. Just as soon as Button can get that second arm out she'll be crawling. We have embraced soft play. The dreaded Nipper 360 Out and About buggy - I went for the side-by-side model in the end, not the stacking Phil and Ted version, which might, hard to be sure, but might have been a mistake - is finally proving more biddable. I've overcome my faulty spatial dynamics chip (the same one that gives me problems with parking, though on the plus side this means I have met several nice neighbours who park the car for me) to judge door width and manoeuvre the buggy's vast girth. We trundle over with the beast of burden to the Botanics most days. We still help fuel the brisk trade in babycinos and dinosaur boxes in local cafes. The washing basket has magically acquired the ability to reproduce on its own. Hourly. I am doing a few botanical courses that I'm enjoying. All ordinary stuff - but I'm loving it. Well, okay, maybe not the washing, but the rest of it. I'm going to be helping the Pelvic Partnership, a charity that helps women with pregnancy-related pelvic girdle pain, with generating press coverage. On a less positive note, training for June's Moon Walk has faltered, since most evenings I'm good for nothing but supper and bed. All normal, I know. But since I've started collecting sponsorship money for the walk, I have no excuse for this kind of loafing about and plan to start pounding the Edinburgh pavements again at the end of this week. Some kind readers have already generously given money for the cause - many thanks again to you all. The event aims to raise money to support women with breast cancer and fund research into treatment. I know money is tight for lots of people right now, but if anyone can spare a few pounds for this worthy cause it'd be much appreciated. You can donate on-line here.
Two readers each won a copy of Instructions Not Included, Charlotte Moerman's book about bringing up her three small boys. They are Kate Stewart Roper and Avril Davidson.
Okay, and on that note I can hear from the TV that Eglantine, Mr Brown and the children have despatched the Nazis back to Germany with the help of family solidarity, Walt Disney and a few magic spells. My signal to close here.
Activities Daughters Edinburgh Fun Out and about Pelvic girdle pain/SPD
Easter egg painting
Anybody who fancies a spot of Easter egg painting over the coming week can head along to St George's West Church in Edinburgh, where children over three and their carer can spend an hour every afternoon having fun painting and decorating. The event, which runs from 2-3pm daily from 13-17 April, is free, but places are limited and the organisers ask that anyone interested please call 0131 225 7001 or drop a line to mail@stgeorgeswest.com to book a place.
Other news....
I'll be announcing the winners of the draw for two free copies of Instructions Not Included over the next week.
Softly, softly
It's hard to resist the siren lure of 'soft play' centres when you are the parent of an under-three. They offer cheap and accessible entertainment. They tire your child out. Thus ensuring he or she will sleep well later that evening. Unlike real parks, there are no dogs. They sell skinny decaff lattes. You can go even when it's raining. What's to argue with? But, not being a big fan of a) communal playgrounds b) grubby PVC c) foam wadding d) crowds of other children (too potentially scary) or e) primary colours, I held out for some time against these places. Plus, from what I'd seen of toddlers 'interacting' (big infant buzz word) with each other, I suspected the play might not be all that 'soft'. However, last week I - finally - became a convert to these pre-schooler Meccas. A friend persuaded me and my two daughters to join her and her child at this Edinburgh variant on the theme. For the modest sum of £3, elder daughter was able to clamber at will for an hour around ramps, tunnels, netting, steps and mock fairy castle, grinning her delight at me as she did so. It was nice to feel I was doing something right after a disappointing trip involving fish that I posted about the other week. Parents are not only discouraged at this particular soft play place from staying with their children in the play area, they are forbidden from doing so. I had expected the hands-off approach to be difficult. In practice, it was liberating. And daughter's enjoyment appeared in no way diminished for not having me fussing round her. This rule has the benefit that it left her younger sister Button and I free to sit at the tables adjacent to the play area, watching as Beanie giggled, scrambled and raced around the rigging. I have tried soft play once before, at this place, where I was forced to crouch next to something called a 'ball pit' (exactly what the description says, no more, no less) while breastfeeding Button, with cracked nipples, and attempting to preserve a fragile facade of competence and good humour as I prevented an older child (whose mother would have had little trouble securing employment as a barge woman) from pushing Beanie down some steps. A wretched experience. It also had the disadvantage that its clientele could - theoretically at least - escape from their carers at any time if you weren't sufficiently vigilant (it's probably no coincidence that when I say 'vigilant' I'm borrowing a word more commonly used in the vocabulary of people who fight against terrorism). Whereas last week's place had a gate and security system that meant it felt safe to relax, enjoy one of the above-mentioned lattes and let Beanie get on with it. My friend, who is savvier in these matters than me, took a look round when we arrived and said: "Good. No trouble-makers today." So, obviously, as her comment implies, there can be difficulties, but we didn't experience any last week. If it wasn't for being stuck at home for so many months, semi-immobile with pelvic joint pain in pregnancy, we'd probably be fully signed-up fans of soft play by now. Give us a few more months, and we doubtless will have put that right.
Giant step for womankind
Anyone who saw me seven months ago, when pelvic pain in pregnancy made it a struggle
to reach the end of the street, might be surprised - and pleased too, I hope - to hear I've signed
up for this year's Moon Walk
- a fund-raiser for Walk the Walk, a charity which supports women affected by breast cancer and
funds research into this dreaded illness. It's amazing the difference a
few months and some decent physiotherapy can make. The walk will take me, together with my fellow
walker and great friend Vanessa from Fidra Books,
much further than the end of the street. Together with around 12,000
other people, we'll be walking 13 miles through the darkened streets of
Edinburgh on the night of 20th/21st June. A close friend of mine is
fighting breast cancer and my mother has recently lost a friend to it. Nearer the time, I'll be asking you if you can spare a few quid in
sponsorship for this fantastic cause.
We have begun our training. But no point in overdoing things. Vanessa, who writes here
about her motivation for doing the walk, and I are building up slowly
to the full 13 miles. This is humbling. Five years ago, I
could walk 20 miles in a day without undue effort. Last week we managed
our first two practice walks - of three miles. It was
knackering. My legs hurt. My pelvis hurt. Worst of all, my pride hurt. This week, we might - might - tackle four miles.
But what a difference compared to being pregnant with Button. One
Saturday in summer last year, ten days overdue, I made it as far as the fabric
department of a local store. Quite an achievement in those days. All
around us, women were trying out pink feathers, sequins and ribbons,
giggling and holding them up to their chests to see what they looked like. "What's
going on?" I asked the assistant. "It's the Moon Walk tonight," she
explained. "It's to decorate their bras for the Moon Walk. To raise money for breast cancer." That was my introduction to the event. I'm thrilled - and only just a little bit daunted - that this year, all being well, I'll be out walking the walk too.
Coming up soon: reviews of My Bump and Me, by Myleene Klass, and Instructions Not Included; One Mum, Three Boys and a Very Steep Learning Curve, by Charlotte Moerman.
Button Edinburgh Friends Out and about Pelvic girdle pain/SPD
In Praise of.... Baby Yoga
This week, in the first of a series of postings on activities for mums and babies, I'm writing about baby yoga, which I've been discovering with youngest daughter Button, now nearly seven months. I did consider baby yoga with her elder sister Beanie, back when she was tiny, around three years ago. But by the time I got my act together to enrol, Beanie had started crawling. Which - sadly - ruled us both out. What stopped me trying to sign up sooner was that I wasn't sure if the yoga was for me. Or the baby. It all sounded silly, and I feared it would be full of Professional Mummies whose children had names like Tarquin and Arabella, who did everything perfectly. And I couldn't understand how a baby could do yoga. My only excuse for being so dizzy is I was suffering that "alien from another planet" feeling women tend to get after having their first child. It pains me to say so, but I had reached my limit in terms of ability to tackle anything new. And one of my literary heroes takes a dig at baby yoga in his Scotland Street books, which added to my hesitancy and embarrassment.
Now I know more about what's involved, it seems a shame I didn't do yoga with Beanie. Focussed one-to-one time with your baby is enormously enjoyable. It might sound a little sad to say the classes have helped me play better with Button; you tend to think that playing with a baby should be one of those instinctual, intuitive things that mothers (and fathers) just know how to do, but the truth is that many of these skills are learned behaviours. It's been great to learn new rhymes, activities and songs for very young babies, and I'm singing to Button a lot at home. Her face lights up when I burst into song (this being one of the fantastic things about having very young children, they are so uncritical and don't notice a little thing like being out of tune). As a second child, Button doesn't get that much undivided attention, so it's especially good to have some time - just her and me - to do something special.
I'd say that one of the key benefits to baby yoga is that, unlike many of the activities aimed at the under-ones, it's fun for both parent and child. The poses, as you would expect, are much gentler than in mainstream adult yoga. Mothers and babies share a mat together, where the mums do some poses while holding their babies, (and, amusingly enough, simultaneously singing a ditty to the tune of "What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor?"). Then the mums do a few more poses on their own, leaning on hands and knees, looking down onto baby underneath on the mat. At the class I attend (I guess the same is true at other classes around the UK) the poses are chosen specifically to help with typical problem areas affecting new parents - such as sore wrists (from lifting), tight neck and shoulders (feeding), stretched tummy muscles, stress and tension (no need to explain those, I'm sure). The teacher encourages us to do arm movements to help prevent blocked ducts or mastitis. No sightings as yet of any dads at the class but I can't see any reason why a father couldn't go along too, (though he'd have to be the type that doesn't embarrass easily).
When it comes to baby's turn, mums move baby's arms and legs gently so baby can do some yoga too, helping baby to bend their knees up to their chests and open their arms out wide, then close them again. Of course, I simplify, but that should give you an idea. I'd never have dared try yoga with Button on my own before this class. In fact it wouldn't even have occurred to me to try, though I've done yoga for many years. But she loved it, giggling and cooing her appreciation at me, and now we do little bits of yoga on her changing mat at home. The other babies seemed to be enjoying themselves too. There's something about the intense focus of being with your baby - no need to worry about housework/cooking/nursery run - that I'm loving. I hesitate to use that expression "quality time" - but the classes do make me feel better about the fact Button, a younger child, will never get as much attention as Beanie did when she first arrived.
Baby yoga has also turned out to be a much more serene experience than you might expect in a roomful of small babies. An incense stick is usually burning and for the last couple of weeks - in Edinburgh's chilly February weather, note - the same butterfly has been flapping at the stained glass windows in the upstairs room of a church where the class takes place. The guided meditation at the end of each session works better some weeks than others, for obvious reasons, but, perhaps surprisingly, I always come away from the class refreshed and energised, even on the weeks when Button finds it harder to settle, which can be stressful.
In terms of cost, if you book a block of four classes, each session works out at £7.50, which I think represents good value. Some of the mums from the class go for lunch after each session so there's the chance to socialise afterwards too. I haven't noticed any competitive mothering at the classes (no mention whatsoever of size of house, husbands' chosen career/golf handicap/motor vehicle) and it feels like a safe, supportive environment.
If I had to think of disadvantages, I'd say the 11am start time can be an issue, as it clashes with Button's nap time - and presumably that of many other babies - so she's often tired in the class. As I mentioned earlier, this class has a built-in expiry date, since it doesn't take babies who have started to crawl. I've managed to forget all the timings for landmarks like crawling, but think it must be about nine months - is that right? So we'll only have two more months of baby yoga, before Button's outgrown it. Something that I view as an advantage - the fact the classes are only for mums and babies - could be a disadvantage, if you have a toddler you want to bring along with you.
For me, overall, though, I'd say baby yoga has been a big success. I'd recommend it with enthusiasm.
A bit much
Despite this week's snow, Button and I went along as usual on Thursday to our weekly
exercise class in the park with a bunch of other people, the mothers wrapped in Gortex and fleece, the babies barely visible from under their layers of blankets, snowsuits and hand-knitted hats. At one point in the class we were lying - admittedly on our waterproof mats - on the remains of snow from earlier in the week. It's hardcore - but great fun and I've come to take the class for granted
as a great way to get some much-needed exercise. A few mothers
running round a park with their buggies no longer seems like anything out of the ordinary to
me. Others, it transpires, aren't yet quite so comfortable with the concept.
As I mentioned in a
previous posting, there's normally no shortage of comments from
passers-by - chiefly dog-walkers, allotment-owners, old ladies and other parents - as we
struggle past, cheered on by our trainer. But up until recently all of the comments have been
good-humoured. That was until this Thursday, when we were unlucky
enough to bump into a crowd of kids from the local secondary school out
on their lunch break. What they shouted out to us did not fall into the
'good-humoured' category.
Do I phone the head of the school in question - the little charmers had
uniforms that made them identifiable - and let him or her know that
male pupils are making a nuisance of themselves by harrassing - albeit in feeble fashion - mothers
and babies? I'm not under any illusions about how unfit I've become in
pregnancy, but it seems a bit much to have teenage hoodlums providing a
running critique of my physical failings. Or do I just rise above the situation and let it go? Yes, I may have already answered my own question.
Coming soon to a park near you....
Have joined a local exercise class that gets a group of new mums running round the park pushing their babies in buggies as they go. There's nothing like that shared sense of us all experiencing the same pelvic sagginess that the classes are designed to correct. In full formation we make quite a sight. As you might imagine, there's no shortage of comments from passers-by, almost all supportive, if also amused. "Holidays are over, girls," shouted one old lady to us, giggling as we trundled past. Another shook her head as she saw us, turned to her dog, then said: "You couldn't make this up." Someone else yelled over: "Well done!" and I wanted to hug her. New daughter (blog name yet to be decided) was delighted with the entertainment provided and grinned her appreciation at me from her cocoon. When all the mothers lay down on their waterproof mats for floor exercises she became a little fretful, obviously worried the power-walkers had taken mummy hostage, since I was out of sight to her up in the buggy. But she settled again quickly when I took her down from her buggy onto the picnic blanket with me. This is one of the areas where a class like this scores so highly - you can combine it with childcare, no need to arrange babysitting or beg a partner to watch the baby. It's obviously weather-dependent and classes are sometimes rained off (though the instructor was saying they'd been out in Edinburgh's January snow a week earlier) but people get round cold weather by running in gloves, hats, thermals and even leg-warmers. Theoretically, I could save money by running around the park on my own with daughter and buggy and get the same benefits, but I wouldn't have the nerve to do it alone and, in any case, it's more fun with other people. Edinburgh park-goers - you have been warned.
Butcher's girl
My husband is a gentle sort of character. A teetotal, poetry-writing chap who would - no, has - crossed a road to rescue a stranded caterpillar. A man who brings me flowers almost weekly, who runs up two flights of stairs to see me and the children in the evenings, who looked after me every step of the way through two difficult pregnancies and a miscarriage, bringing me supper and breakfast in bed, while making endless cups of tea, a man who allows my mother - his mother-in-law - to be a daily part of our family. However, our otherwise idyllic relationship has hit a stumbling block.
It's about diet. He is a committed vegetarian. Since having Button in July I have become a carnivore. I need lots of meat. Not just the odd bacon sarnie. But roast chicken, lamb and steak. Sausages. Burgers. Slices of ham. Daily. For the protein and iron? I don't really know. I just know I MUST HAVE MEAT. Like a junkie needs a fix. The cravings are as bad as in early pregnancy. When I wanted peanut butter, fruit and nut chocolate and strawberry milkshakes. Sometimes together. When I ate mushroom papardelle every night for a fortnight, Washed down with the aforementioned milkshake. Urgh, I feel sick just remembering.
Now I absolutely must have steak. At least every other day. Maybe it's the breastfeeding? Which, by the way, is going well now. After a shaky start. When it hurt so much my tears of pain and frustration were dropping onto poor Button's head.
The problem, well, no, not problem, but, let's say, the dietary challenge is that husband is a veggie of firm principle, unshakeable in avoiding all meat and fish. Shellfish actually makes him violently ill. And he can't bear animal suffering. For years now I've eaten the same veggie diet as him. Mostly for convenience. I can hardly remember the last time I cooked chicken or ate steak, except in a restaurant.
But now I need to produce two meals each evening - one veggie, the other with meat. New for me, and not as easy as it sounds. I am but a novice in the world of carnivores, as events yesterday proved.
It was with some trepidation that I yesterday manoeuvred the three-wheeler buggie containing Button into our local butcher's shop. We passed what I think were probably a brace of dead grouse (well, maybe not, they might have been pheasants, hard to tell; as I said, I'm no expert in the subject, but some manner of colourful, dead feathery birds, anyway). The smell of blood, meat and animal made me want to retch. Again, a happy reminder of early pregnancy.
Bits of guinea fowl, partridge, venison, veal, wild boar, haggis, black and white puddings lay in front of me, wrapped in plastic, the blood seeping to the edges of the packets.
"Can I help you?" asked one of the several men in bloodied uniforms behind the counter.
"Well, the thing is I need some more iron in my diet. But my husband's vegetarian...."
Cue hysterical laughter from all four men behind counter.
"So you've come here to buy him some meat?"
Mentally I cursed my tendency to talk too much when nervous. But found myself unstoppable.
"No, I haven't. It would need to be something you could serve for one. For me."
"How about a nice piece of liver," said one of the younger of the men. He held up something that looked like a human placenta.
"If you can stomach it," he added, concessionary.
"Errrrr...It's not really my thing, to be honest."
Another female customer piped up with a suggestion. My God. The whole shop was taking an interest in this ridiculous inquiry.
"How about beef stock? You could drink it? Or add it to a vegetable risotto"
Yuck! I thought. Plus, it wouldn't really be a vegetable risotto, would it, if it had beef stock in it? I mean, strictly speaking, Trades Description and all that.
But, brought up in Edinburgh, I said nothing and resorted to my polite laugh. The one that really means she's got to be taking the proverbial. No way am I replacing Twinings English Breakfast with some vile concoction of ground-up cow flesh. No way am I deceiving my poor vegetarian husband into consuming the same. I wanted to talk more about what she meant, but felt we had both the wrong venue and subject for a girly bonding session.
The first, older butcher produced a metal hook from behind the counter, the kind pinning the grouse/pheasants/patridges to the wall, which he waved in front of my face. I really wasn't sure where he was going with this gambit. Then all became clear.
"You could have this. Plenty of iron in this," he guffawed, pleased at his own wit. Oh, for goodness' sake.
Clearly, I have spent too much time with other new mothers, sensitive and thoughtful types who have forsaken high-flying careers for motherhood and take nutrition seriously. I had no idea how to respond to the hook's appearance. No repartee came to me. My hands were shaking. My only ally in this horror of blood, guts and border-line misogyny (or misplaced attempts at humour) was Button. Though only three months old, I sensed a mute sympathy from her. She gave me her crafty sideways look that seemed to say: "Together we're strong enough to get through this difficulty". Anyway, I felt better for looking at her.
I also looked at the other female customer, Beef Stock Woman, expecting a brief eye-meet between us, expressing shared horror at the medieval attitudes of these people, but nothing came back. I lowered my gaze. I couldn't help but suspect she was offended at my lack of warmth in response to her beef stock sally. And, although she could not have been in more than her mid-thirties at most, she had a shopping trolley with wheels by her side. Yes, one of those trollies. Like the ones people's grannies used to own. An indicator, just perhaps, that she and I might not see eye to eye on humour.
"Perhaps I'll just have some fillet steak," I said, injecting an artificial jollity into my voice, pride forcing me to try and preserve the pretence that I was in control of the sitation.
"Aye," said the older butcher, nodding as if I was a teenager who had seen sense at last, bowing to parental widsom on the dangers of late nights, bad boys and lentils. "How much would you like?""
We settle on a slab that would fill half a large frying pan.
I pay. But by this point I am so flustered by being plunged into this alien world that I drop some of my change. My eyesight is especially poor at the moment and I feel even more panicked than before. But, somewhat to my surprise, it is the first, older butcher, the one who thrust the hook in front of me, who insists on coming out from behind the counter to help me look for the missing coin. Even though it takes some minutes, and I suspect his eyesight isn't much better than mine, he sticks with the search until we find the money. All 5p of it. I feel relieved by the man's kindness. The world is a better, nicer place than I was beginning to suspect.
As Button and I (finally) reverse out of the shop, I catch another glimpse of the grouse/pheasant/indeterminate birds, still hanging on the wall where they were when we came in, having failed to attract any takers. Not only dead, but unwanted too. Oh dear. But perhaps I had more allies in the shop than I first feared. For was it my imagination, or did one of the birds give me a wink as I wheeled the buggy past her? Help comes in unexpected places, at unexpected times. We exit. I breathe deeply.
Neil Gaiman comes to Edinburgh
Sorry I haven't posted much of late, I've been concentrating on my lovely husband, Beanie and our baby girl, who is already twelve weeks old, and didn't want to forsake them - even temporarily - for the blogosphere. It's not just the time I would have had to spend writing posts, it was my fear that posting would lead to obsessive (no doubt unhealthy) checking to see if anyone had left a comment. So I didn't risk anything that would stick me behind a computer screen, instead of with the family, and had a complete break for a while. Also, let's be honest, I've been exhausted from the sleepless nights, though relieved and happy that our baby girl arrived safely. A few readers have kindly asked what it's like to have two children - I'll write more on this in future postings but let's just say for that I didn't know it was possible to love two little girls and their daddy as much as I love my lot. Life has been crazy (and wonderful too) but we're now more settled in our new roles as a family of hour (five, if you count Granny, bless her). Partly with that in mind I'm breaking radio silence to let Edinburgh readers know that best-selling fantasy writer (and ace blogger) Neil Gaiman, whose novel Stardust was made into the 2007 movie starring Clare Danes, Michelle Pfeiffer and Robert De Niro, is coming to Edinburgh next week to promote his new book The Graveyard Book. He'll be appearing at the Churchill Theatre on Tuesday, October 28, at 7pm. You can buy tickets (costing £5, redeemable against a copy of the book on the night) and find out more details here.
Paddington's Birthday
Any Edinburgh residents among you might be interested to know The Children's Bookshop is celebrating Paddington Bear's 50th birthday in the shop tomorrow. I am told there will be discounts on all Paddington books and free marmalade sandwiches available all day (bearing that in mind, we'll be taking some of these with us). There is also to be a colouring competition, the winner of which will receive a free copy of the brand new Paddington: My Book of Marmalade. written by 83-year-old author Michael Bond. If you get the chance, why not pop along and help celebrate a milestone in the life of a bear who must be Britain's best-loved illegal immigrant.
Appearing at Edinburgh Book Festival
All confirmed for my appearance at the Edinburgh International Book Festival on Friday, August 15 from 2pm to 3.30pm. An advance copy of the brochure arrived by post this morning. Here is the blurb about the event:
Books, Blogging and the Internet
How can writers best use the internet to produce and promote their work? Ex-Sunday Times journalist Helen Fowler, who secured her first book deal after publishers stumbled on her popular blog (you're reading it now) guides you through social networking, turning blogs into books and the benefits of an online presence.
Tickets (£12, £10 concession) go on sale to the public from 20 June and the brochure is available from tomorrow, 12 June. Please come along if you're in the vicinity.
Chasing butterflies
At the weekend I took Beanie to a place called Butterfly World,
on the outskirts of Edinburgh, the city where we live. She has been
talking about it ever since. Oh, that feeling of being able to do
something that made her happy. Wonderful. Butterflies (Beanie calls
them 'flies') fluttered overhead in an old greenhouse converted into a
sort of tropical paradise. Followed us, pirouetted, swooped out of nowhere. Beanie stumbled towards them, hands held out in greeting. Trays of oranges hung from the ceiling. Butterfly nosh?
We threw money in a wishing well, inspected carp, goldfish and a
catfish, eyed up iguanas, looked at terrapins and had a quick look at the reptile and creepy crawly section in a room at the back.
Being there made my skin crawl. But Beanie and I both loved Butterfly World.
Something alarmed me, though, as I bought my ticket. Sellotaped to the
counter was an advert. It read: "For sale. A large python. £40 ono.
Friendly and easy to manage."
Back on the buses
When I was a childless Londoner I used to sneer at bureaucrats who wanted to take our beloved Routemaster buses
off the streets. Those open platforms. Too dangerous, they said.
Dangerous? Hardly, I would think, hanging off the edge of the 19 as we
travelled along the King's Road, a barrage of rain, wind and grime
blowing in my face. 
Today whenever I see a Routemaster
(the one pictured left has been turned into a cafe) it reminds me of a
vanished era of first jobs, flatsharing, overdrafts, friendships and
early love affairs, of a time when I was unafraid of life. Of my first, often
bungled steps towards becoming a grown-up. Standing on the open
platforms, holding on with one hand, I felt, well, I felt free. Almost
as free as the occasional bedraggled pigeon that used to fly on board
to join us. Arriving in London from provincial 1980s Edinburgh, there
was a thrill to standing on the open platforms, careering through the
streets of the metropolis. Able to hop on and off at will. No need to
wait for officialdom to release us at a bus stop.
They phased out the final Routemasters
a few months after I got married, left London for good and became
pregnant. It was Ken Livingstone who got rid of them. The same Ken who
once said, "Only a dehumanised moron would get rid of the Routemaster".
This weekend my husband Va-vay was in London and brought back a wooden Routemaster
bus (No 43 to London Bridge) for Beanie. To her father's dismay, she
was more interested in the body lotion he brought back for me,
discarding the bus after a cursory inspection and spending half an hour
annointing her cheeks and arms with jasmine and ylang ylang cream. As well as her eyes, mouth, hair and tongue. She
gave me a pitying smile when I pointed out to her that her two-year-old
skin didn't require hydrating. The same way I ignored my mother when
she told me I didn't need full make-up, aged 13.
As for me, all I could think of as I looked at the bus was how hard it would be get a buggy on board one of them (an issue close to my heart).
How frightening it would be if the buggy rolled back off the bus onto
the road. Whether the brake would be strong enough to keep baby and
buggy safe. Spiritually, you see, I have become as one with those bureaucrats.
Auld Lang Syne
Friday 25 January is Burns' Night here in Scotland, when we celebrate the life of national hero and poet Robert 'Rabbie' Burns. Va-vay and I are excited about going to a Burns' Supper in honour of the great man - Va-vay's first Burns Night - and Va-vay has even hired a dinner suit for the occasion. He did have the option of wearing a kilt, but with him being a Sassenach (Englishman) we thought the DJ option best. I'll be wearing a flowing empire-line dress that sort of hides my bump. Erica from Littlemummy has a great guest post at Scribbit on Rabbie Burns and the tradition of Burns Suppers.
Off duty
Beanie went to Granny's for a night at the weekend. So Va-vay and I went out and painted the town red, clubbing till all hours.... okay, no, we didn't. But we did manage dinner out at one of our favourite restaurants, where we did lots of the usual soppy stuff like reminisce about how we met, dream about moving to France one day and plan our next holiday. What a treat to stroll home via Edinburgh's cobbled Georgian streets, without worrying about rushing back for babysitters. This is the first time Beanie's stayed at her Granny's in a year and my goodness, did I enjoy it. I hadn't realised how much time I spend worrying about whether she's okay when on duty. It was delicious lying there in bed not wondering if Beanie would wake up, whether I should try Calpol, or take her into bed with us. But of course, in the morning I missed her cherubic little face, the sound of her giggles, her toddler truck slamming into a wall, a half-eaten rice cake waved in greeting. We rushed over to Granny's, where we found Beanie and Granny had worn each other out - with Beanie settling only at about midnight. Beanie cried at being parted from her Granny. For her part Granny, who normally never sleeps during the day, said she planned on catching up on sleep after lunch.
A spot of shopping
"What is it with you and your clothes?" I ask Va-vay.
We are sat in an Edinburgh cafe planning the final shopping onslaught before Christmas. My cup of hot chocolate must steel me for the fight with battalions of shoppers who are advancing on the city's shops like scavenging hordes. I have presents for everybody except Va-vay, who is unable to think of a single thing he might like for Christmas (saving arcane items of geekery that I do not understand well enough to purchase).
"What do you mean?" he replies. "I buy clothes, I wear them; they wear out. That's it."
This description barely does justice to the war of attrition Va-vay wages on his clothes.
"Yes, but Va-vay, the clothes disintegrate on you. Within months. Weeks even. Remember the Thomas Pink shirts?"
We both fall silent at the memory of the shirts, now reduced to dish rags and eking out their last days in a bucket under the sink.
"That wasn't my fault," says Va-vay. "Something in the fabric attracted stains." As if a laundress had put a curse on them. A Vanish-proof jinx that would defeat the housewives of Harry Potter.
"What about your socks, then?"
I've got the trump card here. Va-vay (who has size 14 feet) has issues with socks that not even his optimism can deny. They tend to sprout holes within weeks and his toes peep out to greet the world.
I've bought socks from all the obvious sock-buying places,
thinking somewhere must have some that fit his feet. In vain. Our home is full of
greying, unmatched socks that have wilted at the challenge of clothing
Va-vay's feet. At night, his feet stick out the end of the duvet. Large and vulnerable.
I have offered to knit him socks, but Va-vay has declined, saying his skin allergy makes him sensitive to wool. Yes, it's hard to believe this is the same man who dashed across a busy B road to save the life of a caterpillar he saw stranded on the tarmac.
"Don't buy me expensive socks for Christmas," he says. "They're no better than the cheap ones."
"Va-vay, you do want something for Christmas, don't you?"
"You've got me a hat. That's enough."
"No! It's not enough. I want to buy my husband a nice present for Christmas. Why won't you co-operate in this? There's pleasure in giving as well as receiving, you know. You're making it very difficult."
"Oh, alright, alright. What about a pair of trousers?"
As well as having feet at the more err, generous end of the spectrum, Va-vay is also tall (around 6ft 6in). As you might imagine, trouser-buying has its challenges. We trail from shop to shop, meet assistants who laugh at us or cannot help, while elbowed by fellow shoppers who refuse to move aside for the buggy. I am paranoid that a stranger will touch me and cling to Va-vay. Our search for the right sort of trousers is proving fruitless.
Eventually, I spot a countryside shop purveying guns, Barbours, goggles, corded strawberry trousers, tweed caps, padded waistcoats and any other accoutrement you could imagine the sporting gent about town might need.
"Look, Va-vay, we could get you a pair of plus fours!" I tell him in excitement.
Va-vay glances in the window at the dummy done up in a pair of moleskin pantaloons that finish just below his knees. A shotgun trails by his side. Compared to his friend (in canary yellow trousers), his get-up looks almost sophisticated.
"Any pair of trousers is like plus fours on me," he says, with resignation.
We turn from the knickerbockers, and head for home.
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Happy Birthday, Mother at Large
Posted by Va-vay (husband of Mother at Large)
Regular readers of this blog will know that Mother at Large has hinted that she is nearing her fortieth birthday. Personally, I have no reason to believe that this is true - I think she has just been trying to reinforce her credentials as an older mum. However, she is now claiming that the day has actually arrived! Just in case it really is her fortieth, you are invited to a virtual party to celebrate. As you'll have noticed, I have provided balloons! Please feel free to add congratulations, encouragement or words of wisdom in the comments section.
Mother at Large's own reflections (posted on the eve of her birthday) follow...
Tomorrow I officially enter Vintage Chick territory with my 40th birthday. Am I bovvered? Well, strangely, no. I follow an inverse logic for milestone birthdays, the older I get, the more I enjoy them. Do other people feel this way? You'd think it would be the other way round, but no, life has got better for me as I've got older. Ten years ago, when I turned thirty, I was on the shelf, childless and
without even a boyfriend. I had to work my guts out in a job I didn't
much like, doing unpaid overtime till all hours, and commuting two
hours daily from one of London's scarier outer boroughs, walking to and from Kensal Green Tube past drug dealers and their victims.
Somehow I've managed to turn a corner over the last ten years - I'm lucky in that I do interesting work, live in a beautiful city, am married to the man I love and we have our beautiful daughter Beanie. I don't always like seeing the bags under my eyes, or fatter belly, but they're a badge of honour - show that I'm a mother now.
I'm realistic. Soon, I'll need reading glasses and will
go on Saga cruises. I'll embarrass my family by buying their presents
out of catalogues selling gadgets for trimming ear hair, orthopaedic
slippers and jam jar openers. I'll splash out on complicated trolley-and-hot-plate arrangements for ferrying food from kitchen to table, and
invest in a tartan shopping bag with wheels I push into people's legs,
unapologetically, while at home I hoard cupboards of biscuits that would allow me to survive a
siege. I'll develop crushes on children's TV presenters and give Granny a run for her money in Sudoko and crosswords. I
might even take up golf - you can't fight these things, they come to us all in the end. But I couldn't be happier. I might even chance my arm and say, yes, I'm actually looking forwards to tomorrow.
Fill your boots at Fidra Books
A quick reminder that Edinburgh's new, independent children's bookshop opens its doors for the first time this Saturday (10 November). You can find Fidra Books at 219 Bruntsfield Place, Edinburgh, just along the road from Holy Corner. Vanessa Robertson, the firm's director, is a staunch ally of this site and fellow blogger who deserves every success with the new shop. I'm chuffed to bits for her and telling everybody I know about the launch. Please go along and support the shop by buying some of her books. She's stocking more than a thousand titles, including the fifteen Fidra has published. Aside from Vanessa being a personal friend (I think she'd agree with that) we need shops like this to stop our high streets melting into a parade of identikit chains.
More personally, I can hardly wait until Beanie's old enough to enjoy browsing in Vanessa's shop. Some of my happiest childhood memories are visiting bookshops with my mother, and I want to do the same thing for my daughter. I come from a fairly modest background (despite what certain readers of the Edinburgh Evening News think) but my mother believed books were the best investment you could make and used to produce her James Thin account card for all sorts of children's books like Ballet Shoes, Tom's Midnight Garden and The Secret Garden. They opened the door into a new and enchanted world I never wanted to leave.
As Vanessa's written on her blog, many people have an emotional attachment to book shops possibly because they remember buying books there that have shaped their lives, ideas, aspirations, dreams, perceptions and imaginations. Buying on-line is never going to be the same for a small child as wandering around in a cornucopia of real books. Go on, if you get the chance, pay a trip to the new shop. Just don't expect to find any Katy Price pony books, though. Vanessa won't be stocking any. As she told The Scotsman, "We won't stock rubbish." Quite right too.
Coming over all McCall Smith
An 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.
The 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.
Vote on your 'Treasured Places'
Those of you who live here in Scotland might be interested in Treasured Places, a free on-line poll to choose the country's favourite historical image. It's run by the Royal Commission on Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland , a heritage organisation that documents Scotland's past, and voting remains open until Thursday (25 Oct). The Commission is staging the vote to celebrate its 100th anniversary next year. 
Voters can choose from a hundred pictures that range from shots of the Dean Bridge, Edinburgh (top left) to Craigievar Castle, Aberdeenshire (middle left), Drum Castle, also in Aberdeenshire, (bottom left) and Elgin Cathedral in Moray. There are some gems in there, such as images of the Churchill Barrier at Scapa Flow, Abbotsford House in the Borders, the Bell Rock Lighthouse in Angus, and the Bilsland Crest from the Thistle Chapel in St Giles Cathedral. Or you can nominate your own image.
The top ten images will feature in a major centenary exhibition at the Edinburgh City Art Centre in 2008 and the winner will be celebrated by a poem written by Valerie Gillies. The winner will be announced on Saturday (27 Oct). Lest you wonder about my involvement in the project (and, please, no jokes, thank you all the same, about historical monuments/older mothers, really not in the mood), let's just say one of the organisers is a close relative of someone who comments on this site frequently. Beyond that, my lips are sealed.
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First year of motherhood tests us all
For most new mothers the year after having their first baby turns out to be the loneliest in their lives, according to a survey from Tesco and Mother and Baby magazine. Cut off from families, friends and work colleagues, almost half of new mums feel 'lonely and isolated'. Nine out of ten miss the social life they enjoyed before the baby arrived and around two-thirds 'feel cut off from normal life'. Only around a quarter lived in the same town as their parents.
The Mail quotes Elena Dalrymple, editor of Mother and Baby, saying: "Leaving work and having a baby is a huge physical and emotional adjustment for women. Friends without babies drift off, grandparents live miles away, neighbours are barely on nodding terms, other mums you bump into at the shops aren't your type and the social life you once knew has ground to a halt."
My experience was quite the opposite: I found myself meeting all sorts of new people when Beanie arrived and have been extremely fortunate in making friends with other mums from our ante-natal class and other groups. It's not over-stating things to say they've been a life-line in some difficult times.
Having a child also meant I got to know some of our neighbours. We used to have a little cafe at the end of our street and before it closed would gather there for coffee and a chat, without having to make any arrangement beforehand. We'd just wander in and chat to whoever was there. Having a child has helped me feel part of a community. It's been great.
On the downside, I've inevitably met people with whom I had little in common except having a child at the same time - but that's hardly surprising. Some of the mums-and-babies events have had their excruciating side.
Sample conversation:
- "Which school are you thinking of for Beanie?" Beanie being two or three months old at the time of questioning. Mind you, I am also guilty of this line of questioning. Schooling is an Edinburgh obsession. Perhaps also elsewhere?
- "My little Fionulla's been sleeping through the night since she was ten weeks. We have to wake her in the morning." GRRRRRrrrrrrr.....
- "Surely you feed her 100% organic! Don't you know what goes into pesticides?"
- "Ranulph's such an active little boy. Girls are so much more passive, aren't they?" On hearing this, a little girl called Arabella (nine months) clouted poor Ranulph (her junior, at six months, and not so very active after all) round the ear. Sins of the parents and all that...
- "Was that a shop-bought cake I spotted?"
These days I don't see as much of Ranulph and his doting mum. But many of us mums who had babies around the same time still enjoy meeting up. Perhaps if I hadn't seen this survey published next to a story about how successful, beautiful women can't find boyfriends, (not something I've ever noticed) it wouldn't have made me think of a comment by Julie Burchill that some newspapers can't bear the idea that there might be a woman somewhere in the world who is - terrible thought! - enjoying herself.
Sharp exit
Sorry not to have posted in a couple of days, but I've been unwell. It came on in the second half of The Winter's Tale, just as everything in the play was looking so promising. Florizel and Perdita were off to Sicily to escape his disapproving dad, all the unpleasantness in the first half (Leontes, pictured below with Paulina, going mad and accusing poor Hermione of adultery) was in the past and things had taken a turn for the better. We even had good seats, despite finding our £13 tickets for an upper-circle box meant we could see about a quarter of the stage. An usher, summoned by Va-vay, agreed there was no view from our box worth seeing and showed us to the front of the dress circle. 
All was well, until I couldn't help noticing, really noticing the smell of a glass of red wine belonging to the woman next to me. The vapour wafted out of the plastic cup like there was super-strength alcohol in there, making my stomach churn. Someone else's perfume smelt stronger than usual. The theatre was too hot, my head started to spin and I whispered to Va-vay that I wasn't well. We beat a retreat, without seeing the 'statue' of Hermione come to life in the final scene.
The evening finished with me being sick in the car park - spattering my new suede boots purchased
in France in the process - while Va-vay paid for our parking ticket. I did get hopeful this sickness might mean I was pregnant, until Va-vay reminded me it was probably the same bug Beanie had earlier in the week. Still, at least we stuck around long enough to see Shakespeare's most famous stage direction: ''Exit,
pursued by a bear". Without wanting to snigger. As exits go, not so much less dignified than our own.
Children's bookshop opens in Edinburgh
Like all right-thinking people, Va-vay and I love bookshops; maybe it's the thrill of knowing something I find there might change my life, the studious atmosphere, the smell of paper and ink, neat rows and shelves of books. We even went to one (Borders at 120 Charing Cross Road) on a first date together. So we're delighted that Vanessa from Fidra Books is opening a shop specialising in children's books here in Edinburgh, at 219 Brunstfield Place. The shop opens on Saturday 10 November and we can't wait to spend Saturdays there browsing and buying books.
Despite being a City of Literature and home to the annual International Book Festival, Edinburgh suffers from an acute shortage of bookshops, unless you count the many charity shops in Stockbridge that sell second-hand books. Last year's closure of the much-loved Ottakers' store in George Street has left a gap in the lives of book-lovers. So news that Vanessa is opening up her store couldn't be more welcome.
While we were in France we enjoyed visting a children's bookshop in Avignon, where I ended up spending far more money than I really intended on several books, including one about a little girl called Mouflette Papillon and one of the popular Babarpapa titles. Now I'm even more excited about the Fidra bookshop opening.
Fidra Books is an independent Edinburgh-based publisher that specialises in reprinting neglected children's classics by authors including Josephine Pullein-Thompson, Elinor Lyon, KM Peyton and Victoria Walker. Vanessa, a fellow Edinburgh blogger, will also be running her publishing business from the new shop, a bit like Persephone Press does in London.
Vanessa's promised that when Fashionably Late, the book I'm writing about becoming a mum later in life, comes out, she'll have me round to her shop to do a reading for new mums and mums-to-be. I'm still at the stage of roughing out my chapter headings, but that's an incentive to keep me on track if ever I heard one.
Long before that, I'm looking forwards to the shop's launch on 10 November, when the doors open for business and Vanessa will be giving away lots of Maisie Mouse gifts to the first customers over the threshold. There will also be the chance for children to meet some of their favourite characters from books in real life.
Oh, and that's Christmas sorted then.
Edinburgh Mum
One of the lovely things about my holiday was coming home and reading the nice comments so many of you left on the site. Thanks to all who commented while I was away. It made for a great welcome home. Another holiday treat was the chance to catch up on some reading, since I went cold turkey on blogging while we were away and left the laptop at home. One of the books I enjoyed best was Alexander McCall Smith's new book The Careful Use of Compliments, the latest in the Sunday Philosophy Club series. Chosen not (just) because it's set in my native Edinburgh, but for the back-cover promise of material on the challenges of late motherhood. 
It was a surprise to find out that Isabel Dalhousie, the book's wealthy philosopher heroine, has just become a new mum. McCall Smith has always been coy on her exact age, but in previous books in the series, I imagined her to be in her 50s. Past child-bearing age, anyway. I mean, for goodness' sake! She drives a Volvo. A green Volvo. She has a housekeeper, (who does most of the child-rearing). She disapproves of her niece Cat's boyfriends and hassles her to dump them. It sounded like she belonged to a different generation to mine, and, well, I fear I'm at the outer limits of childbearing myself. So I jumped to the wrong conclusion.
At the beginning of Careful Use, McCall Smith drops a bombshell. We discover that Isabel remains disapproving of Cat's choice in men. But she has pinched one of the most attractive of the suitors, Jamie, a man 14 years her junior, for herself. And had a baby with him. A baby that arrives "under the bright lights of the Royal Infirmary." The same place where I had Beanie. Crikey!
Now, let me stress here that I am a huge fan of McCall Smith. In fact I pretty much idolise him. My good friend Iota has even suggested I could be a character in one of his books. But even so, I couldn't help feeling irritated about the (fictional) boyfriend-pinching. Part of the point about Isabel is that she's supposed to agonise with herself about right and wrong. Yet this is about the one area in her life where she doesn't bother with questioning or guilt about her behaviour. It doesn't even seem to occur to her that it might be wrong to get together with a relative's ex-partner.
Isabel's brush with motherhood comes off badly in the book, too. She gets huffy that the local mums and babies group doesn't welcome her with open arms and blames this on her decision to bottle-feed baby Charlie, after finding breast-feeding 'uncomfortable'.
McCall Smith explains: "She had been a member - briefly - of a mother and baby group in Bruntsfield and she had been given looks of disapproval by one or two of the mothers when she had revealed she was not feeding Charlie herself. Those women knew, she thought; they knew that there could be some very good reaons for it, but they could not help their zeal. And she had felt guilty, although she knew it was irrational to feel guilt for something that one could not help."
This must be testimony to McCall Smith's skills as a writer that I responded to this passage with such annoyance, as if this were real-life. I can't agree that people in mums-and-babies groups would treat Isabel like that because she wasn't breastfeeding. They might have raised an eyebrow after hearing about her copping off with a younger relative's partner. They might have wondered why the housekeeper looked after the baby, rather than Isabel.
They might also have been a bit strange towards her due to sleep deprivation since, unlike Isabel, they didn't have a housekeeper to look after their babies. And they might also have wondered about Isabel's decision to spend her baby's early months investigating fraud in the Edinburgh art world, instead of caring for the little boy. But objecting to her bottle-feeding?
Still, I agreed with McCall Smith on the subject of maternal modes of transport. "The mothers in the expensive four-wheel-drive vehicles were the worst, [Jamie] had decided. Why did they need these fuel-hungry contraptions in their urban lives? To barge their way past other, smaller cars, or to make a statement about who they were and what they had?" Judged against that, Isabel's Volvo doesn't look so bad after all.
Angst Books Breastfeeding Daughters Edinburgh Etiquette Older mother Work vs mothering
Grand finale
Beanie's playgroup reconvenes later this month in our local church, now that the Polish theatre group performing there has packed up its lorry of props, grease paint and other kit and headed south like swallows.
Come snack time this autumn, when the toddlers are feasting on slices of banana, bread sticks and raisins, it'll be nice to think the church was home for a while in this year's Fringe to a troupe of actors who saw the snack area as their performance space. The buggy park was their box office; playtime their showtime.
Judging by their press board, the group had a good season; they won lots of awards in the local and national press, and played to packed houses. Their being here in the neighbourhood lent a touch of glamour to these all-too familiar streets and made me proud to have them here.
So proud, in fact, I didn't even mind (well, not that much) when they stood outside on the streets smoking roll-up cigarettes and looking blank when I asked (politely!) if they could let me get the buggy past. They looked so young, in their uniform black jeans and jumpers. Ah me!
All the other actors, comedians, authors, musicians and film-makers who have made Edinburgh such a fun place to be in August have also packed up for another year. Last night marked the finale to the Edinburgh International Festival, with the Bank of Scotland Fireworks Concert (pictured) that Va-vay and I were lucky enough to be able to watch from our sitting-room window.
There are lots of good things about the end of the Festival. Easier to get a table in cafes. Freedom to walk through town without reluctantly accepting a dozen cards for shows I have no intention of seeing. No feeling bad that performers put their heart into this event, and yet so many Fringe shows attract an audience not much out of single figures. Fewer posters of needy, identikit comedians.
But when I saw workmen dismantling the marquees for the Edinburgh International Book Festival in Charlotte Square I couldn't help but suffer a small pang of loss.
The Book Festival was fantastic; I travelled back to fourteenth century England when Simon Armitage spoke about his translation of Gawain, wished I had half the talent of Kitty Aldridge and Esther Freud, who spoke together about their new novels, felt I learn more in an hour at a wonderful creative writing class by Kate Mosse and Greg Mosse than I've done in a term at other classes and was scared stiff by Ian McEwan in conversation with Ian Rankin (so much so that afterwards I sprinted across the rain-logged lawn to locate Beanie and be sure she was still safe).
I delved into the hidden world of obstetrics at a talk from Janice Galloway and Alan Warner, imagined myself travelling the silk road with Colin Thubron and braved Arctic ice with Benedict Allen. Closer to home, I was entertained by Antonia Swinson's uplifting stories of life on her Edinburgh allotment. It's been inspiring and magical by equal turn. So while it's good to have playgroup back, I'll see it with different eyes after this summer.
Becoming a Mother
Enjoyed hearing Kate Mosse, the author, that is, not the supermodel, speak at the Edinburgh Book Festival earlier this week. Mosse wrote the excellent Becoming a Mother at the start of her writing career, before becoming an international best-seller with her novel Labyrinth. Becoming a Mother is a wonderful book, deceptively simple yet powerful, that helped launch Mosse's fiction writing. And it's helped me immensely too, lifting the guilt and grief I've been struggling with since a miscarriage in May.
Reading Becoming a Mother, I'm reminded of that famous line from Alan Bennett in The History Boys, about how we read books to find that hand stretching out through the darkness to take ours. Bennett's referring to the joy and relief of finding a kindred spirit on the written page, meeting someone who's experienced the same feelings as ourselves when we thought we were alone in them.
Unlike most of the many books I've read on pregnancy and childcare this book doesn't judge any of the ordinary women who feature in it. Instead it tells their stories, starting from the decision to try for a baby through to the early days caring for a newborn. Without preaching or pedantry. Not once does she lay claim to being an expert. Not once does she lay down the law.
Mosse manages to get inside women's heads, and gives voice to many of the conflicting emotions we feel. She understands the rollercoaster of ovulation kits and pregnancy tests, the obsessive weeing on sticks, the running to the loo to check for bleeding every twenty minutes.
On the subject of miscarriage, Mosse quotes one woman unlucky enough to suffer this experience saying:
"I know it is better to lose an abnormal baby - but the loss coincides with the ambivalent feelings you have at the start of the pregnancy. Half-feeling it was a bad idea - even if the pregnancy was planned - just makes you feel guilt when you do miscarry."
That's exactly how I felt when I had a miscarriage in May and I blamed myself for having felt daunted by the prospect of looking after two babies, both of them under two. I thought the new baby must have sensed my ambivalence and thought better of joining us, but couldn't admit this to anyone. Somehow reading that other women have felt the same way has helped me see it's ridiculous to torment myself like this.
Bad mother
It's a tricky business, being a mum and an individual. This morning I did something bold and daring, something few mums dare to do - I did something for myself. It wasn't easy, but I persevered, despite all my torment and guilt.
My first crime: taking the phone from my daughter so I could make the necessary calls.
An attempt to placate Beanie by offering her the TV remote control fails.
She simply gives me a look that said: "I'm no fool, you know. I see straight through you. I know you're trying to fob me off with some silly pretend phone."
I feel crushed, though no words have been said.
I remember how only an hour or so earlier she kicked her legs in delight when I fetched her out of her cot and beamed her best smile at me, how she laughed and smiled so readily at me when I played peek-a-boo from behind the shower curtain, how she tried to feed me some of her breakfast, even though I had my own toast and marmalade.
But I really, really need the phone to book some tickets for a couple of Festival events this evening.
I make the call and all hell starts to break loose. Not only have I stolen Beanie's favourite toy, but (my second crime) I am ignoring her and I think she might have also sensed my longer-term objective (third crime) of planning an evening out on my own while her dad babysits.
At first I hope she might settle down after a few minutes. Fat chance.
An attempt to buy on-line doesn't work any better and the computer freezes as I go to click 'submit'. By now tears are rolling down Beanie's face, and I feel like the worst mother in the world as I fight my own rising hysteria.
The guilt's almost unbearable and I force myself to remember how when I was pregnant I was so sick with nausea and joint pain I managed to go out roughly four times in the entire nine months. One of those occasions was an ill-fated trip to the Edinburgh Tattoo, which ended in me throwing up outside the Castle under the wary gaze of a soldier armed with a machine gun.
Someone once told me: 'The healthy mother takes time for herself'. Why can't I believe that's true?
Intermittent shrieking has intensified into one long wail, punctuated only with heart-wrending pauses to draw breath. Only ten minutes have passed, but it feels like eternity.
The computer creaks back to life. 'Your order is confirmed' flashes up on screen. Just as this happens a human being speaks to me on the phone. At least, I think it's a human being, though Beanie's screaming so hard it's difficult to be sure.
Then my brain clears and at last I know what to do. I pick up my daughter, cuddle her close to me and listen to her heaving sobs subside.
Will my guilt lend an extra piquancy to the festival events? Or will I sit there kicking myself for being so selfish? Who knows. She's sleeping now, as I write this. When she wakes up I'll give her my undivided attention - all afternoon.
Angst Books Childcare Daughters Edinburgh Festival Guilt Out and about
The way to a girl's heart
The Bean remains in the smash-and-grab phase of her infancy, an uncompromising stage in which she displays no inhibitions whatsoever about seizing other people's belongings, but hangs onto her own with grim determination. Since I'd like her to grow up with at least a few friends, we're working on those social skills, and so while browsing in the signing tent at the Edinburgh International Book Festival yesterday (oh, okay, I admit it, hanging around to sneak glances at Richard Dawkins who was there signing copies of his latest book The God Delusion), I found this lovely book by Julia Donaldson, author of The Gruffalo, called Sharing a Shell. 
I've bought Sharing a Shell in the hope it will help teach Beanie about sharing and friendship, since the book is a gentle parable (of sorts) about how we relate to other people, but now I'm wondering if we can learn that sort of thing from a book, whether in fact these are life lessons we have to figure out for ourselves. But I'm such a believer in books' abilities to have transformational effects on our lives I couldn't resist purchasing a copy.
Watching our sixteen-month-old children playing last week in a walled garden at an Edinburgh art gallery, and laughing kindly at my attempts to rein in Beanie's exuberant behaviour, a friend commented to me that children really learn mostly by example, while telling them what to do achieves little. When I look back at my own childhood, that's certainly true, and I think (though others may disagree) that children are acutely sensitive to parental hypocrisy (saying one thing, doing another). Oh dear, in that case I'd better behave myself then and set a good example to my daughter of sharing and friendship.
Still, I don't think Sharing a Shell will prove a bad purchase, if only because, as the cover rightly publicises, it has "Glitter on every page". Now only rarely, very rarely, can that be a bad thing, and Beanie absolutely loves it. Indeed she was so enthralled with her new acquisition yesterday afternoon that she spent about ten uninterrupted minutes fingering the glitter with rapt attention, pausing only to scream at me in indignation when the book fell out of her buggy.
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Blog Fest
Guineapigmum, Erica from Littlemummy and I all met for a successful coffee and chat yesterday at one of my favourite childhood haunts, Victor Hugo's delicatessen, after Guineapigmum noticed a jokey comment here about setting up a Blog Fest to run alongside the several other festivals in Edinburgh in August and suggested we meet up.
Erica and I already know each other; we have children almost the same age, and have enjoyed meeting up a couple of times in the Botanic Gardens to chat about blogging and the delights (or challenges) of looking after our toddlers. Guineapigmum and I have swapped comments on each others' sites, but yesterday was the first time we met in person, and I'm glad to say we all had a good time chatting about the important things in life - like being mums, our children and blogging - before taking the younger children over to the swing park together.
It was great to meet up in person, encourage each other, swap tips and find out how we all make time to write postings while working and looking after families (I'm writing this as Beanie has her mid-morning nap, and the sound of her coughing means I'll have to end soon). Many thanks to Guineapigmum for taking the initiative to suggest it.
Yesterday made us all think it'd be great to get more of us bloggers together more frequently. Who knows? Perhaps in time we'll have a proper blog fest - and get to meet in
person lots of lovely fellow bloggers from around the country! Keep an eye out for details of future get-togethers.
It's Showtime
Continuing my occasional series of Edinburgh Festival updates, that I plan to run on Mother at Large throughout August, this rather forbidding Edinburgh church normally serves as home to Beanie's weekly playgroup, but has thrown out the babies to make temporary space for a Polish theatre group. Somewhere along the way it's also had a make-over for the Fringe, as these chalked sign posts show you. So instead of the usual melee of mums, buggies and babies milling around outside, earnest and unsmiling Polish thesps hang out, soaking up the ambience and having a quick fag. I haven't quite got my head around how the babies' snack area morphed into Theatre 2. But this is Edinburgh in August, after all....
Tony Blair - the Musical
Ever wondered how an ex-prime minister fills his time after leaving office? Well, seems he does like many aspiring comedians across the country and heads up here to the Edinburgh Fringe to tread the boards, make a (new) career for himself and enjoy the city's revelry. Oh, and, of course, get back in touch with that musical side that he didn't have time to indulge while he was busy being our premier. Except when he had that get-together with his mate Bill on sax. Tony Blair - the Musical, written by James Lark, is one of the hot tickets at this year's Fringe, (cast members pictured left). It's got an afternoon slot at the Gilded Balloon and sounds like so much fun I'm tempted to play hookie from work one day if I can get a ticket to it. Failing that, I might treat myself to this CD of the show produced by web-to-print specialists The Friday Project.
Fringe benefits
Here's another picture from our weekend out and about enjoying the Edinburgh festival; with The Bean in the foreground on my shoulders. I'll be running pictures most days throughout the various Edinburgh festivals to give you an idea of how much fun the city can be come showtime in August, when it becomes home to the world's largest arts festival.
One of the nicest things about being a parent in Edinburgh at this time of the year is the super-abundance of street theatre to entertain and divert children. On Saturday Beanie and I enjoyed watching a group of about twenty youngsters enact a graceful Oriental dance in Princes Street Gardens, under the stony gaze of Sir Walter Scott. The dance involved some clever stuff with red fans, that made a sound like gun shots as the dancers unfurled them.
Someone from the dance group gave Beanie a show flyer they'd found time to craft into an origami bird. I hate to be a cliche, but because all of this is so new and amazing to her, I find myself enjoying these seemingly simple events with a new appreciation and delight. That said, Beanie wasn't sufficiently overawed by the beauty of her origami bird to desist from chewing the poor creature's head off. But that could have been a sign of her appreciation. It's not always easy to interpret these things.
Later, up in the High Street, she enjoyed sitting on my shoulders to watch a unicyclist, the entire length of his back tattooed with feathery wings, entertain the crowds. Her dad took this picture of her, and has patiently explained to me about three times already this morning how to re-size it for the web. I think I've got it now.
Fringe Fun
The Edinburgh Festival Fringe has begun. Withnail-esque types in trailing overcoats have overrun the city, declaiming on street corners and entertaining us all with their madness. One flat in our street has turned into an art gallery, and the nearby church where Beanie normally goes to playgroup has evicted the babies to make way for a troupe of heavily-bespectacled Polish aesthetes, some of whom look like the living incarnations of Jean-Paul Sartre. It's not quite the Parisian Left Bank, but the city's great fun in August.
We got very excited when we heard the Tblisi Marionette State Theatre was doing a daily show nearby - perfect for the Bean! Though it was
performed in Russian with simultaneous English translation. Potentially quite hard-core for the under-fives. But even we flinched at the story content: a re-enactment of the Battle of Stalingrad.
We did take The Bean to her first ever live performance on Saturday, The Greatest Bubble Show on Earth, running at the Carlton Hotel, North Bridge, at 12 midday until 27 August. The Amazing Bubble Man made big bubbles with people inside, a foggy moon bubble, helium-filled and edible bubbles. He illuminated, sculpted and kissed bubbles. One man's love affair with... the bubble. It lasted 45 minutes, long enough to feel we got our money's worth, but not so long that the hordes of small children there got bored.
Strolling up the High Street, the epicentre of the month-long event, Beanie and I also met The Selfish Crocodile (pictured) who actually seemed like quite a friendly fellow when we bumped into him, we had a quick chat with an adventurous pigeon that wanted to drive a bus, and watched a knight in chainmail from Sword in the Stone clank past. Ooh, I love Edinburgh in August.
New me
Let's start with the good news. A mere 15 months after the Bean's arrival, I have slimmed down to the point where I no longer need to wear my old maternity clothes. People have, thank God, stopped a) asking when the baby's due (from the more brazen) and b) looking pointedly at my stomach.
And the bad news? The bad news is:
1. Trauma of ridding wardrobe of old and beloved maternity pantaloons
2. I have hardly any normal clothes left, not ones I fit into or could use anyway
3. After 15 months with a mix of statutory maternity pay and part-time freelance work, there's not much money to buy new threads.
4. The worst bit - I'm not doing very well at coming to terms with a symbolic end to The Bean's baby years.
First I piled up all my old maternity trousers, with their funny elasticated rigging that I dimly remember once, long, long ago, striking me as peculiar. They now seem alarmingly normal. The strange tweed maternity skirt from the Formes sale that I had to keep hitching up over my bump even at nine months. Cheap tops from Dorothy Perkins that fell apart in the wash.
Then I set to work on all the breastfeeding gear - breastfeeding nighties, breastfeeding camisoles, breastfeeding winter tops, breastfeeding T-shirts. Looking at the unironed pile of flannel on my bedroom floor, I did wonder if breastfeeding really does work out cheaper than bottles; that lot must have filled the NCT coffers by a few hundred quid. Here, too, it was hard to say goodbye. Flannel is very comfortable against the skin, you know.
Like maternity clothes, breastfeeding tops are another clothing peculiarity. From afar they seem normal, that is until you inspect them more closely and see the strange flaps, slits, panelling and apertures tucked away. The sight of them brought back happy memories: on a trip to the local art shop, the owner had to point out to me I'd neglected to close the flaps up again after feeding The Bean. Oops. Very bohemian.
About a dozen lovely glamorous greying nursing bras, including the badly-fitted one that had me in agony with a blocked duct, followed them into a storage basket. Even after all the early traumas of breastfeeding I was upset to see them all go, but I've steeled myself to draw a line and move on.
Then the following day, in one of those coincidences that are so uncannily in tune with personal circumstances they really shouldn't be a coincidence, a woman in the street stopped me to ask if I knew any good maternity wear shops in Edinburgh. I suppose she must have guessed I'd know, judging from The Bean's age. As I pointed up the hill to one place, tears welled up in my eyes, I cut the conversation short, and pushed The Bean away.
Update later the same day... it seems I spoke too soon. My kind neighbour saw me struggling in with five shopping bags earlier, and insisted on carrying two of them up the stairs to our second floor flat.... because she thought I was expecting. This is just intolerable. I look more pregnant than some of the women who really are. I have had to explain again I am not pregnant, though God knows I wish I were, (I spared her that part) and that I had a miscarriage. She looked mortified at her mistake, and I have just come off the phone to Va-vay in floods of tears.
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To Market
Yesterday, for the first time, we went to the Edinburgh Farmers' Market, which takes place every Saturday from 9am to 2pm on Castle Terrace. It's not a bad place to take a young child, though it can be hard to get a buggy through all the legs and there are no specific activities for kids that I could see.
But needless to say, The Bean was in heaven, with lots of people paying her attention, the smell of roasting meat, the holiday atmosphere - and of course the delicious, if rather expensive, food to sample, taste and buy.
We didn't focus on the more brutal side of the market and rushed her past the roast pig splayed out across the width of one entire stall, its snout tilted at an indignant angle, and the bloodied plastic bags of locally-reared ostrich and venison.
For my part, I liked the sense of being out in the countryside, even though the market takes place on the top of a multi-storeyed car park, about as urban a venue as you could imagine. All that locally-grown produce and so many farmers - I could almost smell haystacks in amongst the concrete.
The Bean notched up a couple of firsts - first taste of icecream (strawberry, fat-free) - and first taste of roast lamb, from a stall run by Cairns Farm, based out in the local Pentland Hills where Va-vay and I enjoy walking. She loved both, though I suspect a marginal preference for the ice-cream.
Queueing for my lamb roll, I did have a momentary pang for the poor beast that Beanie and I were to eat, and wondered if we'd maybe even seen the unfortunate lamb in question while on a walk. But then I decided I was being ridiculous and didn't let it bother me too much.
Va-vay, who is far more principled than me, is vegetarian, and made do for his lunch with a hummous sandwich that I thought looked pretty ordinary next to my roasted lamb. But he didn't seem to mind. One of the most annoying things about Va-vay is his saintliness.
One downside to the market is the shortage of benches and tables. We had to perch on the pavement next to a tree to eat our comestibles, as Va-vay likes to call food eaten on the move.
Once we started eating I became anti-social in the extreme to my lunch companions, just grunting mono-syllabically from time to time as I ate my lamb, garnished with both apple and mint and rowan jelly.
Too much chatter gets in the way of savouring every mouthful in peace, you see. As you can probably tell, I don't get out much these days. As we lose the bunker mentality of The Bean's first year, I'm hoping that will change.
Over the sea
I'm still getting the hang of blogging, so might be wrong about this. If so, please let me know. But I get the impression postings about things that go less well in my life are more interesting than happy rhapsodies about the Scottish countryside, flora, fauna and trees, or similar. Even I can only take so much of the "Hello Trees!" type of posting.
I would drop my cheerier postings altogether but I like to let you know about the happy side of my life. You see, I don't want to give the wrong impression that my life is one long misery-fest, because nothing could be further from the truth. So I try to include some more upbeat postings about the nice things that happen. But the nice postings can be, well, let's be honest, a teeny bit dull.
Perhaps all writing thrives on conflict, including blogging, and there ain't enough of that in 'my family day out' on the hills. But one of the several reasons why I blog - Gather material for a book on parenting! Release the frustrated journalist in me! - is to create a record of these early years with the Bean.
Before I blogged I kept a diary, now dusty and neglected, in which I recorded her milestones and stories of our days together. Mother at Large is the on-line equivalent. So I want her to see we had fun together, in amongst everything else.
Though speaking of family days out, there's one coming up next week that could be filled with conflict aplenty. Granny, Bean and I are planning to try and take the new hovercraft across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh to Fife (the Firth of Forth is pictured above) one day next week. For people who don't know Scotland that well, the Forth is a narrow strip of sea that runs inland from the North Sea across a good chunk of central Scotland.
Granny's especially keen because OAPs get on board free. Provided, that is, the grandchild of the OAP in question hasn't ransacked their handbag and lost their free bus pass.
I say 'try' to take the hovercraft because the Edinburgh papers are full of accounts of long queues for this service, with bust-ups between other OAPs who've had the same idea as Granny and have been waiting hours to get aboard.
The OAPs won't be the only ones to get tetchy at delays. Beanie will tolerate ten-minute waits max, before she goes nuclear, so if the queues are still as bad next week we'll have to turn back.
I'm not even sure what there is to do in Kirkcaldy, assuming we manage to get there.
The town's dubious claim to fame in my family is as the erstwhile home of my father's aunt - a redoubtable old lady who made her disapproval of my mother quite plain. According to Granny (who is from Yorkshire) this aunt said to my father at their engagement party: "Och! Could you not have found yourself a nice Scottish girl?" We didn't see much of this aunt - transport links to Fife and her range of social pleasantries being what they were.
I'll keep you posted on how we get on next week.
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Food, food, glorious food
My friend and fellow Edinburgh blogger Erica from Littlemummy, one of my favourite parenting sites, has tagged me in a food meme. Yum, yum, yum! Lots of lovely food in my tummy! So has dear DJ Kirkby from Exquisite Dreams (and Random Ramblings from an Anxious Mind) and Adventures of a Wild Hippie Child.
Ladies, are you trying to tell me something?!!! Well, okay, I confess, you've got it right. I am fond of my nosh. Though I'm not that large..... actually I'm normal-sized (but tall).
The Hippie Child blog, by the way, is excerpts from DJ's fascinating and colourful novel in progress about her bohemian childhood. Anybody who liked Esther Freud's enchanting child's-eye view novel Hideous Kinky
DJ's already changed the food meme rules, so I'm feel less bad that I'm going to write about one of my favourite eating places, as well as restaurants (as requested in the original meme). I didn't even know what a meme was until a few days ago. Oh, the shame of it. Here goes, then.
1. Hilltops (like those in the picture!)
Even the grottiest cheese sandwich tastes like manna from heaven if you've had to climb a hill before eating it. Same for a thermos of tea. Warming, refreshing, comforting in the great outdoors. Ordinary in most other places.
I take the time to appreciate food more when I've had to carry it on my back up a gradient all morning. And I've worked up an appetite. The last mangled sandwich I'd throw away at home becomes treasured sustenance outdoors.
Husband and I still rhapsodise about some Waitrose plum tart we shared atop a hillock on the South Downs when we were still "just friends".
2. Sprio & Co, 37 St Stephen Street, Edinburgh
Stylish and friendly Italian cafe in one of Edinburgh's loveliest streets. It rubs shoulders with the second-hand shops that reportedly inspired Edinburgh writer Anne Fine, author of Madame Doubtfire
3. A Room in the Town, 18 Howe Street, Edinburgh
Great for larger get-togethers. Convivial and bustling. Its big mural, pictured (left), gives an idea of what to expect. We go mostly at weekend lunchtimes, nowadays with The Bean. Lovely, warm atmosphere. Great food - at surprisingly reasonable prices. Meals work out cheaper than at Pizza Express. Locally-grown produce. Lovely, friendly staff. They still tease me about waddling in there 42 weeks pregnant with The Bean.
4. Petit Paris, 38
Family outing
It'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.
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Baby police
Following my mid-week rant about acronyms polluting the world of mothering, one of my correspondents
has gamely suggested I call myself Acromum. I'm flattered!
I could use the small remnants of my time not spent blogging, working or
looking after The Bean, to fight acronyms wherever I see them, armed
with nothing more than a hefty changing bag, toddler reins, broccoli
spears and some smelly old nappies.
That should bring people back to
earth and get them to drop these silly titles like SAHM and WAHM.
The ultimate deterrant, of course, would be disemvowelling.
If I had an arch-enemy, perhaps someone from the acronym-rich military
or medical professions, or even someone over at the Parenting Police HQ
- Ofmum - they could fight by wheeling out a copy of the Book of Acronyms that Ingenious Rose
alerted me to.
At the sight of the dreaded volume, I would instantly
wither into a pile of meaningless letters, spouting received wisdom set
down by well-meaning but mostly childless bureacrats who equate life
for a newborn in rural, war-torn Africa with arriving in a neurotic,
middle-class family in the Edinburgh New Town.
Much of the advice on
breastfeeding in the UK comes from global organisations concerned
primarily with developing countries. Yet it gets applied across the
board in developed, as well as poorer regions, even though the worst
many of us have to contend with is a scrap over parking places in
this city. Not exactly equivalent to civil war and the West Side Boys in Africa.
Though talking of conflict, there's also the issue of
differing parental opinions on the finer technicalities of parenting.
For example, how best to warm a bottle - which can lead to vicious,
internecine guerilla warfare.
"Don't add the powder before you heat the water, I've told you a million times!"
"What difference does that make? You're undermining my parenting!"
"You've got to add the powder afterwards. It's the microbes in the milk."
"Microbes? You're making this up. Oh, don't tell me you read it in one of your books."
Guess we forgot to be grateful there was no trip to a dank well involved. And took sterile water for granted.
Perhaps the Ofmum bureaucrats are right - and there's something to be
said for one-size-fits-all parenting (oh dear, almost felt an acronym
coming on there) - with baby police around the world marching to the
same step.
Then again, important differences remain. At least in Africa the enemy isn't someone who's meant to be on your own side.
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Lauriston Castle
We drove out on Saturday afternoon to Edinburgh's Lauriston Castle, which overlooks a narrow stretch of sea known as the Firth of Forth that coils out towards the North Sea. A misty mile or so across the water were the patchwork fields and hills of Fife, rising up from the sea. Poor, impoverished Fife is the butt of many an Edinburgh joke. "Best viewed from a distance," goes one saying. 'NFF' or 'Normal for Fife' is a cheeky medical term to describe alcohol and tobacco intake most of us would consider wildly excessive. Yet despite the reputed disappointment of its close-up reality, Fife offers a tantalising vista to all who live this side of the Forth.
On this misty Saturday Lauriston was grey, Edwardian and mysterious, untouched by time, as if pre-war beauties and their beaus might at any minute stroll through the clipped box hedges, past the Italianate rose garden, for a spot of tea on the lawns. Fittingly, the place turned out to be home to several croquet lawns (pictured above), not, it must be said, a sport I have ever had previous reason to associate with Scotland.
It wasn't just the croquet that reminded me of England. In places the grounds were almost as lush and verdant as the English countryside, testimony to the wet 'summer' we've been having up here.
Beautiful, mature trees - horse chestnut, cedar, oak and monkey puzzle - were dotted thickly across the grounds. Inspired by frequent visits to the Royal Botanic Gardens of Edinburgh, I'm learning more about trees from a small book from Dorling Kindersley. The trouble is matching up towering great trees with the little pictures in the book. The guide does have a little stick figure drawing next to its tree pictures, to show the scale, but I can't as yet always translate that to the jumbled mass of branch, trunk and leaf in real life.
Almost as unexpected as the untypically Scottish croquet lawns was stumbling on a beautiful Friendship Garden created in the castle's grounds to celebrate Edinburgh's links with the Japanese city of Kyoto. Formal, yet peaceful, that garden was more relaxing than aromatherapy, massage or The Bean's Baby Lullabies CD. Helped by two recent viewings of the film Lost in Translation, I managed to identify some Japanese cherry trees there, which made me happy. Soon I'll become a paid-up tree spotter with anorak, measuring tape and notebook.
The Bean was entranced by the pebbles in the 'dry' garden, which required some methodical sorting, examination and tentative licking before she allowed me to replace them.
The Mad Hatter would have felt quite at home inviting guests to a tea party in the grounds of Lauriston Castle. The Queen of Hearts could have held court, while the yew trees came to life and watched her preside over a ghostly game of croquet on the lawns, played perhaps by some of the castle's stone lions that she had ordered back to life for the occasion.
Fathers' Day
It's been months now, and I still haven't got over the demise of Ottakars' bookshops.
Every time I walk past the scaffolding in front of their old Edinburgh shop, I suffer a small pang of loss.
Now book-buying is either on-line or at a well-known chain of supermarkets masquerading as book shops. Hobson's Choice.
Maybe it's the funereal decor they use at the Chain. Maybe it's the taciturn assistants who look so wretched. Whatever the reason, I rarely linger.
Yesterday The Bean and I visited the Chain to buy her dad Kevin McCloud's Grand Designs Handbook for Fathers' Day today. Part of my master plan to build and live in our place in the countryside.
Also a sad reflection on how much early-evening telly we watch.
Kev's books live in the windowless basement. He wouldn't like it there. Bet his books don't either. Not inspiring, or heart-felt, uplifting or architecturally coherent. No irony, no fun, no taking the mick. Just lots of black. Someone should write and let him know.
Another downer is the lack of proper customer lift.
An assistant insists on accompanying us in the service lift. Presumably lest The Bean and I disappear, steal their books and vanish.
Try getting her to talk about books, though.... they might as well be selling sausages.
The service lift lowers itself down to us with impossible slowness. I wheel The Bean in; our minder follows. The outer door closes. The assistant reaches across to the inner gate. It draws shut with a resounding clang.
Striking out
Golf clubs and other private members' establishments will no longer be
able to ban women members from their bars or discrimi
nate in any other
way on gender grounds under a shakeup of equality laws unveiled today.
Oh happy day. And about time, too. Delighted to read this story in today's Guardian, after my weekend rant about being thrown out of a stuffy Edinburgh golf club a couple of years ago while six-months pregnant for wearing trainers.
The Guardian quotes a source at the Department of Communities and Local Government, which
is publishing today's green paper, saying: "We firmly believe that people
being treated as second class citizens when a club is open to all is
simply not on." Hurrah. It's not that I want to hang around golf clubs, you understand, in Edinburgh or elsewhere. But I'd like to make my own mind up about that, thank you very much.
Years ago I had to interview a self-important old buffer at his "gentlemen's club" in St James' in London. The porter insisted I don an ancient elasticated club skirt before going into the restaurant, lest the "gentlemen "- huh, as if - be upset by my Jigsaw trouser suit. Hope they legislate against that sort of nonsense too, soon.
Hug a tree
My 14-month-old daughter is afraid of trees. This is what comes of living in a city-centre flat. No garden, no shed, no trees. Never mind. I have plans for our astragal (Edinburgh-speak for minute iron balcony, home to pot of red geraniums) and last week I took her to the lovely private gardens up the road from us in Edinburgh's Queen Street, annual subscription £70 (visited four times, not my best investment). As we inspected the trees she ducked her head down onto my shoulder and hid in fear. She thinks they are alive - and out to get her. In younger hippy days I used to hug trees. Nowadays I feel too inhibited. But how could my daughter not love them too?
Rain rescued her. We packed up the vol-au-vent, said goodbye to the scary tree people, and took refuge in a local cafe/photography studio/gallery opened last month in Howe Street by photographer Robyn Rowles. Daughter might not care much for trees, but a vanilla-flavoured babycino is another matter altogether... she was in heaven, bedaubed with milky froth. Robyn captured the moment on camera for us, giving us one of the best pictures we have of The Bean.
Escape to the hills
J and I escaped to the hills today while K stayed at home ransacking her Granny's handbag. We have beautiful hills practically on our doorstep - half an hour's drive took us to the foot of the Pentlands - but usually by the weekend we're too exhausted to go anywhere much.
We parked below Swanston village, found the stony track as instructed in the wonderful Cicerone The Pentland Hills: A Walker's Guide and followed the signpost for Allermuir Hill, barely visible through its carapace of heavy mist. Robert Louis Stevenson, who grew up not far from where we live, also used to walk these hills, which was why we chose this route.
Out of breath, we struggled up the hillside past picturesque thatched whitewashed cottages, through kissing gates, before reaching open ground covered with thick, prickly yellow gorse, and pausing to pick some lucky heather. After I gave my last piece away to a sick friend, I had a miscarriage, so this walk was partly to replenish supplies. I don't think it was a good omen that I had to tug really hard at the stuff, which was oozing sap, before some came away in my hand and I could store it in a special heather-guarding pouch in my rucksack.
Pros and cons of nursery life
Having spent the last few days fuming at stories about greedy 'have-it-all'
mothers repenting their wicked career-minded ways by shunning nurseries
and staying home to look after their kids, here are some of my thoughts
on the pros and cons of nurseries, based on personal experience.
PROS
Making switch from bottle to breast
It was nursery staff who first persuaded my daughter, then aged 10
months, to take a bottle, something I'd been trying for weeks, with no
success. Since then she hasn't looked back. I was beginning to fear I'd be
breastfeeding at the school gates. Thanks to that breakthrough, people have now stopped saying
things like: "Did you see that programme on extraordinary
breastfeeding?"
Healthy balanced diet
At home, K survives on a diet of porridge, apple puree and biscuits.
Believe me, it's not for lack of trying on my part. I have my Annabel
Karmel cookbook and I'm not afraid to use it. But I cook up spaghetti
bolognaise, fish pasta and cauliflower cheese in vain. Even my old
stand-by of sweet potato and chicken is out of favour. However, the
nursery staff can get her to eat chicken papaya, no less. I've been asking for tips on how they do it.
Keener to walk
Don't know if peer group pressure is altogether a good thing, but it
seems to me that since K has seen other children about her age, or a bit
older, starting to toddle, she's keener to do the same.
CONS
These probably reflect my shortcomings as much as the nursery's, but here goes:
Separation anxiety (mine, not hers)
I haven't quite come to terms yet with my daughter being pushed around
the streets of Edinburgh, in the nursery's three-seater buggies, by
someone other than me. The thought I might bump into her out on a walk
at lunchtime is wierd.
She's comes home smelling of someone else's perfume.
Disconcerting. I get a bit jealous. But I also take this as a positive, since it means that she must be getting lots of cuddles.
It's painful to be disabused of fantasy everyone loves K as much as me
Almost all the people who look after her at nursery are fond of her.
Everyone is well-disposed to her. Nobody, strangely, seems aware of how
special and wonderful she is.
Picking up bad habits
No long after starting nursery K started sucking thoughtfully on pieces
of toast, before allowing them to slither out her mouth and down onto
her front, where they linger, transformed into repellant brown slugs.
Could never prove it, but suspect it's a lark she first saw at nursery.
Hotbed of germs
Babies pick up every bug going as soon as they start at nursery.
You can't get the days or times you necessarily want
Which seems to contradict the story about all these empty nursery
places left vacant by repentant career women.
Breastfeeding Daughters Nursery Play Pregnancy Work Edinburgh Food
Second of the first birthdays
After the buzzer went at last, ending that pre-party hiatus of waiting,
our visitors began
arriving. First, though, they had to ascend the escalier en colimaçon,
or spiral staircase, so typical of New Town "stairs", as they call
blocks of flats up here, that wends its way up two floors to the eyrie
of our flat.
In their arms were bottles (for once containing wine, as well as
milk) and babies togged up in party kit for this joint birthday party. Light poured in from the domed cupola up above
the stair; a trio of balloons sellotaped to the front door welcomed them.
Just over a year ago we were couples who barely knew each other save to sit awkwardly at NCT
ante-natal classes and engage in abstract pursuits such as debating the
most appropriate modern childcare techniques. Since then, things have
become a trifle less academic as we've battled with sleepless nights and crying babies. We've moved from coupledom to
family life and also, somewhere along the way, become friends.
K had already presided with magisterial good humour over an earlier
celebration, attended mostly by family, on her proper birthday. She was equally enchanted at this knees-up with
her friends. Although the two events shared a common purpose, they were
very different to each other. Celebrating with other families, whose
trajectory has been so similar to ours, somehow served to reinforce
what we've all done and become in the past 12 months, as if we
mirrored and bolstered each other.
Mum splits with buggy
After fighting temptation for months, I've given in to the inevitable.
Yesterday I spurned my faithful travelling companion of many months for a lightweight
feller-me-lad I met on the Internet, whose slim good looks and fancy orange top seduced me
with their superficial charm. I'm being like Prince William. It doesn't feel good, it certainly
doesn't feel right, but boy, does it make those Edinburgh hills easier
to tackle.
For more than a year I've pushed K around town, across beaches and up hills in the Jane
Slalom Pro, a stylish "all-terrain" three-wheeler chariot whose trendy
disc brakes have excited more than a little interest from male
acquaintance, from which K smiles graciously at admirers and bestows
regal waves.
The Jane Pro is a bit like the BMW of the pram world - expensive, sturdy, comfortable - with good engineering you feel you can trust. This new pram, the Maclaren Volo Saffron - nicknamed Vol-au-Vent - is more like a toy for pushing dollies around in, not real babies.
It was J who chose the Jane Pro, since I was in such a
hormonally-induced daze while expecting that I tuned out as soon as
shop assistants started clicking "travel systems" together, but I've
always been proud of it. A few weeks after K made her appearance
a young doctor looked at the Jane Pro with something like respect in
her eyes. "You can go running with those, you know," she offered. I
snorted with derision, but a couple of months later I was racing round Inverleith Park (also, incidentally, home to Scotland's Axe-Throwing Championships) with K in the buggy in a mums-and-babies exercise class, and it was one of my highlights from that post-natal period.
The only problem - and with Edinburgh being so hilly, this really is a
problem - is that the Jane weighs about 10.5kg, or around 1.5
stone. The Vol-au-vent, on the other hand, tips the scales at just
3.9kg. The Jane's also bulky and hard to fold. I vowed that after
spending so much on the Jane I wouldn't buy another
pram but the Vol-au-vent came up cheap on the excellent Kiddicare site, full of bargain baby kit.
The turning point came after yet another sweaty struggle on the buses
last week, where I had to enlist help from two strangers, even though I
was with Granny, to get the pram folded and stowed away.
The new pram's not a patch on the old - you can feel every bump
in the pavement jarring your hands and arms, cobbles
(another big Edinburgh feature) are a killer, and it's so flimsy and
lightweight it's feels more like a mobile deckchair than a proper
buggy. But the acid test came this morning when pushing K up the hill
to nursery: it was a breeze compared with shoving the Jane inch
by inch to the top. Even so, I'll be planning my routes carefully, so I
can wheel out the Jane any time I'm going somewhere without buses or
hills involved. You see, it's the one, even if I need to flirt with others
from time to time.
Shame of shunning breastfeeding mother
Unpleasant lesson in karma. I'll think twice now before being uppity
about sitting next to mothers and babies in restaurants. This started a
few days ago when I went for anniversary lunch with my husband but sans
baby. To my horror, the waiters wanted to sit us next to a
breastfeeding mum and baby. Without even thinking about it, I asked for
a different table.
Yesterday Granny, K and I repaired to our favourite restaurant, Pizza
Express in Stockbridge, which overlooks the Waters of Leith. It's full
of children sat in high chairs, tearing round the tables, popping
balloons. For the first time this year, we braved the outdoor terrace
and were enjoying the spring sunshine as I fed K her bottle.
A couple appeared, who were offered the empty neighbouring table to us,
that sheltered under the same blue parasol as ours. But all was not
well. Whispered conversations ensued. Gucci Loafers and his
iron-helmeted female companion gestured to the other side of the
terrace. No words were needed. It was obvious what they were thinking:
they didn't want to be next to a noisy baby.
Avoiding all eye contact with me, GL pushed his too-long hair out of
his face with a self-conscious gesture, pulled his pristine blouson
leather jacket tighter around him and followed the Iron Maiden to the
other end of the terrace. I could almost hear the jangling of shoe
buckles as he went.
I couldn't understand why anybody, even those two, wouldn't want to sit
close to K as she had her milk. Frankly, I was hurt. Then I remembered
how I felt only a few days earlier, when I wanted a break from it all,
without any reminders, though something about GL suggested he might not
be much of a family man, that his motivation was rather different.
Somewhere in the flat, in the back of a drawer,
is a breastfeeding bracelet I bought from the NCT last
summer, at the
zenith of my breastfeeding days, to show solidarity. Sisters, I no
longer deserve to wear that bracelet. Now I have an inkling of how that
breastfeeding mum, no doubt already beleaguered, might have felt when I
asked for a table well away from her. One possible saving grace: so
many breastfeeding women are in such a daze they don't even notice
social nuances, in my case the baby took up all my energy and focus.
All that said, I don't really regret what I did. Having one lunch, yes, just one lunch free of
feeding traumas, not worrying about my own or anyone else's baby, able
to focus on my husband, completely off-duty, was an absolute delight,
so much so that I keep going back to it in my mind, replaying little
moments, remembering how wonderful it felt to rekindle a time when
everything lay ahead of us, so many dreams and hopes. If the price I
pay for that is being guilty of a little hypocrisy, I don't really care.
Hailstones on Stockbridge
I tell J I'd like to wrap myself up in bear skins and hibernate for months.
"You might never emerge, except to go on little forays for cups of tea," he replies.
Joys of a Scottish winter.
About me
Mother at Large dreams of crossing the Pyrenees with her young daughters. And might just do so one of these days. To find out more read her full profile.
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Antique Mommy
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Expat Mum
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Experimental Mum
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Got Your Hands Full
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Guardian Books Blog
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How Publishing Really Works
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Nicola Morgan
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The Edinburgh Guide
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There and Back by Tricycle
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21st Century Mummy
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Working Mum on the Verge
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Websites I Enjoy
Edinburgh Unesco City of Literature
Mothers 35 Plus: information for older mothers.
Discover this festival city
Pelvic Partnership - invaluable help and advice for women suffering pelvic pain during and after pregnancy. And remember, Edinburgh mums-to-be suffering this debilitating condition can self-refer to hospital physios at ERI. No longer any need to go via your GP.
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