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Fun
Even gargoyles get political
As the nation prepares to express its views on the finest politicians
we can muster, here are some candid opinions from the gargoyles at York Minster.
Stone masons at the minster are carving the gargoyles as part of
restoration work on the building. Each has a distinct character.
The two above are untitled, but need no introduction. Below left: Toothache. This guy would have taken an interest in NHS spending cuts.
Below right, a line-up of early English kings. I wonder how they would have voted. They look like Cameronites. 
Making play dough: a sticky business
Did you know that play dough is made with salt? Not just a pinch. Cups of the stuff. After the kids used up all the official stuff (pictured) in their toy sausage-maker last week, we brought out the scales and mixing bowl.
Making stomach crawl?
Beanie and her pal Morgenstern poured in flour, water and oil. Plus, of course, salt. Lots of salt. Cup after cup of white crystals. We skipped the boric acid and silicone.
After we added the pink colouring (a job for the grown-ups) the dough looked like post-partum stomach flab. Or the remains of gastric band surgery.
Innards on kitchen table?
We kept adding flour. But the dough stuck to our hands like something excreted from alien space ships. Days later it remains embedded in my cuticles.
Our efforts did not smell like shop-bought Play Doh. A disappointment.
We have not yet replaced our salt supplies. Unsalted food may be doing wonders for our sodium levels, but it remains an acquired taste.
Not for consumption
Beanie was frustrated at not being allowed to eat the dough. But with so much salt, it was inedible. Husband did a double-take when he saw innards on the kitchen table.
The children did not seem to mind.
Delia's Christmas army
It is a rite of passage that almost every woman will
experience at some point in her life. Not quite as life-changing as
first boyfriend, first job, first baby. But cooking your first
Christmas dinner for extended family must surely still count as one of
life's turning points, something that leaves you changed in all kinds
of ways, just as you're not the same person after a broken heart, or a
month travelling in India or or a stint working with the homeless.
Christmas dinners can change a woman.
It
has finally come round to my turn to cross this milestone. Thinking
preparation might be key to handling this transition, in an attempt to
make things easy for myself, I persuaded Granny to give me a copy of Delia's Happy Christmas
as an early Christmas present. What a mistake. An aspirational book
setting out standards of culinary perfection that only a professional
cook and full-time masochist could achieve, it has put the fear of
Christmases past, present and future into me. I am as Scrooge,
terrified before the ghost of Jacob Marley at mistakes too late to
rectify. Why did I not start on my puddings in October? Where can I
find juniper berries at this late hour? What is 'sauce flour'? What is
the difference between 'silver or gold standard' muffin cases and the
ordinary ones? Do other people know about this stuff, or am I alone in
my ignorance?
Before reading this book, I thought turkey curry was just a joke from the pages of Bridget Jones, that nobody could actually make such a thing. But no, wrong again. Delia actually features something called an English Colonial Curry with Turkey.
She suggests (well, more like orders) that you serve it on December
29, as part of her Gant Plan-style, project management approach to
celebrating the birth of Christ. She has detailed and difficult menu
plans for eight days. The D-Day landings could not have been planned
with more military precision than Delia directs into Christmas menus.
"Christmas
lasts for eight days," warns Delia. "Be prepared!" For those tempted to
buy mince pies and Christmas pudding on-line from supermarkets, there
is the inevitable reminder that home cooking not only tastes so much
better, it's cheaper. Delia has costed out comparisons between
shop-bought and home-made Christmas staples that show how much money
you'll save making stuff yourself. Interestingly, though, she does not
factor in the £25 cost of her book, which would buy you the short-cut
to quite a few shop-made mince pies. Or even a temporary respite from the onslaught in the form of a take-away.
Reading the book I felt not just worried for my own pathetic attempts at Christmas - but also for Delia herself. Delia's Happy Christmas
makes it sound as if Delia is released from the kitchen just once
during her two-week festive ordeal - for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve
- before being reshackled to the Aga. What a drilling of pickling,
freezing, cutting, peeling, grinding, marinating, chopping and basting
takes place in these pages! I felt exhausted just reading about the
relentless grind. No wonder that in her recommended lists for Christmas
shopping she suggests, under the heading "General Non-Food Shopping"
that you buy 'Hangover Remedy'. You may need something to cushion the
pain should you forget to buy any of the cornichons, sweetened chestnut
puree, shredded suet and fine capers Delia also recommends as essential
Christmas fare. In fairness, this is a beautiful book, with lovely
illustrations and lots of ideas for making nice meals for family and
friends. There are lots of good ideas for a vegetarian Christmas, which
I plan to adopt. Also, I must confess that, like millions of others, I
rely heavily on some of Delia's other cooking books, which have never
let me down on timing, ingredients etc. But oh, for the days when a
satsuma was the height of Christmas sophistication.
Champagne by candle light
Every birthday should have an element of surprise about it; this year
mine involved a power failure and drinking champagne by candle light.
The lights went out as we were having pre-dinner drinks, leaving us
reliant on good old-fashioned candle light. Thank goodness for the current
middle-class obsession with candles - finally useful as well as pretty.
In a macabre way, it later felt right to be wandering the Georgian
streets of Edinburgh without electric street lights. A chance to
re-live the authentic 1820s experience. At least, that was until we
tried to cross the Queensferry Road, one of the city's main arteries,
without the help of traffic lights or pedestrian crossings. Cars were
swerving around in the darkness, none of the drivers sure what was
happening. Some people had their torches out, which they shone in our
faces, Gestapo-style. All I had in my bag was money and lipstick. I
became horribly aware how easy it would be to get mugged in the
darkness.
Contractors are still ploughing up central Edinburgh to make way for a
controversial tram system; the city has been in chaos for months as the
scheme drags on, it's possible the power failure is connected to that
work. Still, perhaps Monday evening means I finally have cause to be
grateful to the tram project; it was magic sipping champagne in the
semi-darkness. Macabre. But magic.
How the mouse ran up the clock
If the government ever introduces Sats tests for the under-twos - surely only a matter of time - this could be the toy to have at your disposal. Hickory Dickory Clock (sent to us for review by makers Bright Minds, who specialise in toys that are educational and fun) works just like they say in the nursery rhyme. Mice run up and down, powered by infant hands. Youngest daughter Button (15 months) and I have spent hours - yes, literally hours, a tomato sauce even burnt dry one time - sat on the hall floor with this toy. Button enjoys posting the half dozen mice - all different colours - down the chimney. The mice are small, the perfect size for toddlers to grip. Some rattle, other crinkle. Then she opens a door with velcro fastening to retrieve the mice from inside the clock - and stuffs them down the chimney all over again. The transparent clock face means Button can see the mice as they scuttle down. The clock hands move, clicking as they go. So obvious potential there for an older child learning to tell the time. One reason I like this toy is because it should have a longer life span than many I've bought. It comes with a handle, on which there are black and white abacus-style counters that Button examines. On the back is a mirror, now smeary from licking. The nursery rhyme associations give the toy an old-fashioned quality, I sing the verses to Button as we play; it's sturdy and well-made (though in China, like most toys these days). At £29.99, Hickory Dickory Clock is not exactly cheap, but we have already had a lot of pleasure from it and I'm expecting more. Unlike a lot of the stuff littering our flat, (yes, I mean you, Sparkle World Magazine) the toy looks sensible even when not in use. The carriage clock design means it can sit on a table, without looking like something I haven't yet got round to tidying away. If you are looking for a gift for a pre-schooler who's at the loading/unloading stage, this might not be at all a bad idea.
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
Biodegradable potties?
A
press release lands in my inbox, announcing the launch of what claims
to be "the world's first biodegradable potty". Now, I am all in favour
of doing my bit for the environment, but fear I may have to draw the
line at the Becopotty. A glance at the potty's webpage reveals: "This potty is not only kind on your baby but also the environment."
Like toilet training a small child isn't hard enough at the best of
times, do we need potty makers weighing in with this kind of shameless
commercial guilt-tripping? Well, according to Becopotty's makers, yes,
we do. They suggest the world is in dire danger from reckless parents
buying and discarding potties. Apparently, an annual 17 million potties
around the world are sent to a potty graveyard in the sky, in the form
of landfill sites. Presumably hurried on their way by parents from
every corner of the globe, united in pleasure at an end to toilet
training their offspring. At last, an end to the constant refrain
(albeit in Spanish, Arabic, Russian or Mandarin) to little Miguel,
Issa, Ivan or Ying of "Now, are you sure you don't need a wee? Why
don't you just try?"
Those of you who worried by the thought of all those poor plastic
potties lying on landfills, stubbornly refusing to biodegrade and
polluting the environment, might be interested to know how the
Becopotty breaks down naturally. It is because the potty is made of an
unusual, though natural substance. What unusual substance? It is made
of, wait for it, rice husks. Yes, rice husks. Reading that made me
imagine a potty made of rice cakes, stuck together like Lego bricks,
(though not, obviously, made of anything as evil as plastic). But
apparently the Becopotty is a great deal more water-resistant than a
rice cake would be. Which can only be good news.
Have your cake
I was stood at the kitchen table, wearing one of Beanie's aprons, when
the treacle tin exploded. I had warmed the treacle in the oven's bottom
shelf, as instructed, so it would mix more easily into the flour,
sugar, fat, spices and fruit. Unfortunately, after putting the treacle
inside the oven, I forgot all about it and left it too long. By the
time we needed treacle, the tin was so hot I had to use gloves to
remove it from the oven. I carried it over to the table and put it
down. It was then I made my big mistake; using a fork I prised the lid
open. Hot, black gloop spurted out like lava from a volcano, bubbling
up uncontrollably over the oven gloves, the table and the cake mixture.
The explosion left a layer of caramelised tarmac over the recipe,
preserving it like a relic from the Cretaceous Period. A sticky, sweet-smelling relic.
Despite this set-back, making the Christmas cake (well, two of them,
actually, as we made an extra one for Granny) was a delight; the flat
was filled all weekend with that evocative smell of baking fruit,
nutmeg and cinnamon. The cakes are now packed away tightly in tins,
wrapped in layers of grease-proof paper to marinate for three months.
The plan is to feed them with brandy at intervals before December 25,
dripping alcohol in via holes made by knitting needles. Cake-making: an
honourable exception to the evil of premature Christmas preparations,
worth braving exploding treacle tins for any day.
Tepee or not Tepee
It wasn't until we were sat on the lawn underneath one of the rowan trees at Kiltyrie Farmhouse,
by the shores of Loch Tay, that I had a chance to think about the
twists and turns that led us there. We were meant to be staying up the road in a wooden tepee ('hut', in
the words of one of my more candid friends). We dithered: some evenings we
were all set for tepee adventure, others, not so much. About three days before the scheduled weekend, I rang to see if we could still cancel. No, we were too late for an automatic refund, if they managed to re-sell the
hut/tepee we could have our money back. I asked them to do their utmost to find a taker, then rang back on Friday afternoon, rain
beating at the windows; no-one else was interested in the 'Ben Nevis'.
The next day, less than half a mile from home, by now bathed in
sunshine, these guys were playing on the radio. "Just phone and check they
still have the tepee for us, would you? Just to be absolutely sure," I said. Va-vay rang, asked and went quiet.
"Okay. Yes, yes, no, absolutely you did the right thing."
"They've sold it? The tepee?"
"I'm afraid so," said Va-vay.
"They hadn't sold it when I rang yesterday afternoon."
"Well, they have now."
"What shall we do?"
"Let
me phone tourist information in Killin."
At Kiltyrie Farmhouse, the owner, Jane,
served us tea and home-made lemon cake on the lawn. Walking books lined the sitting room. There was a noticeable - and, lest you are unfamiliar with my taste, welcome - absence of chintz. Beanie enjoyed
making the acquaintance of the chickens who lived in their Eglu
('Look, Mummy, they've got a wee house'). The next day we breakfasted
off their eggs. We played tag around the apple trees, which were
dropping their fruit, admired Jane's vegetable garden, where she grows
leeks, parsnips and potatos, scrambled up the hill behind the house,
climbed until we could see the loch spread out far below us. Rowan berries glinted red in the autumn
sunshine.
It was then I remembered a piece of Scots folklore; ancient Highlanders revered rowans for their
mystical powers; druids made their staffs from rowan wood; witches used the
branches for dowsing and charms. Many Scots, even today, still wish on
rowan wood and use it as a talisman for protection. And I knew what it was that drew us here.
Manna
None of us were expecting to find one of Beanie's snacks growing on
the slopes of Ben Lawers. You can miss a lot, not knowing where
to look. We discovered that when we spent this weekend in Perthshire, (staying at the wonderful Kiltyrie Farmhouse), and tackled one of Scotland's highest mountains.
Fourteen shimmering miles of loch lay far below us in the valley.
The sun had broken through low cloud cover, rain was holding off and we could hear rushing water in the brook
that gave Ben Lawers its name; (in Gaelic, Beinn
Labhair means Hill of the Loud Stream). We loaded Button (aged one)
into a carrier on her father's back, strapped on our walking boots and set
off up the path towards the summit of the 1,200-metre massif.
Only a mile into the walk I could feel my pelvis begin to ache. Struggling for breath, I stopped walking, sat
down with a thud on the path verge, pulled out my water bottle and began to gulp at it.
"Do you know what these are?" said my husband, pointing to a shrub by the path. The
shrub in question had small, boat-shaped leaves, and a speckled look.
It was growing so close to the ground, it was almost indistinguishable
from the heather, saxifrage, and other plants growing nearby. In many years of hillwalking, I'd never even noticed this plant before. Had we stopped further up the mountain, we would have missed it altogether.
I think I would climb a mountain any day, dodgy pelvis or not, for the pleasure of watching
Beanie's joy at picking fruit on a hillside, seeing blueberry juice
stain her face purple, knowing she will understand that good things do
not always come pre-packaged from supermarkets. Sometimes, in fact, they're right there next to us,
waiting for us to notice them, even if we need someone else to point them out.
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.
Edinburgh bookshop opens
Headed out in waterproofs last night to celebrate at the Edinburgh Bookshop launch party. The bookshop was a beacon of light, warmth and laughter amid Morningside's chill rain. It is the latest venture from Fidra Books, the publishers who specialise in reviving neglected children's classics and who have been making their mark in Edinburgh bookselling over the last couple of years. The Edinburgh Bookshop is just a few doors down the street in Bruntsfield Place from the company's Children's Bookshop, which has quickly become a well-loved institution for parents and children alike.
Each guest at the launch was photographed holding a copy of their favourite book from the shop's shelves. Fidra have great taste in books; stylish, eclectic, but with fingers on the pulse of what's happening in the market. Meaning we were spoilt for choice: one luminary of Scottish publishing was spotted with Jurassic Towel Origami, the book that teaches readers to make dinosaurs out of towels. Another was snapped holding How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read. That might have been useful before last night's launch party, at least for me. Someone else chose Scotland's Lost Houses, by Ian Gow. As for me, I chose The Creative Writing Coursebook by Julia Bell and Paul Magrs, despite being sorely tempted by the Hebridean Desk Diary. Topics of conversation included whether the ghost of Dame Muriel Spark, latter-day local resident and writer, might be tempted to do an author event, via seance, why one should never make the mistake of under-estimating scriptwriter skill on TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, how to make planes out of balsam wood, and, of course, the importance of blogging.
Plenty of local writers kindly turned out to give their support to the shop and there was real pleasure at the party in seeing an independent bookshop opening its doors. Especially one called the Edinburgh Bookshop, a name which has such happy associations for so many people. Other Edinburgh residents among you will almost certainly remember the original Edinburgh Bookshop that stood on George Street for many years. Here's wishing the new shop every success.
"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
Keycamp holiday
We had a happy time at the La Yole site in France's Vendée region. Many happy memories to treasure from our time there. Here are some of the highlights:
1. Time to bond as a family of four. The holiday helped us mesh together.
2. Getting a sun tan. 
3. Eating our evening meals out on the decking outside our mobile home after younger daughter Button went to bed.
4. Taking Beanie to the pool, wearing her Scottish Swimmer badges, and watching her make friends with other little girls at the site.
5. Splashing about in the sea, on a near-deserted beach.
6. The smell of pine resin from the many conifers dotted about the site and countryside.
7. Cycling along the region's network of dedicated cycle paths, one of us towing the Hoppelopnikon (pictured).
8. Taking Button to the swimming pool for her first swim.
9. Feeling the habitual tension in my shoulders recede.
10. Being outdoors so much.
11. The opportunity to show my daughters France - scene of all my best holidays, where I met my husband and where he later proposed to me.
12. Eating take-away chips from the on-site cafe.
13. Being away from the internet.
14. Realising family holidays can be good fun, even if we don't get to walk up mountains anymore.
15. Playing table tennis again - for the first time in many years.
16. Having a good play park on site with lots of space. Beanie loved it there. There were free Tumbletots activities too but we didn't manage to sample them.
17. A Tumbletots party one evening in the bar that got all the younger kids - and me - dancing. I felt like a kid myself again. Button loved it too. It was a happy, happy evening. Superb!
18. Getting fit from the cycling, swimming and walking. Effect somewhat mitigated by the many ice creams consumed.
19. Little-known advantage of living in a mobile home: less
space to clean and tidy than at home.
20. Meeting other families with kids the same age as ours.
21. Seeing the Atlantic coast of France - a first for me.
22. Remembering what it's like to have fun again!
23. Messing about in our mobile home with Beanie, singing and dancing.
The downsides of going abroad at the moment are well-known. I was
horrified at the cost of food after the pound's collapse against the
euro - France is no longer cheap if you earn in pounds - and we couldn't afford to eat out much because of that. 
If
you decide on a holiday of this kind, it is also certainly worth choosing your site carefully. It might be worth going for one
of the smaller sites, like La Yole, which has slightly fewer facilities than some other places, but more than made up for that by the relaxed and
friendly atmosphere and the professionalism of the owners. It felt well-run and thoughtfully put together.
I loved our Keycamp holiday. I will be dreaming of the next one over the long winter months in Edinburgh.
Travel bag
We came on our French holiday with Keycamp without a car - unusual for this sort of holiday - after catching the Edinburgh-Poitiers flight. That has not stopped us getting about - we are just using other modes of transport. Tonight we surveyed our collection of buggies, cycles and assorted travelling paraphernalia parked outside our mobile home. Here is an inventory:
1. One brand-new Maclaren buggy (black and grey), brought from home. Excellent for city streets. Disastrous in sandy conditions.
2. Two all-terrain buggies, standard Keycamp issue (small hire fee). Fixed front wheel. Can be dragged across sand dunes, rather like Scott hauling his sledge acoss Antarctica. Except weather here rather better.
3. One infant car seat. From home; for taxis.
4. One booster seat. Doubles as toy. Also from home.
5. One bicycle. Hired from Keycamp. For visiting beach, pine forests, supermarket, restaurants and countryside.
6. One bicycle with Hoppelopnikon* attached. Also hired from Keycamp.
*A Hoppelopnikon is a trailer where small children can be stowed and towed. In fact, it should probably be named a 'Stow N Tow' - except that Button sees the whole contraption as an affront to her peace and happiness. So, for her, it should probably be named 'Instrument of Cruel and Unusual Torture'. That said, by the end of today, Button was warming to being towed along: Beanie likes it very much; she said it was 'like being in a wee house.'
7. One red wheelbarrow-type contraption for hauling small children, bags and shopping. Would do Santa Claus proud.
French holiday
We are on holiday in the northern Vendee in France, on a twelve-day break given to us by Keycamp. Va-vay has bought Beanie a sunhat from the local Hyper U and, although I shouldn't brag, I can't help thinking how pretty she is, with her blonde curls waving from under the brim of her new hat, as she runs up the track to our mobile home, carrying a stick of bread in her arms.
'Here you go, Mummy,' she tells me, clambering up the steps of our decking. The bread is almost as tall as Beanie, but she wrestles it up onto the table. She clambers up for a cuddle on my knee then turns and looks at her father. They have been planning a surprise.
'Are you going to tell Mummy what you asked for in the shop, Beanie?' he asks her. She puts on her serious look; pauses to deliberate a moment, then forms her mouth into an 'Oh' shape. Her father and I wait for a word to emerge. Beanie's younger sister Button looks up from where she is sat banging a pine cone on the decking, then goes back to her game. 'Oon baguette,' says Beanie.
My heart swells with pride. Yesterday Beanie said 'Bonjour' to a little girl the same age as her whom she met at the swimming pool complex here at the La Yole parc. She has managed a few other French words since we arrived at Poitiers Airport last Wednesday and walked off the plane into the sweltering heat of French summertime. So far her vocabulary is mostly food-based. It runs to 'Au revoir', 'Merci', 'jus de pommes' and 'brioche' - the latter a speciality of the Vendee.
We got up late this morning - 9.30am, which is late for us - after a late dinner out here on the decking; listening to Coldplay's sweetly plangent music on the CD player. Beanie was in such ecstasy at being allowed to stay up late she agreed - for once - to eat all her cheesy pasta that I cooked up in the mobile home kitchen.
Of course, even though we are on holiday, some things never change. Later that morning Beanie is talking to Mr Bear. 'It's alright, but be careful and don't fall off,' she says to him, in a stern yet loving manner. He is perched precariously on the door handle of our mobile home - where Beanie herself has placed him. When it comes to Mr Bear, Beanie speaks only in English.
Darkest before dawn - Moon Walk II
Moon Walk organisers warned us there would be hills aplenty in our night's walking. And we were barely out of the pink tented village (pictured left) at Inverleith Park, where the Moon Walk started this year, before we were climbing a street called East Fettes Avenue, a road notorious for both length and gradient. 
One of my biggest fears beforehand was that I wouldn't be able to keep up with my sister, Auntie 'Ona, and her pals. But despite the hills, we quickly settled into a pace that felt right for all of us. By the time we turned into the West End, the heart of Edinburgh's commercial district, the butterflies in my stomach were settling down too.
I'm not sure which was the strangest part of the experience - walking on the roads (not pavements), walking at night-time, or walking in a feathered bra adorned with sequins (photographic evidence above left). Perhaps what was really strangest was just walking anywhere at all without a buggy.
Speaking of buggies, all the months of pushing the girls about town in the tank must have done me more good than I realised, because the tiredness didn't kick in until we had passed Edinburgh Castle, all lit up in pink for the Moon Walk, and we were at the foot of a large local hill called Arthur's Seat.
For anyone who doesn't know Edinburgh, Arthur's Seat is an outcrop of desolate volcanic rock that dominates the Edinburgh skyline and is often the first sight for anyone approaching the city. It is lovely to see when driving home, but not so great to climb in the dark with a dodgy pelvis. The organisers had done their best by fixing special flood lighting to cheer the place up, and there were dozens of volunteers about to ensure safety, but the darkness was still eery.
Then on the way down, at about 2am, we heard the first blackbird singing of the day. Our spirits lifted. The night was nearly over and the hardest part of the walk done. We walked on, then as we turned a corner, the most wonderful - and unexpected - sight greeted us. It was urban Edinburgh. Many of us laughed in relief to see the city's spires and lights spread out in front of us. "Keep going, girls, you've nearly done eight miles," called out one of the volunteers.
There's still time if you feel like supporting me -
The last five miles to follow soon....
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
The family that eats chocolate together
The postman arrived early yesterday with a special delivery for us, which three year-old daughter Beanie, correctly sensing something good was afoot, persuaded him to hand over to her. "No, daddy," I heard her say, dismissing her father's efforts to help. "I do it." Despite her apparent will of steel, Beanie likes to remind us that she is 'still small'. She is prone to issuing these reminders when she perceives that her parents are giving too much attention to her smaller sister. Looking through some of her old toddler clothes the other day, I asked her: "How does it feel that you're not the baby anymore, Beanie?" She sighed, in a tone approaching resignation, and said: "It hurts." Anyway, yesterday's package cheered her up. It was so large that Beanie's diminutive stature meant she had to part-drag, part-carry it through to the bedroom. It was a bit like Christmas - lying in bed, waking up and already unwrapping a package that turned out to contain the most fabulous chocolate. Like Christmas, except for the glorious sunshine filtering through the curtains. The kind people at Hotel Chocolat, who specialise in chocolate gifts, had sent us a box of Exuberantly Fruity chocolates to sample. It was a good start to the day. Va-vay is fond of both chocolate (cocoa pods are pictured, above) and fruit, and nothing if not exuberant in personality (except when his laptop breaks down) so this was the perfect treat for him. He headed off to work in anticipation of gourmet delights later. Beanie's younger sister Button was delighted too - with the cardboard wrapper containing the chocolate box, and sat on the bed boffing at it. After lunch Beanie selected a Baltic Truffle, an understandable choice if I tell you if was sprinkled with fruity sugar - not just any old fruity sugar but pink fruity sugar. I had a Blackcurrant Bombe, and my mouth is watering as I sit here writing and remember the intense tang of the blackcurrant, set off by the chocolate's delicate sweetness. Beanie earmarked a Cherry Panacotta for later, swayed by its pink swirly writing. When Va-vay got home he had a manly Cognac and Orange - since he loves dark chocolate. We often joke that we're meant to be together - he loves dark chocolate, I much prefer milk, and we have a daughter who favours the white stuff. We all got a lot of fun and pleasure from the chocolates, which have the added bonus they're made with real fruit - though I doubt they'd qualify as one of your five-a-day. I'd recommend them to anyone looking for birthday gifts. Oh, and they do corporate gifts too. They also have a section of chocolates designed for men and lots of gift ideas. And, as our early-morning experience shows, they deliver.
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.
Flowers and Stripes
Have I mentioned before that husband Va-vay writes verse? He wrote me a
sonnet for our wedding day, and when he read out the bit about us both
being "awake to happiness we dared not dream" as part of his speech he
brought tears not just to my already reddened eyes, but also those of
many other female guests. The following lines, Flowers and Stripes, are
jokier than the wedding poem and were inspired by the arrival of our
first daughter, Beanie. The background to the poem is that what with
Va-vay being a bloke and everything, he initially found female
clothing, especially female clothing for the under-ones, something of a
mystery. I found myself giving him some advice and tips for those days
when it was him getting Beanie ready, after we had some rather odd
combinations of stripey trousers and flowered tops. Of course, if we'd
had a 'boy baby' the tables would have been turned, since I have no
brothers and went to an all-girls school. Even twenty years later I'm
still no great shakes on the nuances of male dress, but as reproductive
chance turned out, it was darling Va-vay who had to put up with
lectures from me on what constituted stylish dress for the girl babies
of 2006. Trinny and Susannah - remember them? - were popular at the
time, and it appears from Va-vay's verses that I might have followed
their bossy, stern ways too closely when I was advising him against
mixing flowery items with stripey ones.
Flowers and Stripes
"No, no, no" said the little Beanie Boo.
"You must never dress me up in flowers and stripes.
You can dress me up in pink,
You can dress me up in blue,
You can take me to the park,
You can take me to the zoo,
You can put me in a rocket
And send me to the moon.
But....
Never, never, never," said the little Beanie Boo.
"You must never dress me up in flowers and stripes!"
"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
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.
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.
Like a dog, like a dog, like a dog.... the Kipper quiz
Like many families before us, we have become huge fans of the best-selling Kipper books by Mick Inkpen (by the way, here is good biography of Inkpen, who is also pictured below). This started me thinking - we all know people in real life who are a bit like the characters of Tiger, Kipper, Pig and his cousin Arnold. Have you ever wondered which character you're most like? Here's a little quiz to help you work out who you most ressemble. 
1. An overnight camping trip to Big Hill is suggested. It is your first night in a tent. You are the one who:
a) insisted on bringing toys from home
b) had the idea for the trip. But got scared and went home early
c) said little, but gritted it out until morning
d) stayed at home.
2. It is your birthday. You decide to celebrate by:
a) making a cake and inviting friends round. Co-ordinating the two events proves harder than anticipated.
b) asking for the latest, fanciest gadget. Which you find impossible to make work.
c) adding a new pet to your already extensive menagerie.
d) feeding the ducks.
3. Somebody gives you a pair of rollerblades. You respond by:
a) trying hard to master this new skill. With mixed results.
b) boasting to anyone who'll listen about how fantastic you are at rollerblading. Before falling into a bush.
c) practising, practising, practising. Until you get really good.
d) watching your older cousin and learning from his example
4. Your attitude towards your toys is to:
a) love, cherish and respect them. Life wouldn't be the same without old friends around.
b) put them in a rocket and fire them at the moon.
c) love them, but appraise them shrewdly.
d) who needs toys when you've got a cardboard box?
5. You are working on a project requiring great ingenuity. Something goes wrong. You respond by:
a) feeling a bit thrown but persevering in finding a solution
b) moaning and complaining amid great melodrama
c) your projects don't go wrong, you spend so much time beforehand preparing.
d) taking time out, then pulling off a piece of lateral thinking
6. You have done yourself a minor injury. You respond by:
a) applying a sticking plaster and moving on
b) insisting on sticking plaster, ointment, sling, painkillers and emergency trip to hospital. And, of course, moaning.
c) being grateful you were wearing safety kit that prevented the injury being any worse
d) sucking your thumb
7. You have made an error of judgement. Do you:
a) acknowledge your mistake, feel embarrassed and apologise
b) bluster and pretend it wasn't your fault
c) arrange an inventive win-win compromise that minimises the impact of your mistake.
d) approach someone else for advice
8. You are going for a day at the beach. Would you:
a) immediately start building a sandcastle
b) insist on setting up an elaborate base camp. With inappropriate kit
c) stun your friends by revealing hitherto unsuspected skills as a water skier
d) stand on your head. Perfectly.
9. As a friend you are mostly:
a) Popular with everyone. You are prepared to take the rough with the smooth and see good in most people, even the annoying ones.
b) Sometimes demanding and grandiose, but good-hearted and lovable.
c) A bit of an enigma. Not aloof, but you like to keep some distance between yourself and others.
d) Unobtrusive and loyal.
How you scored:
Mostly a) - you are Kipper. Popular and well-loved, hard-working and down-to-earth, you are able to see the cheery side of life, even amid disaster. Everyone wants to be your friend. Everyone wants to be you. Tell us your secret, please Kipper?
Mostly b) - you are Tiger. Sorry, but are you just a teeny bit full of your own importance? Come on, admit it! No? Not just a little bit? And you're not really as competent as you make out, are you? Don't worry, all your friends still love you. They know what a good sort you are underneath all that bluster. And you are often the one who comes up with the idea for adventures. Life wouldn't be as much fun without you around. Perhaps, though, you might try to rein in that grandiosity? A simpler life can often be more satisfying than pursuing complex ambitions.
Mostly c) - you are Pig. Savvy and secretive, you are the dark horse of the group. Although supportive to those around you, you tend to prefer to operate on your own, away from group restrictions. You have a highly developed sense of self-reliance and your tenacity allows you to succeed where others might give up. Few people understand you well and you are often lonely. You might consider trusting others a little bit more.
Mostly d) - you are Arnold. What a sweetie you are! And how did you learn to stand on your head so well? We wish we could do that too! The ducks cheer when they see you heading over to their pond.
The only advice we could offer would be to have more faith in your own judgement. You don't need to rely on Pig for everything.
With thanks to these good people, who sent us a stack of Kipper books.
While on the subject of children's books, Edinburgh residents among you may be interested to hear that The Children's Bookshop at Holy Corner, Bruntsfield, will be holding a weekly story-telling session every Tuesday at 10.30am from 3 June for the under-fives. The bookshop has a great range of books - with a well-chosen selection for grown-ups too - and a lovely atmosphere. It also runs regular author events for children and adults (you can sign up to an email subscription on their website informing you about upcoming readings). So do pay a visit if you haven't already.
Weekend, or, what if you die?
Shedworking, one of my favourite sites, is running a theatre review I wrote for them about a production of Walden, a one-man show from Magnetic North about a man who flees civilisation to live in isolation in a hut in the woods. It was great fun going to the theatre (they even gave me a complimentary press ticket, something I haven't enjoyed in years) and because I went on my own I chatted to other people in the audience afterwards. Nothing to do with late parenting, but a mini-highlight of the weekend.
Somewhat closer to home, Va-vay, Beanie and I went to our local Home Birth Support Group at the
weekend. Beanie was entranced when a pregnant lady stuck her tongue out
at her (in a friendly way) - and revealed a rather splendid tongue
piercing. I knew I needed the Support Group after I told a friend last
week I was planning a home birth and he said: "What if you die?" Huh. It's one thing for me to criticise the NHS, but I don't like it when other people do. The Support
Group nodded and smiled when I recounted all this, before bursting into tears, and said they hear this kind of thing a lot. They said that
statistically home births are safer than hospitals. That people who are
negative about you having a home birth are often just worried for you.
Beanie beamed as I sat cross-legged on the floor, weeping, then made
friends with a small boy wearing a T-Shirt saying "Born at Home". Although not yet two years old herself, Beanie loves pointing out "babies" she sees out and about, saying the word "baby" in great excitement, as if the child in question belongs to a different generation from herself. When in fact there's an age gap of twelve months between them. She
spent the rest of the event cuddling the "baby". His mum was there too. Alive and
well.
Other News
A friend is organising a fertility afternoon at the Aditi Yoga Centre
in Edinburgh on Sunday 2 March from two till five. This is a chance to
hear expert speakers on how to improve the chances of becoming
pregnant, maintaining a healthy pregnancy and much more. Topics
covered include acupuncture, chinese herbal medicine, homeopathy, mind
and the body, natural ovulatory cycle, nutrition and yoga. Open to
all. Donation £5 per person.
Activities Angst Childbirth Daughters Dilemmas Friends Fun Health Home birth Out and about Pregnancy
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.
Activities Edinburgh Fun Holidays Out and about Older mother
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.
New beginnings
So, the weekend away. The child-free weekend away.
Surreal moment in Manchester Airport en route to Waterford, in Ireland. Was pushing a trolley between terminals. That felt natural: I'm used to pushing things. Looked down. Couldn't see a toddler in front of me.
Ohmigod, where was she? Where was Beanie? Panicked.
Remembered. Big sigh of relief - she was at nursery. While I was supposed to be learning to enjoy myself on my own again.
Va-vay said before I left: "If you don't come back having enjoyed yourself, I'll make you go away again."
Mad paranoia before I left. I started worrying someone might steal Beanie from nursery while I was away. Phoned a friend. Who was kind enough not to sound exasperated but persuaded me my fears were groundless; talked me onto the plane.
As for the wedding itself, beautiful. The sun shone on our corner of Ireland. The priest who conducted the ceremony could have been in showbiz. A "character" we all agreed afterwards. Straight out of Father Ted.
As we waited for the bride to arrive, a red butterfly fluttered in an arched window of the church. She arrived to Pachelbel's Canon in D, played on the harpsichord. Never fails to bring tears to my eyes, that music. The groom looked so proud to be marrying such a lovely girl.
They certainly knew how to party. The party went on until five am, with lots of singing, dancing, drinking and talking. I managed to last until one o'clock. Late by my enfeebled standards.
It was lonely without Va-vay. Made me realise how lucky I am to be with him. Reminded me of the start to our family life.
The wedding seemed made up of couples, like when I was 'properly' single. At the dinner, I sat next to other 'singleton' at the event, a nice Irish diplomat who told me it was difficult in his line of work to find a wife, because nowadays women want careers, and are reluctant to go through the upheaval of moving country every three years.
Our table had a book on how long the speeches would last.
On Sunday morning, I got up, made myself a cup of tea and went back to bed to read the papers. For the first time in the eighteen months since I became a mother.
At the security check on the way home, officials searched my belongings. The woman found my diary and opened it. The pages fell open where I'd left a picture of Beanie on her first birthday. The official looked at the photo. Looked at me. Smiled. Stopped the search. Waved me through.
Let's fix it
Social conditioning starts young. I learnt this from a cursory ten minutes last night in front of my new favourite TV channel CBeebies. Women can hardly be surprised their menfolk focus on solutions and practicalities, when young boys are encouraged to model themselves on Bob "Let's fix it" the Builder. Bob is a likeable chap and good sort, but includes machines among his friends. I suspect if the government ever got serious about getting more women into IT, it would probably have to tackle gender issues with Bob's TV show first.
Likeable though he is, I wonder if Bob's storing up long-term trouble in relationships with his focus on machines. Will Bob grow up to be a man who'll listen to and empathise with his partner? Poor Bob. He'll probably get into trouble with her by putting on his hard hat and rushing to fix things, all well-meaning and wanting to please. Then she might complain: "You never listen to me! I feel so unheard." And he'll be left feeling all confused. All down to misguided early conditioning. Tragic, really.
As for us girls, could CBeebies not have found us a better inspiration than Uppsy Daisy, the sweet-natured but feisty heroine of In the Night Garden? Iggle Piggle, her great pal, doesn't look old enough to be allowed out with this young lady. If I was his mum, I'd be practising disapproving looks. Doing clever things with her hair and repeating her own name isn't much of a way for Uppsy Daisy to pass the time. I'd get bored. She just skips around the garden and flicks her hair. Electronically. She doesn't get to go in the lovely boat with Iggle Piggle and his red blanket. Also, I was a teeny bit scared of her in the episode where she found out some naughty person had been bold enough to sleep in the motorised bed that follows her everywhere. As Derek Jacobi intoned in the beautiful voice-over: "Only Uppsy Daisy sleeps in Uppsy Daisy's bed." Well, that's us told.
Then there's the question of the Pontypine family, who live in a semi with net curtains, which they sometimes twitch, by the foot of a large tree. All ten of them. Is it any wonder we suffer this tyranny for large families, given nightly bombardment by the Pontys and their eight children? Last night Beanie and I counted the Ponty progeny in and out of more flowerpots than I care to remember by cold light of day. What's more, all the Ponty babies are of identical height..... meaning Mrs Pontypine must have given birth to octuplets. Now that's pressure.
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.
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.
Daughters Dilemmas Edinburgh Etiquette Granny Out and about Domestic chaos Fun
Wedding bells
A letter arrives this morning addressed in calligraphic swirls of black ink. Someone has inked each letter with strokes, curlicues and loops that make The Bean's beginner alphabet letters on her wooden blocks stark and almost impoverished in comparison.
Writing like that promises only good things. And these flourishes, swoops and upstrokes do not disappoint. Inside is an invitation to the wedding in Ireland of an old friend and her long-term boyfriend. They got engaged in India at Christmas.
We became friends as flatmates back in London. Our flatsharing wasn't a huge success: when we protested at a proposed 20% rent rise, our landlord responded with an eviction notice. But our friendship survived this set-back and continued. Even after we both became home-owners ourselves and later moved away from London.
She flew back from New York for the weekend to be at our wedding, so a trip across the Irish Sea doesn't seem much to ask in comparison. Suffice to say, we're very excited and looking forwards to a jaunt to Waterford in September.
First-timer
Thanks to everyone who visited and commented on yesterday's posting on being an older first-time mum. You all cheered me up no end. So much so, I've climbed out of the slough of self-pity and hardly worried about withered ovaries or early menopause at all today. Okay, I jumped ahead a few decades or so. I admit it. It's just my 40th is coming up in a few months and there's nothing like a landmark birthday to make a person jittery...
There are big upsides to being a little bit older:
1. The Bean doesn't know she got landed with a late-starter. She doesn't care what age I am. As long as I'm not late in getting that milk ready.
2. After her first visit to our home, the health visitor never again asked if The Bean was "assisted" in her creation. For the record, she wasn't.
3. I've done the painful business of growing-up, even if it lasted well into my early 30s, so can now concentrate on helping someone else negotiate that.
4. The health visitor said I must be "very selective" to have waited until I was 37 to settle down.
5. Lighter sleep patterns = good for night-time feeds.
6. Healthier bank balance = less stress. More time at home.
7. Playing with The Bean makes me feel younger. It's fun!
8. After spending so many years wanting to be a mum, I don't mind the hard graft side of parenting too much. But the same is true of many mums... I read in people's blogs - certainly all the ones in my blogroll and others besides - of so much selfless hard work for their children, that they do without complaining or expecting anything much in return.
9. I wish I could add greater life experience to the list.
10. A better sense of who I am. Makes it easier to resist the latest fads in parenting.
Mum-upmanship
Ever worried about 'mum-upmanship' at mum-and-baby coffee mornings? Thought there was something wrong with you for fretting you had little in common with the other mums? Had 'knickers made of barbed wire' tugging at your post-natal stitches?
If so, help is at hand. A small and entertaining book, Staying Sane
There are lots of great tips on keeping it together through your child's babyhood and toddler years that struck a chord with me.
These are some of my favourites:
1. When motherhood seems intolerable, remind yourself quite how much you disliked being a childless singleton.
2. Just because you have a child doesn't mean you have to make instant friends with everyone from your nearest Mums and Babies group.
3. When contemplating the desirability of divorce, go to a party. "Chances are you will have your evening spoiled by a self-important oaf whose prejudices, politics or misogyny ensure that when you snuggle up to your husband in bed that night, you thank your lucky stars you ended up with him," writes Miller.
PS - I know this tip is true. It worked a treat for me at my French evening class.
4. "Just because you coped with tricky types at work doesn't mean you should do it now," she warns. "Try to concentrate on women whose company gives you a boost and don't let yourself be undermined by competitive, critical or gossipy women."
5. "Avoid complete paranoia by resolving to consult a medical dictionary as rarely as possible to check up on childhood ailments,"she says. Otherwise you end up catastrophising about all manner of ailments. Same would go for internet, presumably.
The tone is cheery, light-hearted and positive. There are lots of lovely cartoon illustrations by Louise Quirke. Miller doesn't patronise her audience, or preach. As a mother of three young daughters, two of them twins, she plainly knows what she's talking about.
I didn't agree with every suggestion - there was one about wrapping your head in a pashmina I couldn't understand - but overall I liked Staying Sane a lot. It'd be a good gift to any new mother. Along with the valium and ready meals.
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.
Car Daughters Edinburgh Fun Husband Kit Likes/Dislikes Out and about
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.
Happy campers
The first family holiday is a shock. Ours wasn't a holiday at all, not
in the strictest sense. We worked harder than I've done in some
paying jobs. It was hard graft. Day and night. Each evening I squirted my milk
into a bowl and mixed it up with powdered baby rice for my daughter. I still remember the
sound it made hitting the plastic. It was fun. But in an unfamiliar, cow-like
way. I felt sad at losing the old freedoms. In private, I cried.
Back in the heady days of coupledom we used to book a cheap flight
somewhere, then wing it, smug about being proper "travellers". We only
once came to grief, descending from a
Cevennol mountain to find a room for the night in the valley. A
Festival de Cinema had taken all the accommodation in a 10k radius. No room in the inn. Again, I cried.
The nice monsieur in the local hotel rang round. After many worried
looks, he found us somewhere and sent us off with rabbit stew for our
supper. After all he'd done for us, I had no heart to confess my
husband was vegetarian. The cottage was grim; no windows. The
bed too small to accommodate me or husband. I woke
several times with nightmares, unsure if awake or asleep. A long
night.
We left the next day, both blaming the other, and got a room in the
hotel, which all the actors had by then finally left. We stayed for two
days, because we had no money and the one cashpoint in the village was
in a shop that didn't open until for another two days. The hotel staff asked every
time they saw me "Ca va mieux?", which seemed to translate as
"You're not going to have a nervous breakdown on our premises, are
you?"
Not wishing to risk a repeat of this on a family holiday, we've agreed
to plan ahead. I'm not experienced in any of this, but we're ruling out hotels. Either we'd have to leave daughter alone in the room while we got our
meal. Or sit there in silence and darkness from 7pm.
The obvious solution would be self-catering. But
that would mean booking a place for a week or fortnight, and then we'd
be stuck. I've a yen for adventure, and would love some of the
old spontaneity.
So we're investigating tents. I discovered on Saturday tent brands are named after birds. Buzzard,
Hawk, Shrike. It speaks of freedom. Prairie, Roadrunner, Vista, Oregon, Halo, Aurora.
Challenge and adventure. In my imagination, I'm there. But our daughter is already
ahead of us. Her Pop-Up Activity Tent arrived home yesterday.
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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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Jen Campbell
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Jo Beaufoix
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Juxtabook
- Keir Royale
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Let in Edinburgh
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Lily and Chew
- Little Legends
- Littlemummy
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Mid-Lifer
- Millions and Thousands
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Mummy Do That
- Musings from a Muddy Island
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Netmums Edinburgh
- New Mum in Town
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Nicola Morgan
- Not wrong, just different
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Opposing Views
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Picador Blog
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Potty Diaries
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Powder Room Graffiti
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Rosie Scribble
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Snowbooks
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Susan Hill
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Stay at Home Dad
- Strife in the North
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Swearing Mother
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The Edinburgh Guide
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There and Back by Tricycle
- 3KidsNoJob
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21st Century Mummy
- Wife in the North
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Working Mum on the Verge
- Zornhau
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.
Directories
Awards
