Blog to Book - Fashionably Late
I am writing Fashionably Late, an irreverent guide to having children later in life. Did you become a mother over 35? If so, and you'd like to tell me your story please contact me at mail@motheratlarge.com.
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Out and about
Double trouble
Can anyone reading this blog advise on double buggies? I'm thinking of buying this fellow (the Nipper Double 360, pictured left) but I'd welcome any comments on what's worked well for other people. It's a contentious area. People spend as much on buggies nowadays as they would on a second-hand car. They've become a status symbol by which new parents define themselves. I'll never dare show my face at playground again if I don't get this decision right. And it's a tricky area; views on double buggies seems to divide like the Red Sea.
The main political fault lines are between people who favour:
a) double decker buggies (Phil and Ted) that stack one kid on top of the other.
and those who insist on the superior benefits of:
b) side-by-side models (like the Nipper 360).
It's a bit like the difference between people who like eating olives -
and those who can't stand them. There's no middle ground. You have to belong to one camp or the other. You either like them, or you don't. Superficially, you know it shouldn't matter, but deep down you can't help forming judgements about a person on the basis of things like their taste in olives and double buggies.
Personally, I'm not keen on the Phil and Ted approach. There, I've said it. A paediatrician friend warned me she'd treated lots of children who got their hands stuck in the wheels of double-decker models. She's seen gruesome things, that girl. Also, she has four kids of her own. So knows a thing or two about twin buggies.
Plus, I can't imagine it does much for sibling harmony if one child spends her formative years in the lower bunk. The view ahead an outline of older child's backside.
But then, the side-by-sides aren't the solution to everything either. I can remember years of petty bickering with my sister (thirteen - yes, just thirteen - months' age difference between us) in one of them.
I've also become horribly superstitious. When we do decide on a buggy I'm going to ask the pram company to send the chosen vehicle to my mum's. Until the baby arrives. Still can't believe this is happening. Despite the kicks in my stomach as I type. Felt this same way with Beanie. Was only when the midwife wheeled a plastic cot into the delivery room it sank in properly - my God, there was going to be a baby. Now I look back at the years before she arrived, and think, "Where was she then? Who was looking after her if she wasn't with me?"
Under the wire
Six weeks until baby due date. Yesterday escaped flat for first time in days. Took daughter and her Granny out for lunch (tapas). Even managed to walk there and back, helped by orthopaedic truss under bump and lessons in this technique. In restaurant, Granny and I leapt back in horror at sight of enormous spider crab sat on counter. Waving its claws at us. Horrified eye meets. Two-year-old daughter unpeturbed.
Hoisted daughter into high chair, grappled with chair straps, slumped down, ordered usual tapas favourites. Spanish waiter made fuss of us all. Rush of pleasure at being back in world. Daughter ordered an apple juice. Looked around room. Surveyed the scene. Pronounced: "Like it."
Images of maternity
Why do we expect so much of ourselves as mothers? Where do we get the idea we should be martyrs to our children and give up our own identities? This exhibition, called Images of Maternity, running at the local Scottish Gallery of Modern Art might offer some answers. I haven't yet had a chance to see it myself, but works on display include paintings by Sandro Botticelli, Pablo Picasso, George Romney and Christine Borland. I'm intrigued by this exhibition, because so much of female identity is tied up with cultural precepts that seek to define and trap us in our roles as mothers. Cultural precepts set down by music, literature, newspapers and paintings like the ones in this exhibition.
My view is that it's hard to resist the cultural message we can - and should - be perfect mothers to saintly children. And so life becomes even more of a strain for those of us struggling to look after a screaming baby. We expect motherhood to convey us to a state of bliss. Then find ourselves isolated, bored and frustrated. Experiencing something very different to the 'new baby joy' we were expecting. How much of the gap in expectation is to do with the fact women spend their lives bombarded with images of post-natal perfection - like the Botticelli picture above?
We're encouraged to believe that giving birth is the crowning glory in our lives, the moment when we fulfill our biological and cultural destiny, that it will bestow perfect happiness on us in our new roles as mothers. But, of course, despite the brave faces that new mums put on for each other at coffee mornings, it's just not like that.
I'm hoping to get along to the exhibition at the weekend, and it'll be interesting to see if there are any paintings that challenge some of the tired old stereotypes that seek to manoeuvre women into chasing after unattainable dreams of motherhood. Exhibition runs until 22 June.
Pregnancy made easy
How does Angelina Jolie do it? How can a pregnant woman manage to look that good? She makes pregnancy look easy. And she's expecting twins, for goodness' sake. Plus she's due in just a couple of months. But here she is, glowing with radiance in every single picture I've seen of her at this year's Cannes Film Festival. She's there to promote her new film, directed by Clint Eastwood, about a single mother in 1920s America whose son goes missing. Looking at the press pictures at lunchtime, I couldn't imagine her suffering a moment's morning sickness, joint pain, indigestion, constipation or cramp. I suppose she is an actress, part of the deal is putting a good face on things. Even when she just wants her bed. With a bottle of this elixir near to hand. But really, I must make more of an effort with my appearance.
Edinburgh Book Festival appearance
Nicola Morgan, head of the Society of Authors in Scotland, and the Edinburgh International Book Festival have asked me to do a writer's workshop at the festival in August on blogging, social networking and books. Wonderful news, but I did feel honour-bound to point out that following the collapse of The Friday Project I don't currently have a book contract. I didn't want them to take me under false pretences. Were they sure they still wanted me? Not a problem, said the organisers. They already knew all about my publisher going bust (very sorry, sure something good would come of it) and could I please talk a bit to the audience about my experiences with The Friday Project? Well, fine. I can do that. Only other snag is that I'm due to give birth just six weeks earlier. But my friend Vanessa has offered to look after the baby in the refreshment tent while I do the workshop. So looks like we're in business. Anyone in Edinburgh in August, do please come along if you get the chance. I'll do my best to make it informative and fun.
Activities Blogging Books Fashionably Late - the book Out and about
Chasing butterflies
At the weekend I took Beanie to a place called Butterfly World,
on the outskirts of Edinburgh, the city where we live. She has been
talking about it ever since. Oh, that feeling of being able to do
something that made her happy. Wonderful. Butterflies (Beanie calls
them 'flies') fluttered overhead in an old greenhouse converted into a
sort of tropical paradise. Followed us, pirouetted, swooped out of nowhere. Beanie stumbled towards them, hands held out in greeting. Trays of oranges hung from the ceiling. Butterfly nosh?
We threw money in a wishing well, inspected carp, goldfish and a
catfish, eyed up iguanas, looked at terrapins and had a quick look at the reptile and creepy crawly section in a room at the back.
Being there made my skin crawl. But Beanie and I both loved Butterfly World.
Something alarmed me, though, as I bought my ticket. Sellotaped to the
counter was an advert. It read: "For sale. A large python. £40 ono.
Friendly and easy to manage."
Back on the buses
When I was a childless Londoner I used to sneer at bureaucrats who wanted to take our beloved Routemaster buses
off the streets. Those open platforms. Too dangerous, they said.
Dangerous? Hardly, I would think, hanging off the edge of the 19 as we
travelled along the King's Road, a barrage of rain, wind and grime
blowing in my face. 
Today whenever I see a Routemaster
(the one pictured left has been turned into a cafe) it reminds me of a
vanished era of first jobs, flatsharing, overdrafts, friendships and
early love affairs, of a time when I was unafraid of life. Of my first, often
bungled steps towards becoming a grown-up. Standing on the open
platforms, holding on with one hand, I felt, well, I felt free. Almost
as free as the occasional bedraggled pigeon that used to fly on board
to join us. Arriving in London from provincial 1980s Edinburgh, there
was a thrill to standing on the open platforms, careering through the
streets of the metropolis. Able to hop on and off at will. No need to
wait for officialdom to release us at a bus stop.
They phased out the final Routemasters
a few months after I got married, left London for good and became
pregnant. It was Ken Livingstone who got rid of them. The same Ken who
once said, "Only a dehumanised moron would get rid of the Routemaster".
This weekend my husband Va-vay was in London and brought back a wooden Routemaster
bus (No 43 to London Bridge) for Beanie. To her father's dismay, she
was more interested in the body lotion he brought back for me,
discarding the bus after a cursory inspection and spending half an hour
annointing her cheeks and arms with jasmine and ylang ylang cream. As well as her eyes, mouth, hair and tongue. She
gave me a pitying smile when I pointed out to her that her two-year-old
skin didn't require hydrating. The same way I ignored my mother when
she told me I didn't need full make-up, aged 13.
As for me, all I could think of as I looked at the bus was how hard it would be get a buggy on board one of them (an issue close to my heart).
How frightening it would be if the buggy rolled back off the bus onto
the road. Whether the brake would be strong enough to keep baby and
buggy safe. Spiritually, you see, I have become as one with those bureaucrats.
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 she said: "What if you die?" My
friend, who is not from this country, then said: "Well, maybe compared
to an NHS hospital birth it is the best thing to do." 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 Daughter Dilemmas Friends Fun Health Home birth Out and about Pregnancy
Birth Resource Centre
Anybody planning on giving birth in Edinburgh might be interested to know about the city's Birth Resource Centre. They have birth preparation days for couples, pre- and post-natal yogal classes, a library of useful pregnancy and birth books (I've got my eye on The Water Birth Book by Janet Balaskas) and a support group for home births. More importantly, their staff are warm and kind. And they rent birthing pools. Last time I was pregnant I dragged Va-vay along to NCT lessons - and we were lucky enough to meet a great crowd of people, almost all of whom we still meet up with regularly. Life would have been pretty dismal without the NCT crowd, who've provided company and good cheer over the past couple of years. I hope they don't mind me saying that. But Va-vay and I were slackers during the actual lessons - we kept skiving off for dinners out, thinking (correctly) we wouldn't have much chance to go out once the baby arrived. Va-vay is also incorrigibly private - and curled up with embarrassment at discussing pregnancy in front of people he didn't know at the time. Not my problem, really. It's more getting me to shut up that's my issue, especially when I get nervous. But, anyway, my knowledge of childbirth and labour positions is sketchy - though I have no-one to blame but myself. This time I'm going to try and learn up a bit more. Less skiving. More swotting.
Childbirth Friends Health Home birth New baby Out and about Pregnancy Water birth Books
Auld Lang Syne
Friday 25 January is Burns' Night here in Scotland, when we celebrate the life of national hero and poet Robert 'Rabbie' Burns. Va-vay and I are excited about going to a Burns' Supper in honour of the great man - Va-vay's first Burns Night - and Va-vay has even hired a dinner suit for the occasion. He did have the option of wearing a kilt, but with him being a Sassenach (Englishman) we thought the DJ option best. I'll be wearing a flowing empire-line dress that sort of hides my bump. Erica from Littlemummy has a great guest post at Scribbit on Rabbie Burns and the tradition of Burns Suppers.
Off duty
Beanie went to Granny's for a night at the weekend. So Va-vay and I went out and painted the town red, clubbing till all hours.... okay, no, we didn't. But we did manage dinner out at one of our favourite restaurants, where we did lots of the usual soppy stuff like reminisce about how we met, dream about moving to France one day and plan our next holiday. What a treat to stroll home via Edinburgh's cobbled Georgian streets, without worrying about rushing back for babysitters. This is the first time Beanie's stayed at her Granny's in a year and my goodness, did I enjoy it. I hadn't realised how much time I spend worrying about whether she's okay when on duty. It was delicious lying there in bed not wondering if Beanie would wake up, whether I should try Calpol, or take her into bed with us. But of course, in the morning I missed her cherubic little face, the sound of her giggles, her toddler truck slamming into a wall, a half-eaten rice cake waved in greeting. We rushed over to Granny's, where we found Beanie and Granny had worn each other out - with Beanie settling only at about midnight. Beanie cried at being parted from her Granny. For her part Granny, who normally never sleeps during the day, said she planned on catching up on sleep after lunch.
Enchanted
The first-trimester nausea has gone, so I
suggest a cinema trip to an old friend. "Sure," she texts back. "How
about The Kite Runner?"
I look it up on-line and am scared even reading about it. No way can my
addled hormones handle a story of childhood betrayal, exile, civil war,
the Taliban and sexual violence. I suggest something called Enchanted - a romantic comedy that looks sufficiently non-threatening. "OK, see u there 30 mins before," texts my friend.
The only other people in the audience are teenage girls (this is the
evening showing). We are the oldest people there by about twenty years. I sense that the
matinees are probably full of eight-year-old girls.Does it matter? Not a bit. The 2-D animated opening
introduces us to Giselle and her magical animal friends who frolic and
sing in the woods. Friend and I exchange looks. I pretend to be
mock-horrified - but deep down I'm loving this film. Giselle meets a
handsome prince, who asks her to marry him. She accepts. But on the day
of the wedding, his evil stepmother, Queen Narissa, steps in to stop
the marriage, knowing she will no longer be queen if her son marries.
Narissa throws Giselle down a wishing well, saying she'll send her
to a place 'where there are no happy-ever-afters' - this turns out to
be modern-day Manhattan. However, here (in live-action) Giselle
(still in her wedding dress) eventually meets well-to-do divorce lawyer and single dad Robert, who takes her in for the night.
Robert and Giselle start to fall for each other, but things get
complicated when Queen Narissa follows Giselle to Manhattan, to be sure she's seen the last of her would-be
daughter-in-law. Narissa tracks Giselle down to a ball, where,
disguised as a toothless old hag, she finally persuades her to eat a
bite of poisoned apple.
Giselle collapses, and only the kiss of true love (delivered by
Robert) saves her life. Unfortunately, Narissa doesn't take this set-back
well, turning herself into a huge dragon and grabbing hold of Robert
before thundering out onto the roof of the skyscraper where the ball's
taking place. Giselle follows, and forces Narissa to let go of Robert.
Still in her dragon persona, Narissa falls from the roof and dissolves
into glitter on the pavement below. True love triumphs.
It was an entertaining film, full of witty touches - though I did
feel like an imposter being there without any young children. Later, I recount the plot to Va-vay.
"So you see, Va-vay, it really started with his mother not wanting them
to get married because then she wouldn't be queen any more."
"Really."
"But then the conflict is resolved when the dragon falls from the skyscraper."
"I thought one of the design features of dragons was they could
fly," he replies. "This must have been a freak, flightless
dragon."
Some people will insist on being so literal.
Take to the hills
Edinburgh residents reading this will know about the beauty
of the Pentland Hills that surround the city to the south, guarding it in a semi-circle of heather, hill, reservoir and woodland that gives
views stretching over the town to the sea beyond. It is easy to forget
Edinburgh is a coastal town, coming to a halt at the water's edge,
perhaps because the weather does so little to encourage a trip to the
seaside. Yet out on the hills, the city looks like an island or peninsula, lapped by water.
Before we bought a car earlier this year, we had limited means of
getting out to the hills. On one occasion we resorted to taking a taxi to the start
of a walk, dressed in walking boots, fleeces and gaiters (buses didn't go there). It reminded
me of a journalist who boasted he had to take a taxi to the front line
of a war somewhere in Africa. I forget where exactly. Hope he was still able to claim on expenses.
Now we have the noble beast, we drove out
to Harlaw Reservoir under our own steam. I still find driving stressful, almost a year after buying the car, but there doesn't seem much alternative if we're to go anywhere interesting.
We waited inside the car until all
the dogs barking and milling about the carpark had moved on. I'm useless with dogs. Beanie used to love them; now I fear I've passed my phobias onto her. She gets nervous too.
Beanie travelled in a
backpack carried by her father. We managed a full circuit of the
reservoir, overseen by the charred hulk of Black Hill (501m), whose blackened slopes are
the result of 'muirburn'.
We spotted greylag and pink-footed geese, that roost in the Pentlands in winter-time (living in Greenland the rest of the year, greylag geese see Edinburgh as the equivalent of a winter holiday in the Caribbean or Florida), sheep, horses and some cows. Beanie greeted them all, except the geese, with the word: 'bear'.
On our return to the car we realised we'd lost one of Beanie's shoes somewhere on our walk. If anyone reading this spots a girl's shoe (size 4.5) out by Harlaw reservoir, please drop me a line.
Ring and a prayer
Just before the sky darkened this afternoon, I made it out of the house for the first time in three days. I almost skipped along the street, it was such a relief to be somewhere, anywhere that wasn't my bedroom and did not contain damp laundry, memories of round-the-clock nausea, or a re-purposed waste bin. A trip to an out-of-town shopping centre on Christmas Eve might even have lifted my spirits, I was at such a low ebb.
Once I tottered outside, I felt bereft without my sick bin, like when you learn to swim and let go of the edge for the first time. But the most simple experiences assumed proportions of wonder - nodding and smiling to our neighbour - who looks like Cap'n Birdseye and stands outside his tenement in all weathers smoking and grinning through his white beard - was my most exciting, no, let me be more accurate, my only social encounter in days. (I assume he smokes outside because Mrs Birdseye refuses to tolerate it
inside, but it might be a throw-back to his nautical days pacing up and down the main deck)
As we passed our local church, Va-vay noticed a sign advertising a children's service. It turned out to be starting in two minutes' time. We dithered in front of the church, not knowing whether to go in, unsure Beanie was old enough, until a man came out to welcome us. After that, there was no turning back.
For what was one of her first church services, Beanie (twenty one months) behaved impeccably, and sat quietly most of the time on her father's knee playing with his mobile phone. She listened without a sound while the vicar talked us through the arrival in Bethlehem of Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and wise men. All was well until we got to the part where the vicar announced he would lead us in prayer:
"And now we are going to talk to God," he explained to the assembled tots and us parents.
At the call to prayer, Beanie pressed a button on the mobile, held it to her ear, assumed an expression of concentration, and piped up: "Hello?"
Who says the spirit of Christmas is dead.
A spot of shopping
"What is it with you and your clothes?" I ask Va-vay.
We are sat in an Edinburgh cafe planning the final shopping onslaught before Christmas. My cup of hot chocolate must steel me for the fight with battalions of shoppers who are advancing on the city's shops like scavenging hordes. I have presents for everybody except Va-vay, who is unable to think of a single thing he might like for Christmas (saving arcane items of geekery that I do not understand well enough to purchase).
"What do you mean?" he replies. "I buy clothes, I wear them; they wear out. That's it."
This description barely does justice to the war of attrition Va-vay wages on his clothes.
"Yes, but Va-vay, the clothes disintegrate on you. Within months. Weeks even. Remember the Thomas Pink shirts?"
We both fall silent at the memory of the shirts, now reduced to dish rags and eking out their last days in a bucket under the sink.
"That wasn't my fault," says Va-vay. "Something in the fabric attracted stains." As if a laundress had put a curse on them. A Vanish-proof jinx that would defeat the housewives of Harry Potter.
"What about your socks, then?"
I've got the trump card here. Va-vay (who has size 14 feet) has issues with socks that not even his optimism can deny. They tend to sprout holes within weeks and his toes peep out to greet the world.
I've bought socks from all the obvious sock-buying places,
thinking somewhere must have some that fit his feet. In vain. Our home is full of
greying, unmatched socks that have wilted at the challenge of clothing
Va-vay's feet. At night, his feet stick out the end of the duvet. Large and vulnerable.
I have offered to knit him socks, but Va-vay has declined, saying his skin allergy makes him sensitive to wool. Yes, it's hard to believe this is the same man who dashed across a busy B road to save the life of a caterpillar he saw stranded on the tarmac.
"Don't buy me expensive socks for Christmas," he says. "They're no better than the cheap ones."
"Va-vay, you do want something for Christmas, don't you?"
"You've got me a hat. That's enough."
"No! It's not enough. I want to buy my husband a nice present for Christmas. Why won't you co-operate in this? There's pleasure in giving as well as receiving, you know. You're making it very difficult."
"Oh, alright, alright. What about a pair of trousers?"
As well as having feet at the more err, generous end of the spectrum, Va-vay is also tall (around 6ft 6in). As you might imagine, trouser-buying has its challenges. We trail from shop to shop, meet assistants who laugh at us or cannot help, while elbowed by fellow shoppers who refuse to move aside for the buggy. I am paranoid that a stranger will touch me and cling to Va-vay. Our search for the right sort of trousers is proving fruitless.
Eventually, I spot a countryside shop purveying guns, Barbours, goggles, corded strawberry trousers, tweed caps, padded waistcoats and any other accoutrement you could imagine the sporting gent about town might need.
"Look, Va-vay, we could get you a pair of plus fours!" I tell him in excitement.
Va-vay glances in the window at the dummy done up in a pair of moleskin pantaloons that finish just below his knees. A shotgun trails by his side. Compared to his friend (in canary yellow trousers), his get-up looks almost sophisticated.
"Any pair of trousers is like plus fours on me," he says, with resignation.
We turn from the knickerbockers, and head for home.
Dilemmas Domestic chaos Edinburgh Husband Likes/Dislikes Out and about
Motherhood: a marathon for us all
Wonderful to read of Paula Radcliffe's victory in the New York Marathon, just nine months after giving birth to her daughter Isla in January. Brilliant news, especially after her terrible time in the Athens Olympics. Radcliffe, who's thirty three, is talking about competing in the 2012 London Olympics and having another child before then. Which could conceivably make her an older mum. Go, Paula. It's not just the British flag you're flying. You're an inspiration to us all.
Fill your boots at Fidra Books
A quick reminder that Edinburgh's new, independent children's bookshop opens its doors for the first time this Saturday (10 November). You can find Fidra Books at 219 Bruntsfield Place, Edinburgh, just along the road from Holy Corner. Vanessa Robertson, the firm's director, is a staunch ally of this site and fellow blogger who deserves every success with the new shop. I'm chuffed to bits for her and telling everybody I know about the launch. Please go along and support the shop by buying some of her books. She's stocking more than a thousand titles, including the fifteen Fidra has published. Aside from Vanessa being a personal friend (I think she'd agree with that) we need shops like this to stop our high streets melting into a parade of identikit chains.
More personally, I can hardly wait until Beanie's old enough to enjoy browsing in Vanessa's shop. Some of my happiest childhood memories are visiting bookshops with my mother, and I want to do the same thing for my daughter. I come from a fairly modest background (despite what certain readers of the Edinburgh Evening News think) but my mother believed books were the best investment you could make and used to produce her James Thin account card for all sorts of children's books like Ballet Shoes, Tom's Midnight Garden and The Secret Garden. They opened the door into a new and enchanted world I never wanted to leave.
As Vanessa's written on her blog, many people have an emotional attachment to book shops possibly because they remember buying books there that have shaped their lives, ideas, aspirations, dreams, perceptions and imaginations. Buying on-line is never going to be the same for a small child as wandering around in a cornucopia of real books. Go on, if you get the chance, pay a trip to the new shop. Just don't expect to find any Katy Price pony books, though. Vanessa won't be stocking any. As she told The Scotsman, "We won't stock rubbish." Quite right too.
Coming over all McCall Smith
An incident last week involving the Noble Beast - our car - has proved what I've long suspected: my life is turning into
something out of one of Alexander McCall Smith's books about Edinburgh. It was past midnight, my husband Va-vay was snoring lightly by my side, Beanie was
asleep next door in her room - the 'Beanerarium’. I couldn’t sleep for
worrying if I remembered to tether the Noble Beast properly.
In my defence, just after I stabled the Beast earlier that evening I got a bit
flustered because as I was putting Beanie into her buggy - the 'Travelling Beanerarium’ - a large silver Mercedes
drew up very, very close to us.
“Could you be careful! There’s a little girl here,” I shouted,
pushing the buggy away as fast as I could. Unfortunately progress was slow on the uneven
cobbles of the Edinburgh New Town.
The man wound down his window and drawled in a hateful,
posh accent, as if he couldn’t be bothered if he mowed over an entire
kindergarten: “I am fully aware of that.”
Still a bit upset about that, and busy thinking up pithy rejoinders it was too late to deliver, I couldn't sleep. So instead I lay there for another half hour, keeping myself entertained by running through the
possibilities of what might happen to the poor Beast:
a) Drunken pub-goers break into car, urinate everywhere, trash her.
b) Car thieves steal the Beast and take her to Glasgow, where Lard McConnell, well-known Glaswegian crime lord and good friend of Bertie Pollock is waiting to take delivery of her
c) Insurers refuse to pay up because it was my mistake. S**t!!!!
"Va-vay," I say, quite loudly, in the darkness. "Va-vay, I think I forgot to lock the car."
The poor man gets dressed, stumbles out of the house looking half-asleep and heads back to the scene of the crime.
He returns twenty minutes later, gets undressed again, and climbs back into bed. All without saying a word.
"So, err... was it okay?" I say apologetically.
"Yes, all locked up." Within seconds he's snoring gently again.
Oh dear. A classic Irene Pollock moment.
Vote on your 'Treasured Places'
Those of you who live here in Scotland might be interested in Treasured Places, a free on-line poll to choose the country's favourite historical image. It's run by the Royal Commission on Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland , a heritage organisation that documents Scotland's past, and voting remains open until Thursday (25 Oct). The Commission is staging the vote to celebrate its 100th anniversary next year. 
Voters can choose from a hundred pictures that range from shots of the Dean Bridge, Edinburgh (top left) to Craigievar Castle, Aberdeenshire (middle left), Drum Castle, also in Aberdeenshire, (bottom left) and Elgin Cathedral in Moray. There are some gems in there, such as images of the Churchill Barrier at Scapa Flow, Abbotsford House in the Borders, the Bell Rock Lighthouse in Angus, and the Bilsland Crest from the Thistle Chapel in St Giles Cathedral. Or you can nominate your own image.
The top ten images will feature in a major centenary exhibition at the Edinburgh City Art Centre in 2008 and the winner will be celebrated by a poem written by Valerie Gillies. The winner will be announced on Saturday (27 Oct). Lest you wonder about my involvement in the project (and, please, no jokes, thank you all the same, about historical monuments/older mothers, really not in the mood), let's just say one of the organisers is a close relative of someone who comments on this site frequently. Beyond that, my lips are sealed.
Activities Edinburgh Fun Holidays Out and about Older mother
First year of motherhood tests us all
For most new mothers the year after having their first baby turns out to be the loneliest in their lives, according to a survey from Tesco and Mother and Baby magazine. Cut off from families, friends and work colleagues, almost half of new mums feel 'lonely and isolated'. Nine out of ten miss the social life they enjoyed before the baby arrived and around two-thirds 'feel cut off from normal life'. Only around a quarter lived in the same town as their parents.
The Mail quotes Elena Dalrymple, editor of Mother and Baby, saying: "Leaving work and having a baby is a huge physical and emotional adjustment for women. Friends without babies drift off, grandparents live miles away, neighbours are barely on nodding terms, other mums you bump into at the shops aren't your type and the social life you once knew has ground to a halt."
My experience was quite the opposite: I found myself meeting all sorts of new people when Beanie arrived and have been extremely fortunate in making friends with other mums from our ante-natal class and other groups. It's not over-stating things to say they've been a life-line in some difficult times.
Having a child also meant I got to know some of our neighbours. We used to have a little cafe at the end of our street and before it closed would gather there for coffee and a chat, without having to make any arrangement beforehand. We'd just wander in and chat to whoever was there. Having a child has helped me feel part of a community. It's been great.
On the downside, I've inevitably met people with whom I had little in common except having a child at the same time - but that's hardly surprising. Some of the mums-and-babies events have had their excruciating side.
Sample conversation:
- "Which school are you thinking of for Beanie?" Beanie being two or three months old at the time of questioning. Mind you, I am also guilty of this line of questioning. Schooling is an Edinburgh obsession. Perhaps also elsewhere?
- "My little Fionulla's been sleeping through the night since she was ten weeks. We have to wake her in the morning." GRRRRRrrrrrrr.....
- "Surely you feed her 100% organic! Don't you know what goes into pesticides?"
- "Ranulph's such an active little boy. Girls are so much more passive, aren't they?" On hearing this, a little girl called Arabella (nine months) clouted poor Ranulph (her junior, at six months, and not so very active after all) round the ear. Sins of the parents and all that...
- "Was that a shop-bought cake I spotted?"
These days I don't see as much of Ranulph and his doting mum. But many of us mums who had babies around the same time still enjoy meeting up. Perhaps if I hadn't seen this survey published next to a story about how successful, beautiful women can't find boyfriends, (not something I've ever noticed) it wouldn't have made me think of a comment by Julie Burchill that some newspapers can't bear the idea that there might be a woman somewhere in the world who is - terrible thought! - enjoying herself.
Sharp exit
Sorry not to have posted in a couple of days, but I've been unwell. It came on in the second half of The Winter's Tale, just as everything in the play was looking so promising. Florizel and Perdita were off to Sicily to escape his disapproving dad, all the unpleasantness in the first half (Leontes, pictured below with Paulina, going mad and accusing poor Hermione of adultery) was in the past and things had taken a turn for the better. We even had good seats, despite finding our £13 tickets for an upper-circle box meant we could see about a quarter of the stage. An usher, summoned by Va-vay, agreed there was no view from our box worth seeing and showed us to the front of the dress circle. 
All was well, until I couldn't help noticing, really noticing the smell of a glass of red wine belonging to the woman next to me. The vapour wafted out of the plastic cup like there was super-strength alcohol in there, making my stomach churn. Someone else's perfume smelt stronger than usual. The theatre was too hot, my head started to spin and I whispered to Va-vay that I wasn't well. We beat a retreat, without seeing the 'statue' of Hermione come to life in the final scene.
The evening finished with me being sick in the car park - spattering my new suede boots purchased
in France in the process - while Va-vay paid for our parking ticket. I did get hopeful this sickness might mean I was pregnant, until Va-vay reminded me it was probably the same bug Beanie had earlier in the week. Still, at least we stuck around long enough to see Shakespeare's most famous stage direction: ''Exit,
pursued by a bear". Without wanting to snigger. As exits go, not so much less dignified than our own.
Dog days
On holiday it seemed that Beanie greeted every slavering cur, half-rabid wolf and barking hound like long-lost friends, crying out 'dug' to them, oblivious to my maternal fears. 'Dug' is a recent addition to her vocabulary, a popular one, but Avignon pavements are narrow; its dogs can be unpredictable.
Imagine, then, her delight when, on a train journey home one day, we happened on a tiny 'dug' nestling in a woman's handbag. Combining as it did two of her greatest loves - 'dugs' and handbags - Beanie could not have been more entranced.
"Dug! Dug! Dug!" she pointed, desperate to ensure that I, too, had noticed this two-for-one miracle, this holy grail of travel accessories, the benchmark by which all other bags will now be judged. "Dug! Dug! Dug!"
"Yes, Beanie. Dog," I told her, a trifle pedantically, it must be confessed, but loving her innocent enthusiasm.
"Can she touch the dog?" I asked its owner in French.
"Ah, no, he has sharp teeth. Likes to bite." The woman made biting gestures.
"Beanie," I whispered to her "The little dog might bite. We'll just look at him for now."
She listened to what I said, clambered back up on my lap and watched the puppy from afar, interjecting every so often: 'dug!' - and then again - 'dug!' until both she and the dog fell asleep.
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.