We all have things that drive us mad, or make us furious, or send us into ranting mode, some unreasonable and petty, some just plain silly, but it’s a fact of life that what one person might find amusing or acceptable may well send another running for the hills to find their shotgun

Todays pet hate,  and one that has simmered for years, is when people put the word ‘adopted’  in front of the words son or daughter when describing  a family member who is not the birth child. In the  article I read this morning,  which happened to be an obituary, it referred to the deceased as having left behind three children and two adopted children. As someone who is indeed an adopted child I really struggle with this label. Why not just say son or daughter ? In my view it belittles the role we play in our families. Perhaps it’s just me, (and in no way means I am unhappy about being adopted, far from it,)  but in my opinion it depicts us not being quite the same as the others, not a real signed up member of the family.

I also hate the phrase  ‘adoptive’ parent, for the same reasons, in that I think  it implies someone who is not a fully fledged parent, though it is a term that sometimes I use to try and explain the myriad of complexities of my own family, which is indeed very complicated. M came home from primary school when she was about seven with a photocopied sheet of A4 paper on which was drawn a tree with a couple of blank  spaces stretching out from its branches. The kids had been told to go home and fill in their family tree, a task that should have been simple, but not in my case. In addition to my mum , dad and brother we had to cram in two birth parents, three half sisters, a half brother, a step brother and sister, a pair of step parents, plus half nephews, nieces, cousins, uncles and aunts. After several attempts we had to start a new piece of paper.

At the end of the day,  I am extremely lucky to have grown up with the family I grew up with, the family I met when I was a tiny baby. I am even more lucky to have, as an adult,  found both my birth parents,a joyful reunion in both cases,  and my life jigsaw is now complete. It is impossible to imagine what it must have been like in 1960 to have been given no choice but to give your baby up for adoption,  for no reason other than that you were unmarried,  which in those days being  was unacceptable. The tragedy of countless young women being forced to make such heartbreaking and life changing decisions ( with very little support or kindness) is hard to fathom now. Finding both of them is one of the best things I have ever done,  and I cannot put into words my huge gratitude, respect and love for them,  and for the painful and brave choice they made in order to give me the best chance in life.

And then we move on to another gripe which is the incorrect use of grammar. At which point I start pulling my hair out and turning into a teacher. Don’t even start me on this ridiculous fashion for putting apostrophes in totally the wrong places, it sends me into a rage, but everyone seems to think it’s perfectly normal.  And why on earth do all of my kids ( young adults) insist on saying ” I’m going shop/pub/wherever “. Do they not mean surely that they are going TO the shop/pub/wherever?  And all these abbreviations are mostly beyond me, and whenever I attempt to haul myself to keep up with the times and come up with one, it is usually met with howls of laughter ( LOL). 

Words that are mis spelt on purpose are also deeply annoying. The hair dresser down the Walworth road called Krazee Kuts should be ashamed of itself to be honest.One can only hope that their scissor skills are better than their spelling. Sometimes mis spelling is just very funny like the shop down the road that was called ‘Toms diary’ ( at least it didn’t have an apostrophe) or ‘Noodel city’ though sadly both have now been corrected. 

And then we move on to my all time number one pet hate. Balloon modelling. Words fail me when I try to think of one single redeeming feature of this most pesky, squeaky and irritating pastime. Because basically there isn’t one. Apologies to any of my nearest and dearest who are unbeknownst to me, undercover balloon modellers ( or sculptors as it is sometimes called in an attempt to give it ideas well above its station). 

In fact, forget the apologies, you need to seek help. Without delay. 

I can hardly believe we are at the beginning of September, and that almost on cue there were crinkled leaves that had fallen on my windscreen this morning as the chestnuts are beginning to turn. And today it feels crisp and chilly and makes me think it might be time to find some socks

I am a creature of habit when it comes to summer holidays. August always involves an exodus down the A303 to the field where we set up camp, put on raincoats, discuss the weather and sit around pondering  the fact that some people choose to go on Greek villa holidays. This year,  I left London on a sweltering sunny morning, even having a moment of madness thinking  that perhaps I didn’t even need to pack a raincoat,  as we seemed to be in the middle of a heatwave. Well, yes, everywhere was in the middle of a heatwave . Everywhere apart from our field in N Devon. By the time I got to Bideford the sky had turned black and as I turned into the farm it started to rain. Not London rain, but proper earthy peaty rain, the sort of rain that splashes right down inside every crease and wrinkle of your waterproofs and leaves your skin soft and smooth.

My favourite bit of camping life is the camp kitchen. As I have mentioned in a previous post we have an old army mess tent ( called Col Poppit) that we put up in the corner of the field tucked in to avoid the inevitable wind and rain. However many other tents get bent and blown down, the poppit remains steadfast and upright ( despite several rips). As soon as we arrive we open the back of my van up ( usually bringing with it a shower of rust ) and get everything out. Crates of plates, mugs, cutlery, cooking pots and pans, surf boards, fishing nets, ropes, tables, chairs, gas bottles, everything but the kitchen sink although my van does indeed already have one. 

Once the poppit is up we set about getting the kitchen ready. Water carriers are filled, crates are sorted into categories ( bread, tins, wine etc) cool boxes stacked with freezer elements , wind breaks hammered in, cookers assembled, coffee and tea decanted into tins, tables and chairs set out. I may be of simple mind but this setting up is the best bit. Apart from the actual cooking that is. 

This year we managed several spectacular meals. The first was during a storm of torrential and unforgiving rain, when the poppit swayed and strained against the battering wind  as if we were at sea. We had decided to cook a hearty meal of sausages ( meat and veg) onion gravy, mash, peas and beans. Amongst the wet card players, swaying lanterns and Eli in full waterproofs disappearing into the storm to adjust tent poles, returning looking like an extra from ‘Deadliest catch ‘ and interspersed with gulps of wine,  we attempted to cook as the gas burner strained in its efforts  to generate more than a half hearted sizzle as the wind whipped and whirled around it. Just as we thought things couldnt get any worse theentire cooker   blew over, rings still burning, tipping the large saucepan of onion gravy that had been simmering for the past hour and a half over the grass. Undeterred, we got a spoon and scraped up as much as we could find,  which we then served with the rest of dinner. I think the slightly chewy bit somebody found in their helping may have been a slug but you do your best.

My other favourite meals were on the beach at Welcombe.There were two last beautiful golden evenings before we went home and we spent them both swimming and cooking supper . We carried my cast iron dutch oven pot down the path and on to the rocks, perched as high as we could as the tide came in and made the most perfect exquisite roast chicken in cider, fresh herbs, with onions garlic and lemon. On the last night we met with Pop, Alex, Tony and Jay, this time only venturing  as far as the bottom of the steps as the tide was so high. We barbecued vegetables and potatos from their garden, sausages and kebabs from the butcher at Kilkhampton, Jay bringing  freshly baked bread in a basket, we toasted each other with chilled prosecco as we sat looking out over the silver shimmering sea, until the sky turned pink and the sun went down

Luckily my friends are creatures of habit too ( though these habits have not always been so welcome in the case of my children who did understandably sometimes mutiny at being made to sit in a tent for weeks in the rain) but the same group of us have been camping together for years , with inevitable comings and goings and gaps. The babies, chubby  toddlers and kids we used to carry down to the beach, who spent hours playing in the tipi, putting on endless plays, fighting, laughing, falling in the mud, hanging out in the shop buying sweets and dream catchers are now young adults. The visitor books at the craft fair and the museum ( good bolt holes on a rainy day), photos and endless videos bear testament to their presence over the past twenty five years or so. 

 Can it really have been that long? Since the time when a small Tashi was frightened of the seaweed,how she cried when the dog ate her maltesers  and Lucas was so terrified of the Hartland Carnival that I had to wheel him away in his buggy (in hindsight this showed remarkable good taste for one so young). And when we made a bed for baby Molly on the rocks while we swam at the quay and it started to rain so hard that she woke up and laughed. The mornings when they would all get up early, listening out of the sound of Colin’s quad bike as he would come and whisk them away for an hour of rounding up sheep, an hour of peace for us parents. How he would teach them about electric fences by getting them to hold one, and that we found out much later that Harvey had almost turned the quad bike over aged about four. When  Charlie the milkman brought his grandchildren up to have a look at our tipi and his horrified expression having entered to find a damp sleeping bag smouldering over the fire as a gaggle of wild eyed feral youngsters danced about. Suppers in the pub with a chef on holiday and the evening the rainwater poured down the fronsteps into the bar. Exciting wild high tides at the quay with squealing kids, Alex losing his glasses and finding them again as the next wave swept over the top, Ruth grabbing Molly by the scruff of her neck to avoid herfalling into the churning, frothing mass and just two weeks ago all of them running along the sea wall and diving in. Annual and much feared ghost  walks, Tess and I scurrying around the churchyard in the fat suits we found in Colin’s barn ( Bubbles from Little Britain had featured in the carnival that year), Tim hiding in the hedge moaning and wailing as the kids walked down the lane, lit only by moonlight. The way they ran so fast as they made their way back up the track past the farmyard as we threw handfuls of gravel on to the roof of the big barn. Hot chocolate and cheesy chips at the Quay. The first pint of Tribute. The hazy mornings and golden evenings on the beach when everything seems right with the world. Bone chilling swims under the waterfall, sunburnt cheeks and damp trousers, smoke drenched hair and laughter.

And being part of a tribe. Our summer tribe. Friends always and forever. 

Last night we watched an old episode of a Keith Floyd TV series from the early 80’s where in order to overcome a nasty hangover, he attempts (and in his mind, though not that of the viewer ) succeeds, in devising a three day detox programme by cooking and eating a selection of his very own (and mostly very alcoholic) recipes. 

This was one of the funniest things I have watched in a long time. You couldn’t manufacture his own particular charm and slightly dishevelled,  yet beguiling TV presence.  A bit like a foodie version of Columbo with ill fitting overcoats and a slightly bewildered expression,  as if somehow life had caught him by surprise. From time to time he spruced up his outfits a bit by wearing jaunty striped blazers with hideously clashing bow ties, or  flappy Sherlock Holmes type capes topped with a particularly bright green sun hat resembling something that had lived in a hedge or under a car for most of its days.You got the feeling that every make up artist expense or costume budget had been spared, but who cares? 

It was all filmed in his own kitchen, a 1980’s dream of beige and brown, with his hovering cameraman Johnny constantly being told to ” zoom in on the shrimps/ move away from the spinach”,and often having to stop mid film in order to wipe condensation from the camera lens if he got too close to the steaming pots and pans. The recipes involved for the most part shellfish, cream, sherry, vodka, egg yolks, garlic, gin , mint and vast amounts of fish, all of which allegedly are marvellous for cleansing the liver, and he seemed wonderfully stubbornly oblivious to the fact that if you are attempting to use recipes to de tox from alcohol, the one thing to not use as an ingredient is alcohol. 

Despite this fairly major error, and as time passed,  he cheerfully claimed to be feeling increasingly tip top, his health improving each day, as he waved a small glass of water and lemon juice at the camera, enthusiastically pronouncing on the absolute delights of fresh air and exercise, before setting off on long (all of 100 yards) bike rides, or went out fishing for his supper. The tiny little sardine like thing he managed to catch in his net was definitely not the large trout that he fried up moments later on the riverbank , but to be honest the whole programme was so wonderfully shambolic and utterly brilliant that I would have forgiven him anything. 

And it’s worth noting that he was pretty ahead of his time in culinary aspects as there weren’t many other cooks making food such as Thai green curry on television at that time, and despite the way he regularly managed to miss the bowl while ladling lashings of noodles and sauce from the pan so that most of it landed on the table, you could tell he know his stuff. 

At the end of three days, triumphant in his sobriety ( I use this term very loosely) and feeling that he deserved a treat for all his hardship and endeavours he summoned his car and driver. The final shot of this absolute diamond of a programme was of his large ancient mercedes pulling out of his drive on its way to…you guessed it…the pub. 

You just don’t get telly like this any more. For starters, the myriad of health and safety regulations would have washed the soul and point out of a programme like this to beyond recognition. His character would not have survived being stifled by do’s and don’ts,  as the chaos, unpredictability and charm of him were the whole point, and in that way it was utter genius. I also can’t imagine anyone being allowed to so blatantly swig alcohol on television these days to the extent that he did, but again, this was one of the reasons it was so very  funny. 

You only have to look at one of the hundreds of cooking programmes that are available on a daily basis to see that the more you attempt to make things look completely improvised and natural, the more you end up with something that is a bit forced and contrived. Because however hard they try to make it look homely,  and to fool you that the personable and friendly cook  has actually invited the TV cameras into their own spotless and inviting home, you know that behind the scenes  a stylist has re arranged the strings of garlic over the cooker and stacked jars of home made looking jams and artisan chutneys along  the back shelf.  Even the fridge magnets are perfectly presented and there isnt a spill or a grubby tea towel in sight. 

Not that some of them aren’t very good. I’m the first to stay home to watch The Great British bake off or Masterchef ,  I’ve always been a sucker for Jamie Oliver, and would watch Ottolenghi cooking ( or doing anything ) until the cows come home. It’s just that none of them would ever make me laugh quite as much as we did last night with Mr Floyd and that’s a great shame.

This weekend I did my usual amount of bicycling up and down towpaths, currently the Oxford Canal. We have a pattern now with our boating which involves working out where we think we are going to end up at the end of each day and then I drive the car there, hunt about for somewhere to park ( usually in the layby nearest to the relevant bridge) get my bike out of the boot and cycle back to meet T and the Rusty B. 

On Saturday,  because it was already simmering with heat by 7am, I set off very early. As I pedalled past the air smelt of coffee and toast, with boaters emerging into the dappled sunlight , hanging up washing, opening windows, gradually stirring into life as the ducks milled about bickering and squawking,  expectantly waiting for their daily scraps. The permanent live aboard boaters obviously have their regulars who they feed,  and I passed one boat where a large swan and her not so small cygnets had actually jumped on to the front deck,  where a smiling  woman was feeding them leftovers. Being of the generation that was brought up knowing that a swan can, in one swoop break your arm ( yes, this is TRUE)  I admired her bravery,  but was very  relieved that we do not have to contend with such visitors, though I will never tire of feeding a gaggle of mallards and their ridiculously sweet ducklings who come alongside us regularly as we drift past. 

My favourite bike,  and one I got when I first came to London was called Lillian Jones, because she used to belong to a sprightly but elderly woman called, you guessed it, Lillian Jones. She was a proper old ladies bike , pink and green with a large wicker basket in the front and together we had many adventures. I used to cycle her every day to and from college, to the pub, to Brixton market, to jumble sales on a Saturday morning. Hardly any  of us had cars then apart from our rusty Circus Bumbellini van, which had a rather temperamental accelerator pedal,  that sometimes got jammed and once caught fire outside Brockwell park on the way to a gig. Despite this and many other incidents it served us for a few summers ,  though by the end,  parts of it were held together by gaffa tape and it certainly wouldnt have got through an MOT these days. Lillian Jones once featured in an advert for Brixton cycles which was shown at The Ritzy as we all sat and clapped, in the days when there was only one screen, and if you were in the know,  you always sat right in the middle,  becuase there was a slight ridge down the centre of the room so you got the best view. In the days when you could get carrot cake and hot pear juice to take in with you to have  ( in between your cigarettes). Though I have been trying, I cannot for the life of me remember what happened to her in the end but she was a faithful and trusted companion for many years. 

The Oxford canal is much thinner and more remote than the Grand Union,  which is where we started from , and in some places its a challenge to get two boats past each other without touching. We have had to remove the tyres that protect the sides from bumping as they simply wouldnt fit through the very narrow locks and you couldnt fit more than one boat in at a time, making the whole process a little longer, as on bigger canals its much faster if you tag along with someone else and go through together. In places it’s hard to believe that we are only a couple of hours from Camberwell. You can go for long stretches  without passing  a village or any sign of habitation ( apart from the rose covered lock keepers cottages, which look like something out of the Hovis advert). Most of the beautiful old brick humpback bridges no longer go anywhere and there a fields of corn and wild flowers, sheep and cattle as far as the eye can see. In some places the towpath is very narrow and completely choked with grasses and cow parsley and you have to be very careful to hold your nerve when cycling very near the edge,  as one wiggle and you’re in with a large splash ,  and a nasty dose of Weils disease and a stomach upset for your trouble. Its such a shame that you can’t swim in it, especially when its so hot, but the River Cherwell with its deep bone chilling pools is getting bigger and wider the nearer we get to Oxford, so it won’t be long before I can include an early morning swim in my daily ritual, a prospect that fills me with joy. The fact that the weather is bound to change as soon as we get there does little to dampen my enthusiasm as come hurricane, storm or rain showers, I will swim.

On Saturday night, sun blasted and sweaty,  we moored up between locks on a stretch of water still and smooth as mirror, without a breath of wind, the heat of the day gradually fading  to be replaced by a soothing coolness. As it got dark,    the sharp reflection of the clouds and the water smudged together like ink on blotting paper, the surface shattered every now and then by swallows who dipped and swooped catching flies. As the shower is still under construction we made do with large buckets of cool water and a bar of soap, a delicious and effective process, followed by crisp clean clothes, a splash of Jo Malone and a comb through damp sun tangled hair. As we have no table outside we rigged up a cunning and extremely practical ( yet rather thin) dining table out of a plank,  with just the right amount of space for serving dishes and plates for two and then made supper with ingredients that mostly came out of our allotment , washed down with a cold glass of wine. We also discovered that the tiny gas powered fridge can stretch to making ice. It’s the simple things. 

Yesterday I went to our local post office, a small friendly place that doubles up as a Costcutter and is a million miles more appealing that the main one up the road,  which feels a little like entering a war zone. This building itself is depressing beyond words, with stained carpets and stony faced employees who seem to think they are doing you a favour with their very presence, as they thrust stamps or forms at you, scowling through the bullet proof windows. It reminds me of the ” parking shop” as it used to be called on the Old Kent Rd where you went to pay your parking fines. The place crackled with air freshener and tension, as many people turned up ready for a fight about the rights and wrongs of whether or not they should have received a parking ticket, taking it out on the poor people whose job it was to deal with them.  It must have been a nightmare place to work.  Someone had the initiative to put heavy springs on the door so that when people flounced out it was impossible to actually slam it, and we all know there  is nothing more designed to deflate the sails of indignation when you want to leave in a flurry of noise, but all you get is a rather pathetic hiss and a tiny squeak. All in all it was a very good move by  whoever finally had the sense to close it down and revert to anonymous online negotiating, which has its uses, though I think we have tipped over to the dark side in some ways. 

In front of me in the queue yesterday there was an old lady, I imagine she was around 80. It was obvious that she was a local because the cheery man behind the counter greeted her by name when she got to the window. She then spent a good ten minutes chatting to him as we all stood in awkward British silence pretending that we had nothing better to do. Eventually he wished her a good morning and she hobbled off out of the shop. I may be completely wrong, but I imagine that this brief interaction may well have been the only one of the day for her and that she went home to an empty house.

We seem  to have created a world where it’s increasingly possible to conduct all your business simply by looking at a screen and pressing buttons, thereby avoiding any need for human interaction, a prospect that I find quite terrifying. There was a post on Facebook the other day about a Japanese man ( he was at least 35 so in theory old enough to know better ) who married a female character from a computer video game that is huge in Japan called Love Plus. Watched by thousands of people online, the groom in full white Tux regalia with his virtual bride a wedding dress, conducted a bizarre online computer generated fantasy wedding ceremony. When questioned why he had done it,  he enthused that his new bride”doesn’t fight, doesn’t get angry if I’m late home, looks good in a short  skirt and says goodnight to me each evening”. Well that’s alright then. 

And there was another article about a factory that manufactures female robots ( the 2017 take on blow up dolls). All of the dolls are unbelievably expensive and totally bespoke so that you can order one  to suit your own particular preferences, small breasts, huge breasts, toned tight  bottoms, piercings , pubic hair, no pubic hair, it seems that anything goes in the search for plastic unresponsive perfection and gratification. The man who ran it was showing the cameras around his warehouse and opened a drawer that was full of different types of nipples each with a different colour, shape and number so customers could browse, make their choice  and then fill in an order form. There  was something laughable yet repulsive and tragic about the very idea,  and slightly reminiscent of a Chinese takeaway.. “I’ll have the brunette with a number 7, a 2, a pair of 9’s, etc etc 

Human beings have a natural yearning for some sort of connection and it seems desperately sad that despite this they seem  to think the answer to fulfillment lies on a touch screen. And even more desperate is the fact that they actually convince themselves that  this is normal. 

Loneliness is a bit like when your bones get damp, that sort of  seeping ache that pervades your very being. I was very lonely from time to time after Tim died, despite being  surrounded and supported by wonderful friends and family. It’s hard to explain. And even harder to re visit the intense misery of the nights when I would wake up at 3am thinking he was next to me and then realising he wasn’t. Weekends and evenings seemed long and almost  pointless. Sometimes I felt it most acutely when I was in a room full of people, at a party or on the bus to work.  Perhaps it’s to do with watching everyone else around you getting on with normal things, and you want to be like them,  but you have sort of forgotten what normal is for the moment. And then you see a dad out with his kids in Sainsburys and your heart shatters into a million pieces because you know that you will be going home to a house where there is no dad. And a house that in those days  felt so silent though his very absence shouted itself from the rooftops so loudly that I wanted to put my fingers in my ears to make it stop.

We are very lucky in our street. Maybe because it’s quite small, and a cul de sac,  but I pretty much know everyone who lives here, mostly on first name terms. People find this quite extraordinary in a city that is as huge and anonymous as London but I love it. It was always a relief when the kids were growing up to know that if anything happened there wasn’t  a door that they couldnt knock on to ask for help, that somebody would always be in, usually with a set of spare keys. When I attempted to burn our kitchen down one summer while cooking dinner , having lit the cooker with a bit of newspaper, stupidly chucking it in the bin without checking it was out, turned the cooker off and headed out to pick the kids up from a class , I came back to find a fire engine outside. Luckily I had left the window open, the neighbours saw smoke pouring out and Bodger Bob from opposite had come in and put it out. It’s that kind of street. And the kind of street where we would notice if someone hasn’t been seen around for a while or needed help. The kind of street that its  hard to hide away in for too long without somebody turning up sooner or later,  knocking on the door with a cup of tea or a box of tissues. 

 I imagine if you lived on a boat it would be virtually impossible to be lonely. It seems as if every five minutes somebody pops round to say hello or to ask you a question. Having an open door seems to be an open invitation for a chat or to be plain nosey which obviously being very nosey myself is second nature, as I can’t get enough of a jolly good snoop, a trait I inherited from my mum who was always indignant when people closed their curtains in the village, thus denying her the chance of a peek inside as she walked the dogs. One Sunday on the boat,  friends had come to visit and we had cooked up a lunch with all the trimmings and were just sitting down to eat. Without any warning  a very jolly horsey woman in a barbour jacket stuck her head through the hatch and shouted “Whats for lunch today?”We wished that we had not bothered to get dressed and had been sitting round the table stark naked just to see her reaction. 

It reminds me of Les, my birth dad who would spend weeks at a time on his own, travelling around on one or other of his old trucks, never really knowing where he was going to park up for the night, or how long he would be away  for. I went to visit him once when he was staying by a windmill out near Aylesbury,  and as I was leaving I asked him whether he ever got lonely. At this precise moment somebody knocked on the door of the van. It was the elderly man who lived in the cottage opposite who had seen the van and the lights. In his hand he had a slice of cake and a bag of striped humbugs. ” I thought you might like some company” he said. 

And I left them to it, two old men, chattering away, the sound of their laughter drifting through the cold night air as I made my way home. 

There is something wonderful about being up early before everyone else is out and about, the morning shimmering with the promise of impending heat, the cats stretched out like open accordions on the kitchen floor. I am sitting on the balcony overlooking T’s newly cleared garden listening to the noisy parakeets who are hopping about in the trees at the end of the wall by the fig tree.. Every now and then they fly past in a flash of squawking green, reminding me of India. 

In Tokyo, the first sound I would hear in the morning was the hissing of the sprinklers as the timers came on, vital liquid in the cool of the morning before the heat sucked every drop of moisture out of the day. Japanese grass is spiky and unforgiving, scratchy and scrubby, almost plastic in feel, but British  Embassies take these sort of things very seriously, and clipped immaculate lawns and perfect flowerbeds go with the territory, even if underfoot things are not quite as they seem. 

I have always been an early riser, a habit that is a bit of a mixed blessing . I do envy those who can sleep for hours, snuggling back down under the duvet,  while I am absolutely wide awake and ready to start my day at a ridiculously early hour. If I lived in a country where afternoon siestas were de rigeur that would suit me just fine. When the kids were small,  L ( who could now as a young adult sleep for an entire day) would be up at about 5am and would wake me up by physically opening my eyes shouting” Morning !!!”, an event only made bearable because he was the funniest sweetest toddler known to man and who could possibly mind ? ( well, yes, T for a start  who preferred the ” if I lie very still he will go away” option.)

On Saturday I was out and in the lido at 7.30am, a gloriously cool oasis of calm, the clear chilled sparkling water soothing on my sunburnt shoulders. By the time I left there were queues snaking around the corner. They must rejoice at this hot weather, though I do admit to a sneaking and most unjustified sense of outrage at the hoards of fair weather swimmers who come out of the woodwork thus making the rest of us faithfulls wait for hours to get in. 

This morning I went out to water our allotment before it got too hot and parched. Everything has exploded into a mass of bean and pea shoots, the potato patch is a sea of pink flowers and the sweetcorn is thickening as it ripens. On Friday we stripped the  cherry tree by the main gate and picked a whopping 27kgs of sweet dark red cherries! Whatever the weather was doing it was obviously doing it at the right time as we have never had so much from one tree and unusually the birds seem to have left it alone. The apricot and walnut tree are also  heavily laden with fruit though the squirrels usually end up with the walnuts. 

And then T and I cycled down to Peckham to try and see if there was any kind of gathering for the minute of silence scheduled at 11am to remember all those who have lost their lives to terrorism. Peckham was its usual hustle and bustle but the  mosque was empty apart from a handyman who shrugged and said he didn’t know anything about a minutes silence. We ventured into a church where people were sitting listening to a woman talking. It looked worryingly happy clappy with a selection of guitars and tambourines on the stage so we left . And then we realised we had missed the 11am deadline anyway so we  went for a coffee and discussed elderly parents and all that sail in them. And on my way home I stopped to buy some tomatoes and a large bunch of parsley. The stall holder asked me what I thought about this mornings attack on the mosque in Finsbury Park. I told him that we had intended to keep a minutes silence to remember but we had somehow missed it. “Lets do it now” he said . So me and the muslim stall holder held hands and stood in silence together for a minute. And then he gave me a mango and I cycled home. 

I love living in London. 

So here we are down in North Devon, in the field that we have camped in every summer for the past 25 years or so. As I sit here under Colonel Poppit ( our ex army dining shelter , so called because when I bought him from an army surplus store and opened him out for the first time piles of sand fell out, hence him having done time in the desert and the fact that you pop him up and down, yes.. this is the sort of thing that gets made up when you have a lot of time on your hands due to inclement weather)  I am looking  across the lush green meadow towards the church tower that sticks up over the horizon ( or doesn’t when its cloudy) The middle of the field is full of wild flowers, still to be cut and harvested in the summer months,the hedgerows alive with fox gloves, birds and the buzzing of bees. And the sun is out. Some of our group have walked down towards the sea, to clamber down the cliff to Spekes, wild and windswept, a place of picnics, fires and surfing and the rocks bleak and unforgiving, yet smooth amd warm  to the touch. Later we will gather at low tide armed with barbecues, fresh mackerel, sausages and cold beers, to cook and eat supper together

 I would be lying if I said we came here for the balmy weather, and at times the camp has resembled a scene from the Somme, with such high winds that we have had to tie our tents to the cars to avoid them blowing over the cliffs and into the sea. About the second time we came  here  we had to abandon camp altogether in the middle of the night and retreat to our friends house down the road who awoke to find every inch of hallway and sitting room filled with slightly damp campers. When we returned to the campsite the following morning to survey the carnage, amongst piles of soggy ripped tents lay all the the bent and twisted poles resembling the cover of the Tubuler Bells album. Friends who sensibly chose to have holidays in places where you knew that pretty much every day the sun would shine simply shrugged and looked at us with bemusement at our tales of storms and rain , drizzle and mud, and mostly just asked ” why?”

At the beginning there were very few facilities here apart from a loo block at the top of the field and a couple of showers down in the farm yard. Visits to the launderette meant visits to the cinema or egg and chips in the cafe, which also meant warmth and a dry place to sit. One day we went to the local activity centre to avoid the deluge,  only to be evacuated as the rain flooded through the doors and into the ball pool. Gradually we realised that in order to survive we needed large  undercover waterproof spaces to sit and cook in, hence the arrival of Poppit ( and a later addition of Mrs Poppit , lacing the two together ). This meant that at least we had somewhere vaguely dry to sit while discussing the weather that mostly seemed to be on the edge of brightening up, or at least that’s what we convinced ourselves. For years we would drive down in our Volvo with our tipi in the boot, the poles balanced precariously on the roof rack and we would then erect it in the middle of the filed. Many a riotous evening was spent inside, laughing and singing,  eyes streaming from the smoking fire in the middle. One August me and the three kids stayed in the tipi for three weeks, and probably it rained for two and a half of them but I still remember  it as being one of the best holidays ever , though I can’t quite imagine why. 

But there is a magic about this field and the sea here that fuels the soul, re charging weary city batteries and making us  glad to be alive. The dappled green fields leading down to the cliffs and the wind in my hair reminds me how lucky we are to have this place to come to. Cooking up a feast over the fire  below  a brilliant starry sky with a glass of wine in hand is hard to beat, and at moments like this we forget the unforgiving howling storms and damp clothes, and I would rather be here than anywhere else in the world. 
So  we still come, year after year with a succession of families, friends and kids, now mostly no longer kids but young adults who still come from time to time but this time in their own cars with their own partners and friends and I am certain that in time they will also come bringing their own children 

Over the weekend as we gathered in Portugal with a herd of old friends to celebrate J’s birthday, a lot of conversations were had about elderly parents. Every single person there had a tale to tell,some poignant and sad, sometimes funnyand uplifting, but mostly downright depressing. 

Yesterday I drove down to visit my 90 year old dad and stepmother who live in a flat in the Wiltshire countryside. Despite downsizing from their large house and garden with the express purpose of moving into a town within walking distance of shops, doctor etc they have ended up three miles from the nearest town,  meaning  that they have to drive in order to get any where. This is great news for my dad who holds Toad of Toad halls driving methods in high esteem ( replacing Toads cries of ‘poop,poop” with “get out of the way you bloody fool”) but not such good news for anyone else who might be driving near him. A couple of months ago he managed to smash the front of his car at the same time as demolishing most of the wall in the post office car park. While the car was being towed to the garage he was driven home by two policemen. I assumed that they might have questioned whether he should still be in charge of a car, but he said the only conversation they had was about the price of stamp. The car was eventually fixed and a couple of weeks later he was off again. I went down fairly soon after this particular incident and as usual gently brought up the fact that his outings worried me and suggested it might be time to call it a day. ” Well” he said, ” I have learnt my lesson after my little bump” ( I held my breath).. ” I must always remember to leave the car in park, not drive”. And so we go on. Driving is the last gasp of his independence, in a world that has shrunk and is now filled up with hospital visits, hearing aids and funerals, his days spent at his desk looking out over a garden that is not his to mow. I cannot but admire his spirit.

Every day  the residents get together for a cooked two course lunch and yesterday I joined them. At one point last year, after my stepmother had broken her hip, followed the week later by my dad having a stroke, I was there so often that cries of ‘welcome home’ greeted me as I entered the dining room. A little worrying seeing as I like to think of myself as a youngster at 57. Lunch takes place at 1pm on the dot and the atmosphere is similar to a seaside boarding house set in that programme featuring Hyacinth Bouquet with a dash of the Mitford sisters. Despite constant complaints that the food is inedible, plates are virtually licked clean and rice puddings and crumbles wolfed down as if they are going out of fashion. Several of the more sprightly keep bottles of wine in the baskets hanging from their zimmer frames, clinking and clanking as they make their way to their allotted tables ( placed  far enough apart so that you don’t need to speak to your neighbour if you don’t want to) and who can blame them?  My grandmother always had a bottle of sherry on her bedroom shelf, along with a packet of fags in case of emergencies. One jolly soul, known as the young Admiral ( all of 85) has very recently got married to another resident also aged 85 and is incredibly chatty, always asking questions and being very friendly. This engaging approach is not at all appreciated by some parties is all I’m saying on the matter, and there is a definite air of ” we are above this” going on which is both absurd and heartbreaking.

My mother died at sixty four after a battle with bowel cancer. A remarkable, wonderful loving woman who I still thin about every day. Her thought on finding out she didn’t have long to live was the relief that we, her children would not have to look after her when she was, in her words, “old and difficult”. All these years later I would still give anything to have had the opportunity 

It’s funny how we all think that we will never be like our parents when we get old. We will never rant and rage against old age, fighting the fact that we are unable to do the things we used to do, refusing to compromise or listen to reason, being demanding and stubborn and driving our children round the bend. 

In reality  we will end up being exactly like them, and in turn our children will turn into us, and their children into them and so it will go on. 

And in the end all that remains of us is love.

Last night I watched the final series of ‘The Island’, a reality TV series hosted by Bear Grills. A group of strangers are  marooned on a desert island,  where armed with basic tools, a days supply of water, cameras  and some cooking pots and left to get on with it. In this particular series they were divided into two groups, one younger and made up of under 30’s and a second of older folk, who were delivered to different sides of the island, with no idea of each others existence. It wasn’t long before they bumped into each other,and they ended up living together as one. 

As with all these reality programmes, there was conflict from the start, and very quickly you could tell who was going to be the King and Queen of pain in the arse, who were the peacemakers, the quiet ones, the brash jack the lads, the people you are glad you don’t have to live next door to, or perhaps wished you did. And then gradually when hunger sets in, when the fire goes out, its freezing and wet and all you have for supper is a handful of rancid cockles, that’s when you start to see people unravel and it’s completely riveting (to me anyway). 

 I wonder what the locals must make of it, a bunch of wimpy Westerners barely being able to survive five weeks without reaching for the emergency phone, while snivelling over their barely smoking fire. Can the contestants honestly pretend they had no idea what they were letting themselves in for? Or perhaps they believed there  really was a greasy spoon cafe just around the corner, or as the rumour goes, a hotel for Bear G to retire to after a busy day of sheltering from the beating sun by getting inside the rotting carcase of a camel. As you do. 

Apart from anything else, it must seem like self indulgence of the highest order to have even the choice to decide to rough it,  purely for the benefit of us lot who sit at home chortling  at their discomfort from the safety of our Ikea sofas? 

I remember when T and I were trekking through the Himalayas in Nepal. We would walk all day, stopping for pancakes and mint tea,  and then as it got dark would find somewhere to stay for the night , setting off again as the sun rose, pink and heavy over the horizon. Looking back on it, life was simple. Every day we would pass local tradesmen, small and wiry,  like worker ants transporting their teetering towering loads to distant communities further up the trail, goat and yak herders clambering their way around boulders and  brambles, their heavily laden animals barged past, bells clanging, seemingly oblivious to the fact that one false step would send them plunging to certain death below. One afternoon, out of breath with hearts thumping,  we stopped for a break and started chatting to the pots and pans man who was taking a tea break. He literally carried pretty much every kitchen accessory on his head,  which would have included the kitchen sink if there was an inch of space, and his arrival was heralded by a loud clanking and banging like an out of control percussion band. He spoke pretty good English and was very amused by the endless streams of Westerners who chose to walk the mountain paths with no purpose other than for the pleasure of walking. While he was under no illusion as to the  benefits that this influx had brought to his local economy, improvements such as sanitation, running water and electricity, and the opportunities for making a good living from tourism, he simply could not understand why anyone in their right mind would choose this option for pleasure,  for their holidays, not to mention pay handsomely for the privilege?  There were moments in our month long trek when I had to agree with him.

My absolutely most favourite, and pretty much the first in these types of programmes was ‘ Castaway’. Set on a remote island in the outer Hebrides, a group of people took part in a social experiment ( and moments of pure TV gold)  by setting up a community and living together for a year. Although I didn’t actually apply for it, I was still surprised that the producers didn’t ever ring me up and beg me to be one of them. Obviously they had all gone through a pretty rigorous vetting process in order to determine their suitability for such a venture,  and as far as I remember nobody actually left before time was up, but it was touch and go at times. The island was exquisite, long golden beaches and hills, despite rain, bogs  and a freezing winter. They created poly tunnels, grew their own fruit and vegetables, butchered their own meat, built living spaces and a school, pumped water from a local loch and generally ( to me anyway) despite the endless meetings and arguments it looked pretty amazing and something I would, without a shadow of a doubt have loved to do.

Probably the person who came out of ‘Castaway’  with the best job was Ben Fogle, the blue eyed Tatler boy who took to island life like a seal to water, and who though not my type at all ( and to the annoyance of his fellow castaways) managed to boost the ratings with his effortless charm and engaging manner.He has gone on to make a name for himself with his own programmes where he visits people who have upped sticks  and gone off to live in far flung places, again, compelling viewing. 

Within all of us there is a desire to give it all up and to escape to the idyll of somewhere without mod cons or phones, where you can live the good life on your terms, to get back to basics. And though there may be an element of bravado for the cameras, not one single person Ben Fogle visited showed the least interest in returning home to their former cosy lives, despite the hardships and the inevitable isolation. It was not hard to feel a stab of envy for any of them, for their kids who ran free and wild, the simplicity of their day to day living off the land, of working with and around nature. But as always there is a downside as one by one they admitted to loneliness, of missing friends and family, of the kids longing for other kids. Though their lives were not and could never be, totally perfect, in my book they were pretty much half way there. Then again, its always easier to envy the bigger picture  when you can just walk across the room and turn on a tap, or open the fridge when you fancy a sandwich and when the trip to the loo isnt likely to involve snakes or spiders the size of dinner plates. 

And then there are the reality programmes that are also competitons, when people get voted off each week earning  the right to stay by eating revolting things or having fish guts poured  all over their  faces while rats and snakes writhe up their legs. The ideal destination for a slightly past their sell by date minor celebrity and again, extremely good value, though the novelty has slightly worn off in my opinion, a bit like Big Brother which was a great concept and great viewing for the first couple of series, but frankly is about as appealing as cold congealed sick these days. It seems that people will do pretty much anything now   just to get on telly, the brasher the better, the more tasteless and tacky and sordid the bigger the ratings, the 99p shop window of celebrity. 

And just as you think it can’t  get any worse, has anyone here seen ‘Naked Attraction’?. 

We have a mystery noise in our street. It starts at around 6.30 am and continues just long enough to make sure you are wide awake,  and then it stops. Half an hour later, just as you are drifting off again off it goes again. And so on until the time when you would be having to get up anyway.

Its a bit like a digger being dragged along a pavement, or a L says, a woodpecker pecking into a metal pole, but the weird thing is that it is absolutely impossible to tell where it is coming from,  though me and my neighbour P are on a mission to find it. This morning I jumped on my bike and did a quick circle up and down past the allotments and round again, though whenever it seemed I was about to find the source,  it seemed to be somewhere else. Our street is pretty narrow with tall houses on each side and the acoustics are a bit strange. For example, if someone is having a party which is very loud from the back garden, you can walk round the corner into the street and you would hardly notice. 

When we lived in Wren Rd our  Sunday evenings were interrupted by the local preacher ( ranter) who at 7pm on the dot would set up his portable PA system on the corner. He would then proceed to blast our ears off with tales of hellfire, damnation and dire warnings as to what would happen to us if we refused to let the holy spirit  into our lives. As none of us had any intention of inviting anything holy into our lives it was like a red rag to a bull. Any attempts at reasonable conversation with him in order to persuade him to be quiet proved pointless as he ranted and raged and called us heathens and harlots. In the end we complained to the council who eventually agreed that it was all a bit much and removed his PA system.This only made him worse and he started to walk up and down the street pausing outside our front door.  Finally  S had enough and marched out of the house with a large bucket of water which he threw over him. We never heard or saw him again. 

S had one of those bikes with a fixed wheel that you had to pedal backwards in order to brake. One day by the bus stop  at the top of Denmark Hill the hem of his trousers got caught in  the chain and proceeded to rip from one end to the other leaving him with four strips of fabric and a waistband . The fact that he was not wearing any pants must have made the day of the people waiting at the bus stop and we laughed so much when he arrived home with what was left of his trousers wrapped around his groin that I had to lie on the floor.

It’s funny how you get used to some noises but other make your teeth grate. Last night we went out and sat in the window opposite the Greek shop and the Hermits cave. At least seven ambulances and police cars roared past in the hour or so we were there with sirens blaring,  but we barely noticed them.  I hardly hear the planes that constantly fly over the house or the banging and crashing of the bin  men in the mornings. The clunk of the bathroom light being turned on and off below my attic bedroom was always more comforting than annoying because it symbolised the safe return of one or other of my offspring, though the slamming of the front door in the middle of the night is less appealing 

There used to be a charming man who lived in one of the flats opposite the allotments. He did not know the meaning of speak, only shout. He shouted at his kids, his wife, his dog, the neighbours, the neighbours dog, the neighbours wife, you name it, he shouted at it. One day he came round to ask if we had seen his parakeet which had flown out of the window never to be seen again. A lucky escape on the opart of the parakeet if you ask me. A couple of years ago  I was out in the allotment and it felt as if something was missing. It took a while before I realised that there was no noise coming from the balcony opposite. And indeed the whole family had moved and taken the shouting with them. 

There are noises that are put on this earth simply to drive you mad. Firstly, snoring. An activity that should never be encouraged on any level and yes, I know we all do it ( very occasionally in my case I hasten to add) but it is probably the most annoying sound ever and more guaranteed to end in trouble or a bit of shoving and kicking at the very least. In the interests of world peace and because I love you all,  those of you  who snuffle and snort like badgers and train engines, and have kept me awake on many a night through the years shall remain nameless,  but you know who you are. 

Another  are those electrical whistling / whining / tapping noises that again are impossible to find yet deeply irritating. Like when the smoke alarm starts beeping,  and though you know it is becauise it needs new batteries, it is 3 am and you don’t have any so you attempt to turn it off. Still beeping. You remove the batteries and disconnect it. Beeping continues. Eventually you pull the whole contraption out of the ceiling. Our fridge freezer started playing up and for about a week would vibrate and hum, then stop completely , start again, get louder and louder and then stop. And so it went on until it decided it had been quite infuriating enough and started behaving itself. And the boiler sometimes makes a noise that sounds as if a bird is sitting inside it whistling and pecking away,  but in fact I have realised that all I need to do is to turn the handle to increase the pressure and the bird goes away. 

I am reminded of the classic Mel Brooks film ‘Silent movie’ when the only spoken word  is courtesy of  the mime artist Marcel Marceau who utters the word “Non”. 

Have a peaceful Thursday