My Better Half - pt2

Following on from last Mondays part 1 which can be read here... and ended:

..... That was the first time I really saw his softer side. He liked to keep this personality trait well under cover. He didn’t like people to realise that it existed and rarely displayed it in public.....

At some time in the next couple of months, whilst we were at a small, village located disco, a friend of mine, M, took a shine to G. My boyfriend and I gave them a little encouragement, shall we say, and they started dating. For me it was great, I figured that if he was dating M, I might get to interact with him more often. Strangely, I don’t remember ever feeling jealous, although I was fully aware of my own feelings for him, I had a boyfriend, and a son to consider, and I knew that nothing would ever happen between G and I. I also knew that I would never do anything to orchestrate a situation, or allow him to guess that I had any kind of feelings for him whilst I was committed to another relationship.

Theirs was not a not a match made in heaven. I remember hearing G comment on the fact that the beer goggles he was wearing the night of the disco were the worst he had ever worn. He didn’t fancy her in the cold, sober, light of day. They did continue to see each other for a short while however, and during this time M house sat for a neighbour of ours on the estate we both lived on.

One empty house, two young couples, a couple of the group of friends from the pub, plenty of beer and a bit of whacky baccy!!! (Give me a break, we were all young and foolish at some point!) We layed on the floor drinking, smoking and playing some silly board game. I can’t remember which one, I just remember that at some point G’s feet and mine were occupying the exact same area of carpet. My gut reaction was to move mine. He didn’t even seem to be aware of the contact. I immediately kicked myself and gradually engineered them back to where they had been. Just that smallest amount of contact had made my heart flutter and I remember telling myself that I was just being a stupid, flighty, teenager who should know better. The beer continued to flow and the joints continued to do the rounds. I had rarely drunk so much lager, I wasn’t really all that keen on it, and I had never mixed alcohol with the occasional smoke I had tried in the past. I began to feel slightly unwell. Then the doorbell went. M answered the door and came back to report that my sister was on the doorstep and needed to speak to me.

My journey from the living room floor to the front door is possibly one of the longest, most difficult journeys I have ever endured. I crawled to the living room door and then willed my legs to work before I was visible from the front door. I felt sea sick. The room was spinning. I was having a hot flush. My legs wouldn’t support me. Somehow, I made it to the front door and spoke to my sister. The moment I closed the door, I stumbled back to the others, declared I felt extremely unwell and collapsed in a heap, how very sophisticated!! My boyfriend just laughed at me. G told him to be serious, as best you could after smoking that stuff anyway. He got me to the window for fresh air, and gave me lots of water to drink and offered words of comfort. His care only served to further the feelings I was already harbouring and how I wished he would always be there. I always felt safe with him around.

Eight months later, I was single again. My boyfriend was not cut out for family life, had no wish to be a father, then or since in my mind. He had treated our son badly, but details are not necessary, this post is not about him. He had come back and given it a try, but at the end of the day, he was just too selfish for it ever to succeed. He announced it was over again, after which I discovered that he had been seeing someone else for the past month. Second time around, I wasn’t devastated like I had been the first time. He had done me a favour really, and the more of life I saw, the more I realised I’d had a lucky escape.

My thoughts though, kept turning to G. The pub we all used to frequent was across the road from where I worked and many times I wanted to ring G and ask if he would meet me for a chat and a drink. Given that I was just the ex-girlfriend of one of his mate’s I wasn’t sure that he would, so I hesitated to make the call. Eventually I plucked up enough courage to call him, and was very surprised when he agreed. He turned up on his motorbike, in his leathers, a Kawasaki 400 I believe it was then. Just to see him again made my heart turn cartwheels, but I had to remind myself this was not a date, it was just 2 friends meeting for a lunch drink.

Over the next few weeks, our meetings became more regular, and our friendship began to turn into something more. I would daydream about spending my life with him; I knew I was already falling in love with him.

We would meet at lunch breaks and share time together, just the two of us. This for me was precious time that I always looked forward to. Inevitably, the time away from the others in the group allowed us each to see the real person underneath the exterior that teenagers wear as part of a group. Not that either of us had ever tried to portray ourselves as something we weren't, or tried to hide anything about ourselves, but in groups at that age, there is a lot of bravado and scarcely little on the emotional front. I would sit and look straight into his eyes as he spoke to me, listening to everything yet hearing nothing. My mind was in another world, a world where we were not surrounded by other people, a world I knew I would never taste. Then I would go back to work with my head in the clouds. I consoled myself with the idea that even if I couldn’t have him as a partner I could have him as a friend, and that would be enough.

We would see each other sometimes in the evenings when I went to the pub with another of my girl friends and we would sit with G, my ex and others in a group, and hear those songs time and time again. Sometimes I would catch G looking at me, and wonder what he was thinking, there were never any clues in his expression. Maybe in hindsight there were and I was just to naive to notice them. He often used to buy me a drink because he knew how short of money I was, what little I had was spent on nappies and baby food, and day by day, I fell head over heels in love with him.

A couple of weeks later, he asked me if I would go out with him, I was on top of the world. I’m sure the word ‘yes’ flew out of my mouth far more quickly than it should have done, I just wanted to get in there in case he changed his mind!! In case he suddenly realised what he had asked me and apologised saying it wasn't what he meant. That was 3 weeks before my 18th birthday.

Our relationship, when it started, took off very quickly. I always knew that he was the one, always. In the early days of our dating, G was taxi driving for a living. He would often do a 12 hour day shift driving followed by 6 hours on the control desk. When he was driving, the controller would sometimes give him an 'urgent' job, and he would flatly refuse to do it because he insisted he had to pick me up in the morning and drop me at work. Free taxi, great. Even better than that though, I got to say good morning to him every day from Monday to Friday. I loved that 10 minute drive each day. I would float for the rest of the morning.

I remember one occasion when he had stayed over at mine. I was still living at home at the time, and my Dad's job meant he was up at 4am most mornings and out of the door by half past. G's taxi driving meant he would be up just before 6 and invariably I would be up with my son early too. G, back then, was quite shy around my family. My Mum always used to say he wouldn't say boo too a goose. (A few of you will see that there's a joke in their too!!) Just before 6am, the phone rang out at home. There were no mobiles then, only landlines, but it was most unusual to hear the shrill ringing at that hour of the day. Without a second thought, G picked up the phone, but he didn't say 'hello' like most people, he said, 'War Office ... who wants a fight'?

Within 14 months we had our first, beautiful daughter, and 3 months later we were living together. Later that same year we were married. Life was tough, very tough, but what got me through then was having G by my side, he made me whole and he made life worth living.

And today?

* He still has gorgeous eyes
* His smile still melts my heart.
* When he arrives home at the end of the day, I feel complete.
* When I look at him sleeping, I still think to myself, ‘How did I get to be this lucky in life’?
* Most of all, he still makes my life worth living.

Reason why I still love my husband No. 1

If you enjoyed this memory, check out my other Memory Monday posts from the link list in the right hand tool bar. I am attempting to add to this list more regularly, if you would like to join in, go ahead and put the button on your own site, then have a dig around your memories, you might surprise yourself with what comes out!

Meet my Better Half

I first met G 23 years ago, as a friend of my then boyfriend, and I was attracted to him almost instantly. Back then he had long hair, gorgeous, piercing eyes and a smile that melted my heart from the very first time I saw it. He was easy to talk to, but I never flirted with him, I was much too young and innocent to do such a thing, I’m not even sure that I really knew how to flirt at 17.

I had seen G a few times at the pub we all used to frequent. The multi-panelled glass doors at either end of the building led straight into the only bar. A single, large, undivided area that arced from one end to the other. The dark wooden bar, highly polished and shining like new at the start of every shift wrapped around the centre of the private, landlords quarters and the staff quickly became familiar faces. The heavily patterned carpet bore a history of countless scars from spilt beer and cigarette burns from those who had either drunk too much and dropped them, or had no inclination to fight their way through the crowds to find an ashtray and decided the floor would do. The walls were pale and windows down the length of the outside wall flooded the place with light during the day.

We always sat at or very close to the same small, round table. The order of the day varied little. Table - check, stools - check, cigarettes and lighter on top – check. This was quickly followed by pint glasses and/or shorts. The table we claimed as our own was to one side of the bar, ensuring that it was conveniently close at hand. A couple of feet behind us was the jukebox which was never quiet. It was the mainstay of the entertainment for the evening and it churned out hit after hit. This was in the days when vinyl was still used in jukeboxes, there was none of these electronic music centres then. It always fascinated me to watch the arm coil back, spin round, tilt onto it’s side and extract the next record to play. Just beyond that was ‘the mens’. Why is it that, even today, you can bet your life on the fact that the men’s will be the closest and the ladies will be at the farthest possible point from where you are sat?

No-one had a great deal of money, but somehow it never seemed to matter, we used to meet up and have a laugh; life back then seemed so easy in retrospect. We could come and go as we pleased, was answerable to no-one, and bore none of life’s scars that inevitably became etched on our souls in later years. Hardly a care in the world. My greatest concern at that time was whether I would actually get asked for I.D. in the pub. I was underage. Very purposely, I used to sit with my back to the bar in the hope that the staff wouldn’t stand in a quiet moment and actually wonder about my age. No matter how long I had been frequenting the establishment, I always thought I wore a guilty look, and would go out of my way to avoid eye contact.

Whenever G was there he always looked so fresh, always wore clean, freshly laundered clothes, courtesy of his wonderful mother, and above all else, he always smelt intoxicatingly delightful. He had no airs and graces, with G, what you saw was what you got, and for me that has always been a very attractive quality in a person.

The guys used to put songs on the jukebox, and then sing along to them at the top of their voices. When I say sing, that may be a slight exaggeration, and just me being kind, but the words were the same as those emanating from the jukebox, at least whilst you could actually hear them they were! Within a few bars their voices would drown out the artists version completely, and the entire pub, would hear their very own rendition for the umpteenth time.

One of their favourites was David Bowies, Let’s Dance. For those of you who don't know the song, this is the chorus:

If you say run, I'll run with you
If you say hide, we'll hide
Because my love for you
Would break my heart in two
If you should fall
Into my arms
And tremble like a flower

The guys rendition was always very lively, very loud and the last line was always the same:
And tremble like a floooooooooooooooooo ... WAA
at which point they would simultaneously raise their glasses from in front of their chests to arms stretched above their heads with gusto on the final 'WAA'

Another of their all time favourites, which still makes me smile to this day when I hear it, was 16 Tons by Ernie T Ford (lyrics).

Still at the tender age of 17 I fell pregnant, my boyfriend couldn’t run away quick enough.

When I was single, and pregnant, I continued to visit the pub with a girl friend, when time and money would allow. At the end of the evening, G would walk the two of us back to hers, and then continue up to the bus stop and wait with me to ensure I was safely on the bus before retracing his steps to go home himself. I often wished he had shown some interest in me, had perhaps flirted with me or shown some indication that he liked me more than I thought, but he never did.

After about 3 months, my boyfriend and I got back together. I learned a week later that G had wanted to ask me out, but because he knew my boyfriend wanted to come back, he held back and didn’t say anything to me.

My son was born 5 months later and when I was in hospital, G visited me with my boyfriend and another mate.

Not only did G have beautiful eyes, and a smile to die for, he was what I, and many people since, describe as a man’s man. Very broad, well built, and no sign of a feminine side within a hundred mile radius. Hands like shovels. Most often seen in those days in a biker’s jacket, jeans and sometimes with the boots too.

When he came to visit that day in 1984 at the hospital, he strolled into the ward, very casually, with the other two. His bike jacket was still zipped three-quarters of the way up, despite the heat in the maternity ward. He clutched his crash helmet in one hand and his with tussled hair and a slightly rugged, unshaven look he seemed pleased as punch to be visiting. An outsider might have been forgiven, at first glance, to have mistaken him for the father. I often wonder, looking back, if my memory is clouded by the way I see him now, or maybe I remember his visit that way because I already had feelings for him I was unaware of. Peering out of the top of his jacket was a gorgeous, soft, toy monkey, which played a soothing tune when you wound it up. He just stood there, with this thing gazing at me from inside his jacket. I lay in bed, hardly able to move after my caesarean, barely able to even pull myself into sitting position. I had absolutely no makeup on and had slept for all of a couple of hours that night. I must have been a real sight.

That was the first time I really saw his softer side. He liked to keep this personality trait well under cover. He didn’t like people to realise that it existed and rarely displayed it in public.

(This was a long post, so I have split it into two. Second part next Monday)

Memory Monday - Nostalgia in the Present

Last week I wrote about a nostalgic overload I had, when the computer in my brain decided to grab the ‘recycle bin’ and disperse the entire contents around my ‘Random Access Memory’. Boy was it random.

This weeks Memory Monday is a follow on from that entry….



So, in my mind, I was convinced. 100% sure. This ‘new’ friend, was in fact an ‘old’ acquaintance from 28 years ago, my primary school days.

All week, my brain has been tossing around ideas on how to have a little fun with him before telling him who I was, although a little bit of me couldn’t understand why he had not already made the connection himself!

My favourite plan, with the assistance of G (hubby), was to try to steer the conversation round to school days, then subtly drop in first one name from the past, then another and watch the reaction of recognition spread across his face. This is what I decided would be the easiest way to have a little fun.

My plan, unfortunately, was flawed in more ways than one. The biggest flaw being that as the Landlord of the pub, and as there were two big footy matches being shown this weekend, the pub would be heaving and he wouldn’t stand still long enough to engineer any sort of conversation.

OK. Plan B.

Hmm. I don’t have a plan B.

Plan B will be ‘suck it and see’, ‘wing it’, ‘play it by ear’

Sunday morning arrived and me and G headed off to meet the rest of the team at the pub to see who needed lifts to the match ground. Big match this week. Next round of the County Cup. Everyone is there, everyone is pumped up and raring to go and ‘kick some ass’

Following the news that one team member brought with them, about another of the team having been jumped and attacked the previous night, they were all pretty angry, and you could tell that was going to fuel the hungry fire in their bellies even more.

As we left the pub, my ‘new’ friend Steve, said he would catch a lift with us, this is not unusual, when he is able to get to the match he usually rides with us. On the journey, which is only about 20 minutes or so, half of me was wondering whether now was the time, the other half was already deeply involved in the conversation surrounding the events of the previous night and the young team member who had spent the night in hospital. The poor, unfortunate lad in question was my God Son, whom I have known since the day he was born, so it had stirred some very maternal feelings within me, but that’s another story.

About 15 minutes into the journey, my inner voice was having a little conversation of it’s own:

Right, strike while the irons hot. You have his undivided attention for another 5 minutes.

Maybe now is not the right time

Chicken

No I’m not

Then get on with it. Once you get out of this car you will be lucky to get another chance for an uninterrupted conversation with him today.

OK, I admit. Now I am face to face with him again….

Chicken

…. There’s a 1% bit in my brain that’s not sure it’s the same guy!

Just do it. I need to know.

OK, OK

The general conversation amongst us paused.

Now’s your chance

Maybe it’s not him. Why hasn’t he already made the connection? I have a reasonably unusual Christian name, most people from my past instantly recall who I am just because the name jogs their memory and it’s not one they hear too often.

Maybe he has recognised you and chose not to say anything

Why? Oh God, maybe he does know who I am, and didn’t like me at school.

What the f***?

Well not only do I have an unusual Christian name, but my son, who plays for the pub team also, and has been a regular in there for a couple of years, has my maiden name. With the two together, he couldn’t fail to know who I am!!

Oh for Christ sake, just get on with it

But what if…. Oh bo**ocks! In for a penny, in for a pound

So I jumped right in.

Me: ~looking directly at Steve~ At the risk of making a complete arse of myself Steve
G: ~laughing loudly~
Steve: ~looking slightly concerned~ Yes
Me: Did you go to ****** primary school?
Steve: ~looking more concerned~ Yes I did, how did you know?
Me: ~cheeky grin~ I thought so!
Steve: ~puzzled~ Did you go there then?
Me: ~nodding~ Yes I did.
Steve: ~looking very puzzled, and leaning back for a better view~ I’m sorry, I really don’t recognise you.
Me: That’s OK, it’s taken me 5-6 weeks to recognise you.
Steve: So you must have been in the same class then, we’re the same age!!
Me: ~even cheekier grin~ Yep
Steve: So what’s your maiden name? I’ve only ever known one Ali
Me: Same as my son’s!
Steve: ~penny dropping, loudly~ Oh my God, I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you. You look nothing like you used to!
Me: ~I wonder if that’s a good thing?~
Steve: Oh my God. It really is a small world. I can’t believe it.
Me: I was going to wind you up, and start name dropping to see your reaction.
Steve: ~Laughing~ You should have done! Do you remember Andrew N****
Me: Yes. What about Paul L**** and Dennis G****?
Steve: Yeah. Dennis comes in the pub now and then you know.
Me: No way!! ~pretending to cover G’s ears~ he was the first boy I ever kissed you know.
Steve: ~laughing~ Really?
G: You hussy!!!! ~chuckling~
Me: I was only 8!! We stood there, in an old building in the woods where lots of us used to play as kids, about 2 feet apart, saying “you go first”… “no you go first”…

If my memory serves me correctly this scenario continued for about 20 minutes, until Dennis planted the fastest, most awkward, totally hurried kiss on my cheek, and we ran out. Although I had stood there with my heart in my mouth for the full 20 minutes, I can remember thinking “Thank God that’s over!”

Those were the days.

Memory Monday - Showing Off

During my years at primary school, between the ages of 5 and 11, like most young girls I had many friends. Some were just mates at school, others friends you would call round to play with at weekends.

One such friend of mine was named Denice. She was a very pretty, dark haired girl, with an air of confidence about her that I don't recall seeing in anyone else so young, and she was very bright. I had always admired her, and thought of her as sophisticated and from a well off family. My own family was not so fortunate in the wealth stakes, and I can remember her talking about taking showers in the mornings, and I can recall my exact feelings. Showers back then were not common place like they are today, (oh god! I'm showing my age again aren't I), usually it was just a bath.

It is strange, looking back, recalling how I deemed her to come from a well-off family, merely because she had a shower as well as a bath! Today of course, most everyone owns a shower.

Anyway, I was always slightly in awe of her, but was very fond of her also, and we both played in the school netball team, as did her older sister, Suze. Suze was great. She seemed to have a soft spot for me and treated me like a little sister. Treated me better than a little sister, sisters at that age are not the soul mates and companions they often become later in life, but a nuisance more often than not.

Denice invited me over one weekend during the summer holidays, suggesting that as we were going through a hot spell, maybe we would enjoy going for a bike ride round the country lanes. Back then, it was considered safe for young girls to be out on their own in small country lanes, something that would be difficult to allow your own children to do now-a-days.

At the time I didn't have a bicycle of my own and she said I could borrow Suze's. This was hilarious, I was very small, and Suze was much bigger than me, so we settled on me riding Denice's bike and she would take her sisters bike out.

I went round to her house mid-morning one fine, sunny day of the holidays, and her Mum had made us both a packed lunch and put it in a back pack so that we would not get hungry on our travels. We checked the bikes over, tested the brakes and adjusted the saddles a little. Then with a cheery goodbye to her mother, Denice and I mounted up and rode off.

We headed out of our little village and straight onto the pretty, narrow, winding country lanes we both loved so much. The hedgerows were alive with the sounds of young birds, as yet flightless, but all very vocal whilst waiting for mum to bring their dinner of earth worms, flies and other tidbits. The air was pleasantly cool for such a hot day, the vast canopies of summer leaves preventing most of the suns rays from reaching the ground underneath, and the tremendous array of colours and textures was amazing.

We cycled quite slowly for a while, taking in all the beautiful sights and sounds that nature provides at that time of year, and happily chattering away about girly stuff.

Later, when we started to feel peckish, we dismounted at the edge of some woodland, and pushed our bikes over the slightly uneven terrain in search of a good spot to spread out our lunch. It was not long before we stumbled across a small clearing, with long soft green, green grass under foot, tall, heavily laden, gnarled trees dotted in amongst the grandfather trees that seemed to have been growing since the beginning of time and a tiny, gurgling stream. Perfect.

We broke open our lunch boxes and made daisy chains whilst we ate. When we had finished, wearing our daisy chains, we picked a small posy of bluebells and daffodils for Denice's Mum as a thank you and retraced out steps out of the wood and back to the road.

As we set off again, we were discussing some topic or other that was mightily important to a pair of 9-10 year olds until Denice suddenly stopped. As I pulled up beside her, I could see the glint in her eye.

"Race you" she said.

The road ahead was narrow and steep. Very, very steep.

"You're on" I replied, never one to turn down a challenge.

And off we sped.

Denice, much more suited to the size of bike she was riding, pulled ahead quite quickly. I pedalled hard, watching her in front of me. She was still pulling away. I stood up on the pedals. Leaned forward. Pedalled quicker.

Was I catching her? I couldn't tell.

As I looked up at the back of her again, the back wheel of her bike was doing a kind of dance. Not the whole bike, just the back wheel, pulsating from side to side, slightly skimming across the tarmac surface and I remember thinking it looked pretty cool. Of course I wanted to look pretty cool too, and so I tried to make my over sized bike do the same thing.

It was actually easier than I thought it would be, and my bike started to shift, back and forth, quickly feeling like it was out of control. I hadn't accounted for the considerable amount of loose gravelly stones which lay like a dry river bed down the middle of the road. My heart began to pound against my chest. I was going way too fast. The hill was very steep and very long. I couldn't make the bike stop it's dance. My face became flushed, my heart rate continued to quicken, and I was scared witless.

Next thing I know, I'm on the ground. My knees were terribly grazed, having gathered most of the contents of the road in their close encounters to my stopping position on the verge. My elbows and forearms had fared no better in their travels and my head hurt like hell. As I half sat and half lay, dazed, confused and in pain, Denice had just reached the bottom, turned round, saw me on the deck and laughed. As she made her way back up the hill towards my resting place, her face changed from the laughing, mocking, 'you fell off' face to an ashen, wide eyed and worried face.

"Oh I'm so sorry, I didn't realise you had hurt yourself" she said. "Are you OK, can you stand?"

Slowly, painfully, I inched my way from my slumber position to sitting, then kneeling and eventually standing. Dizziness took over and I had to steady myself with her. By this time I was swallowing blood. In the fall I had cut my head quite badly and grazed a lot of my face. Gravel was embedded in every opening, one of my teeth was chipped and I felt sick.

Panic.

We were in the middle of nowhere, not a soul in sight. We guessed if we waited patiently, a car may come by and help us, at least take me home so I could get some attention for my wounds. But the car never came. We began to walk - slowly. Every step a jar in my spine. Every few steps, another drip of blood released its grip from the bottom of my face and splashed onto the road.

We kept at this pace, making headway towards civilisation, when we came across a family out picking blackberries from the hedgerows. We decided to ask them for help. Of course immediately they saw me we didn't need to ask. They just took over. Arranging for one of them to help my friend back to her house with the bikes, and taking me off in the car back to their house to clean me up, which they did, before dropping me home and explaining to my Mum what had occurred.

I often think about that family and wonder how much more I would have suffered had it not been for their kindness. Today of course, a 9-10 year old girl with half a brain wouldn't dream of getting in a strangers car, let alone agreeing to go back to their house. Come to that, many an adult with half a brain wouldn't dream of offering such a young girl a lift to their own house for fear of repercussions of accusations of assault.

Personally, I think this is a very sad state of affairs. I wish the world could go backwards sometimes. Back to a time, before I was born, when respect, kindness and honesty were abundant in everyone's everyday life.

If you want to take part in Memory Monday click here

Memory Monday - Planning

When the children were all young, everything had to be conducted like a military operation, planned and executed to the nth degree.

I had my last daughter when my son was 5 years old. He had just started primary school and hence it was the beginning of what I think of as my 'super organised' life I was to lead from then on. Between the two of them, I had another daughter, making 3 children of 5 and under, a handful indeed.

The morning routine on a school day would follow a similar pattern day in, day out. At least most mornings it would, if I had been out the previous night, as was often the case come Friday morning, I would tend to make it up as I went along and even that was a struggle.

On the rest of the week days, the first half an hour of my morning would be spent trying to convince the eldest 2 that they actually wanted to get their backsides out of bed. "Get up, come on, you have school" .... "Wakey, wakey, rise and shine".... "Is anyone actually listening to me?"...

With baby tucked under one arm, bottle held with hand of said arm, my morning cuppa would be drunk intermittently with the other hand, usually luke warm before I had gotten half way down the cup. Winding baby (that's winding as in pat on back, not winding as in crank her up!!), obviously took both hands, and this would delay the next task, but always one to utilise my time effectively, I would use this time to stand quietly at the bottom of the stairs and listen; what was I listening for? The scurry of feet, the running of water, the sound of drawers being opened and closed again; and what did I hear? .... silence usually ....

"Will you two get up, I'll not tell you again. It's nearly half seven, now come on"

"uuhhh, huh, sigh" came the replies

Reluctantly, and eventually, they would leave their warm, cosy duvets and head for the bathroom in turn, arriving in the kitchen, bleary eyed and hungry. By now, baby was fed, and happily sitting in her bouncy chair, watching, surveying the scene of her sorry looking brother and sister as they clearly struggled to appear to be of human form, and she, full of the joys of spring would chuckle and gurgle away in her own fantastic baby language, clearly finding what she had to say quite amusing.

Finally, with all three where I could see them, I would prepare my sons packed lunch, and finish the half a cup of stone cold tea I had left. With their breakfasts eaten and the human heads firmly in place, the next battle would be to prise the two of them away from pulling faces at, tickling and generally making baby laugh, and they were good at it too. They both loved her to bits. Eventually, I would get them upstairs to clean their teeth and get dressed, although somehow, their toys and books always seemed more appealing to them at that point in the day, can't for the life of me think why. They knew the routine though, and they were fully aware that I wouldn't check up on them for the next 10 minutes or so as I would be changing baby and laying her down to sleep in her pram, so as not to disturb her again when it was time to leave for school.

Once she was taken care of, it was my turn. I would climb the stairs, noisily. It meant one less hurry up needed to be issued as they would immediately get on with the mornings necessary tasks, cunning I know. Eventually, somehow, and always in time, they would be ready. My son standing there with his smart school uniform, freshly laundered and pressed, school bag at the ready and lunch box in hand. He was always so cute as a young boy. Even now, at 22, he still has the same 'aren't I cute' smile! The bag and the lunch box would be laid on the tray of the pram, along with another bag of PE kit on the days it was needed. My eldest daughter would be excitedly waiting for us to leave. She knew that once her brother was safely ensconced in school I would take her to the bakery and we would share a little 'us' time with a drink and a sausage roll before we walked round the corner to her playschool.

Once she was dropped off there, I would walk the mile home, just me and my gorgeous baby, for a morning of 'lets see how much housework I can get through before she wakes up'. Invariably, of course, she would wake up 5 minutes after we got home, which was fine by me, it just meant the housework would wait a while. I loved her being awake. She was generally a very happy and contented baby, and I loved to just cuddle her and breathe in that all too familiar 'baby' smell that I will never grow tired off til the day I die.

By lunch time, I would do the reverse trip to collect my elder daughter from playschool.

At 3pm I would do the trip for the third time that day to collect my son from school.

It's no wonder I was always fit, walking 6 miles a day.

Memory Monday - Netball

When I was a young girl, many moons ago, I absolutely loved sport. I couldn't get enough of netball and rounders at primary school and when I got to secondary school at the grand old age of 12, it wasn't just netball and rounders but tennis and hockey too.

At primary school, there was a bit of a 'personality' clash between the netball coach, who was the class 5 teacher and myself! She didn't like me much and I can't say I cared for her ways a great deal either. She was the only teacher in my 6 years at the school that I didn't get along with, but unfortunately for me, I needed her to want to put me in the team.

It was her usual way to only play girls in their last two years of school in the actual matches, but we were encouraged to attend training during the year before this, to get us up to scratch I guess. Not only did I never miss a training session, but I attended each and every match that the team played, every single one.

She always maintained that until the last two years we had neither the skill nor the knowledge to be effective within the team. The thing was, I knew I was good enough to rightfully earn my place on the team, and the rest of the girls knew it too. I think even the teacher knew it, but she didn't want to have to bend her rules for me, a girl that was too full of energy for her own good, a girl that she didn't get along with, a girl that had so much love and passion for the game that her continued and ongoing refusal to play me left me frustrated to the point where I would have a bit of a sulk and she would know in no uncertain terms that I was well and truly pissed about it!! I swear she liked the power.

I would spend all my breaks with a netball in my hand, practising shooting. From under the post, from the outside edge of the shooting area and from many different spots in between. I just totally loved it. I knew that practice would improve the natural ability I seemed to possess for the game, and I SOOOOOOO wanted to be in the team, I actually believed that eventually Miss X would include me in the starting line-up for a match against another school.

One particular day, the team was short of one player, due to illness I believe. I jumped up and down with excitement whilst Miss X was trying to figure out who the hell she was going to play to make up the 7 players required.

"I'll play, I'll play. Let me play, pleasssseeeee" I said, not holding out much hope.

"Go on" said the rest of the girls, "She's really good and we are a shooter down"

Miss X had little choice. She needed 7 players to start the game and she only had 6. There were a couple of other subs there but they had only been playing for a couple of weeks and were no-where near match ready.

Begrudgingly the teacher said to me "OK, it looks like you will have to play. This is a one-off and I'm only playing you today because we are short. I'm putting you in at goal shooter 'cos you're not big enough to play anywhere else. Listen. Do your best. Create space, then run into it. Think about your footwork, and take your time with the shot"

YES, YES, YES! I was in.

I remember thinking to myself "...not big enough to play anywhere else? I bet I could run rings round you dear. . . Create space then run into it? Yes, yes I know all that, lets just get this show on the road lady. I am gonna play so damn well you won't possibly be able to drop me next week and I will have earned my regular place on the team!!"

So I did.

I ran my little white frilly socks off. Yes I was small, but that was, then and forever after, an advantage to our team. By default, the biggest, tallest girls were always put in defence, and I was so small that I could run in front of them or behind them by ducking under their arms instead of running around them. I was small and nimble, they were tall and less agile. It made a big difference. I scored 4 goals that game and we trashed the visiting schools team. Even Miss X told me afterwards that I had played a very good game and that she hadn't realised "just how much potential I had"

I took that to mean "well done girl, I hate to admit it, but your good" and went home with a huge smile on my face that day.

The next week, I was an automatic selection to play. I had come of age, in Miss X's eyes at least. She had accepted me, just, begrudgingly, and unwillingly to a certain degree, but I had won her round.

It was so often the case that when we had a match, whether it be at home or away, the coach of the opposing team, and sometimes even the odd player or two, would look at me with an "awww, she's so small and so sweet" and when they realised I was actually playing, and worse than that, that I was the goal shooter, you could almost read their faces, wondering how the heck I stood a chance against the bigger, stronger girls.

Again, I reckon this worked in my favour. No-one ever saw me as a threat. I may have been little for my age then, but what I lacked in height, I made up for in enthusiasm and passion 10 times over.

I continued to play as a fully fledged member of the team for the rest of that year and the two academic years which followed, before I left the school and moved onto secondary.

In my final year at primary, our school won the County Netball Tournament and had our picture in the local paper. It was one of those chest busting proud moments you remember forever.


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Memory Monday - Pocket Hugs

This week's Memory is from 14 years ago.

My youngest daughter, K, at 3 years old, began to attend the local playschool group. For the previous year there had only been me and her at home during the day. My son and eldest daughter were at primary school, and with G at work all week, me and K were sort of dependant on each other for company, conversation and amusement.

She was such a happy little girl, a real cheeky grin, a huge heart and she always had a pocket full of hugs that she would dish out to whoever she thought needed one. If you looked a bit sad or fed up, she would stand beside you and say 'do you want a hug mummy' which would always invoke the biggest of smiles and she would then hold open her pocket and you would have to pick out a hug and put it in your own pocket. Once safely tucked away, she would throw her arms around you and give you the biggest, squishiest cuddle you could hope for. God knows how I used to get all her hugs into one pocket! As she got older, and began to recognise that the look of concentration was not the same as sad the hugs got less..lol

Having regularly been with me when collecting her sister from playschool prior to her starting at 'big school' she was excited about going herself, she couldn't wait to do all those exciting things her big sister had done and she was looking forward to her first visit.

Initially it was hard to leave her. Who was I going to share my day with now? I didn't work when my children were young, and so when I delivered her into the entrusted care of the playgroup leader I was to return to an empty, silent, still house. K found it equally difficult. Somewhere in her little brain she had figured that she would get to playschool, and be able to do all those things she'd been itching to do, but that I would be there on the sideline, in view, comfortingly close by. I took her in that first day, and we settled down at the jigsaw table and began a jigsaw together. After about 5 minutes, with her seemingly at ease, I took a deep breath and said

Me "OK darling, you have lots of fun and mummy will be back to pick you up in a little while"

K "Where are you going?"

M "I'm going home for a little bit while you have fun. Then when I come back you can tell me all about your morning darling"

K "AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH, don't go, (sob, sob, sob)"

M "I have to darling, mummies aren't allowed to play here, this is just for special little people, but I won't be long"

K "No. Please don't go, (sob, sob, sob), please don't leave me (sob, sob,sob)"

Well you get the picture. I was stood there with K clinging to my legs like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights. Not a clue what to do. I wanted to protect her from her fears, to pick her up and hold her tight. To return some of her pocket hugs. But I was having so much trouble controlling my own emotions, my own tears that I could not let her see. My instinct to grab her and leave was over-ruled by my instinct to want her to learn how to start to be independant, but not sufficiently over-ruled to know how to achieve it.

The playgroup leader came over and put her hand gently on my back. 'Don't be so bloody caring you fool' I thought to myself 'I was only just holding back the tears of guilt at putting my precious little girl through this ordeal, and now you have this ever so understanding hand on my back I can't hold it in anymore' and down my face they streaked. Her advice was to say goodbye quickly, turn round, walk away, keep walking and don't whatever you do, don't look back. She advised to get outside, then stand and listen, she assured me K would settle very quickly once I had left.

My god that was the hardest minutes walk I think I have ever taken. Every mothering bone and instinct in my body wanted to sweep K up in my arms and hold her tight, tell her everything would be OK and wipe away her tears, but I just kept walking. Once outside, I hovered. My tear-streaked face lowered to hide it from the other mothers dropping off the little ones. My ears pinned back, easily picking out the cries of my daughter above the laughter of the other 20 or so kids. A few minutes later, my ears having accustomed to the noise levels, I struggled to hear her, but there she was again. Laughing.

This ritual carried on for the first half a dozen visits, but very quickly it reverted to the quick kiss at the door, if I was lucky before she had raced away to play with her new found friends, barely glancing back to see if Mummy needed one of those special hugs.

She would play in the sand box, and the water tub, and maybe, if she could get away with it, the water would sometimes make its way to the sand box! Well, it makes the sand stick together so much easier doesn't it! She would sit with all the other children during their 'circle' time and join in with the songs, quickly learning all the actions, helped by the fact that she would come home and teach me and we would spend many hours at home together, singing these songs whilst involved in some other activity. Her favourite passtime though was painting. God she loved to paint. Invariably she would apply half a pot of blue, followed by half a pot of red, a dash of green, a splattering of yellow, a smidgen of purple and a smudge or 5 of orange to the piece of clean white paper on the easel, stand back and admire it, and feeling flushed with success at her fantastic master piece, would start on the next one.

This was great of course, for her. Not so great for me though. When I went to pick her up at lunch time she would proudly show off all her paintings, the paper soft and soggy from the sheer amount of paint that had been applied. I would have a step by step explanation of what each picture was about, who the people were that I had mistaken for blobs of paint, the house that was not there and the garden which didn't exist! I honed my acting skills over those years, people, of course I can see them, and yes darling, that does look like Daddy.

After the reviews, she would want to take them home... obviously. Have you ever tried to walk a mile in the pouring rain with a 3 year old and more paintings than an art gallery, but wet ones? No I thought not. Take my advice. Don't. By the time we got home the painting would have taken on a whole new 'modern art' look..lol, but she didn't mind, she just used to look at them, decided what they had become, and then when Dad got in she would go through her reviews for him, but it would be nothing like the ones I had been given earlier in the day.

Later on of course, I got less explanation and more

"Can you see what it is Mummy?" (blag it Ali, blag it, go on, think of something... well?... family, that's usually a safe bet, tell her it's Mummy and Daddy at home).

I never got it right of course!


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Memory Monday - Paternal Grandmother

Today's memory is a tribute to my paternal grandmother, who died in 1994 after a long, healthy, happy life.

My paternal grandmother was a petite woman, of steadily shrinking height and what I would today call 'The old school' She had very high principles and morals and an even greater respect for the church. Devoutely religious, she attended church every Sunday morning without fail, and until later in her life, every Thursday morning too. It had been the same church for all the years she had lived in the town since moving down from Northamptonshire just after she married my grandfather. I had never known my grandfather, he died 5 years before I was born, but he was the headmaster of the Church of England school that was a part of the Church my Nan attended, and it was this job I believe that brought them down to the south. Although she was from a very religious background, she would never preach at you about God and the Bible, but she did expect you to live by certain standards.

I can clearly remember that she would sweep (not hoover, she never did own one of them) the carpet in the living areas on her hands and knees, using a small dustpan and brush. This was no mean feat in the kitchen area where there was a coal/wood burning Rayburn stove. Her washing was done in a washer, (like half a twin-tub) with a mangle attached to the back, and many days we would help her squeeze the sheets through, catching them as they came out the other side so that they would not drape across the scullery floor. Sometimes it caused arguments with my siblings because we all thought it was such fun to crank the handle round and watch the dripping wet bed linen go in one side and emerge on the other in a super flat and considerably drier state.

Her cutlery, tableware and some of her provisions were not stored in kitchen cupboards like today, but kept on shelves in the pantry. A bare concrete floored small room just off the kitchen, it was dark and cold, with no natural light, but as a young child I loved this little room. It was full of all sorts of interesting things. There was a small stack of plates in various sizes and designs which were for everyday use, or for the likes of us grandchildren lest we should drop and break them. There was a second, smaller pile of 'Sunday Best' crockery, including matching cups and saucers. Why did the older generation always keep things for 'Sunday Best'?

Her television, which for most of her life was merely a black and white T.V was used very little. Not at all like today, where a family now see's relaxing at the end of a hard day as a cause to sit down and put the T.V. on to watch the best of what they can find. Her telly would go on for specific programs and then be turned off again, and woe betide anyone who made more noise than the telly. She would give you one of her 'looks' and tut loudly..lol.. I can still here you Nan.

She had fruit bushes in the garden and was forever complaining about the rabbits eating the fruit before it was ripe enough to pick and use. She was so funny, that us kids would often get bored and decide that a little joke was in order. One or more of us would run full pelt into the house shouting

"Nan, Nan, there's a rabbit at the gooseberry bush"

to which the standard response, and of course the one that we were waiting for was to curse the rabbits, grab a tea-towel and trot outside as fast as she could. With the tea-towel held by both hands and flapping around like a flag, she would rush down the path toward the gooseberry bushes waving the tea-towel and saying something like

"Shoo, shoo you litte devils, get off, shoo"

Well, us kids would all just be sat there on the lawn, watching the show that we had engineered, and falling about laughing our heads off. At which point, Nan would realise that she'd been had... again... and would tell us we we're little terrors, but she always laughed, always.

She would often bake cakes and pies, and her home-made marmalade was second to none. I have a particularly soft spot for a good ol' fashioned mince pie, always have. Mince pies were one of my Nans regular baking features, and because she knew how much I loved sweet mincemeat she would always use the last, already double-rolled, piece of pastry to make me a special little mincemeat jalousie, or some similar divine item. It always made me feel special, because it was just for me!

Yet again, I have surprised myself with the things that have come to mind once I started to type. I could go on all day, but alas, time has beaten me again.

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Memory Monday - A Son is born

I had a theme in mind today, but after reading a couple of other entries about motherhood, I thought I would run with it too.

I remember the day my first was born like yesterday, it was 22 years ago. I was just 17, and had a good pregnancy but after 17 hours of labour there was no progression and so the doctors decided to perform a caesarian section. 17 hours earlier it would have horrified me, but now, now I just wanted to get it over with. They prepared me for theatre, increased the dose of anaesthetic in my epidural and took me to the operating room. 20 minutes later, I was being stitched up and holding the most fantastic, most adorable, most precious little bundle I had ever seen. I had tears in my eyes and my heart beat so hard against my chest that I thought it may burst. I was SO proud. I had blossomed in the previous 9 months, from carefree teenager to mature, responsible adult. Suddenly it dawned on me just what a massive responsibility I was cuddling. His entire future was my responsibility.

I was still living at home at the time and my parents were fantastic. My son was born the day after my Dad's birthday, and being the first grandchild, they formed a very close bond. His job meant that when he was on an early shift he would be up at 4am and we spent many a morning when my son was still waking at nights, sat at the dining room table with Dad whilst he had his breakfast. I say 'we' I mean at 4am I was there in body, the enthusiasm somehow never quite made it downstairs that early in the day. Dad and his grandson would chatter away; strictly speaking Dad would chatter and my son would ga-ga. They would play cars across the table, often using Dad's cereal dish as a roundabout and the smallest child would squeal with delight when they crashed into each other. How often did I say 'Don't get him too excited, I will never get him back off to sleep'? It never made any difference of course, Dad was smitten with his first grandchild, and his first grandchild loved him to bits.

My mum was fantastic too. I was lucky in that she was at home full time and she was my rock. She was the one who basked with me in the glorious sunshine of the happy days; the one to steady my ship on the stormy days and the one who lit a torch for me on the dark days so I could find my way. Being a single Mum is one of the toughest things I have ever done, and without my own parents encouragement and support I am not sure I would have got through it unscathed.

My mum visited me one day, after I was in my own home with my soon to be husband, and my son had a cut on his arm. He had been hurtling around the garden on his little sit-n-ride car in his usual cavalier way, two wheels round every corner and as fast as his little, chubby legs could manage down the straights. Of course, when you're 2 years old, two wheels are not always enough to keep you upright! He came tumbling off and had caught his arm on a sharp stone in the lawn. My mum asked him how he had hurt himself and cool as you like, not a nano second of hesitation, he replied:

"Oh, I cut it on one of Mummy's kitchen knives"

Well! You could have knocked me down with a feather. The little terror had run straight back out to the garden to carry on his game of football, and I was left sat there with my mum with a look of total disbelief. Did I hear that right? By the brief look of absolute horror followed by fits of laughter from my mum I guess I did. Thank goodness it hadn't been the Health Visitor asking the question!!!

I have so many memories, happy memories of the time spent with my children growing up. As Elaine said, I wonder how many I have forgotten. The tales relayed here were only remembered as I started to write, I was quite surprised myself by them. I guess that means that getting older is not necessarily bad for the memory, we just have to dig a bit deeper to find the buried treasure.

I think I will see how many more memories I can recall that I have not thought of in a long while. Maybe I will make Mondays, Mystery Memory Monday, and start each new week with some enchanting, fond memory of the last 22 years, yes that's what I will do, anyone care to join me?

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Memory Monday

Have you ever wondered how many precious memories you have forgotten about your children growing up, or your own childhood?

Did you ever sit for a quiet moments reflection on your life and think

"I remember when......"

Memory Monday is for just that. Give that grey matter a bit of a shake and see what comes to the surface, you might surprise yourself. Remember ...

Getting older doesn't mean we lose the memories,
we just have to dig a little deeper to uncover the TREASURE.

So give it a whirl, what have you to lose?

Go on a treasure hunt and share the booty with everyone.



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