There's No Place Like Home

It's no secret that I have been lucky enough to travel a reasonable amount, mainly around Europe, but also (with the exception of South America and Australia) briefly touching the other continents.That's not to say that there aren't a great many places I have yet to visit that are on my "to do" list!

I've also been lucky enough to spend extended periods of time living in other countries in my childhood and early adulthood. I'm therefore no stranger to adapting to different cultures, although to be fair they have been mainly Western European!

Whenever I go anywhere, whether for business or for pleasure, I therefore naturally find myself wondering what it would be like to live in the particular country I am visiting. In my head I've lived in the US, done the expat lifestyle in Dubai, lived the good life in France, and even returned mentally to Germany and Finland. Whilst there have never been concrete opportunities, I am sure if at any point I had really wanted to, I could probably have found a chance to push for one of those locations over the past *cough* years.

I do often wonder what has stopped me from taking the plunge. There was always an excuse or other. I guess the truth is that in a two-career household neither of us felt strongly enough about it in order to warrant the inevitable disruption to the other partner's career it would have entailed. Then there are the little excuses that creep in; Dubai is too hot (true, and very valid), the US seemed too far away at the time, France has too many smokers (although the wine may balance that out), Finland is too cold and dark for half the year, I don't think I could cope with the formality of Germany any more etc etc.

When it all comes down to it, this funny little island we live in suits me. Don't get me wrong, I don't think the UK is perfect - far from it by all means. What I am trying to say is that I guess I have finally realised it is kind of perfect for me - probably more by a process of elimination than anything else.

Of course, now that there are children to throw into the equation, and they now both at school, there are different considerations to bear in mind. There's no doubt I'd love to give my children the same experiences I had, and the ease at which they would now earn a foreign language is almost too good an opportunity to pass up. However, I also remember the stress it caused me in my own childhood - the stress of starting a new school in a whole different country when you already have a grasp of the language is reasonable is bad enough... Whilst I know, deep down, that children are adaptable, maybe I'm just not brave enough to take that chance with my own. Finally, from a purely selfish point of view I have friends and family here. I have a support network - not something to be underestimated as a working parent, after all.

It never stops you wondering though, does it...

Holiday Memories, or How To Not Have Sex on Holiday

September. Holidays over. Back to work, back to school, back to reality with a big bump. Leaves are falling off the trees, the nights are drawing in, and Hallowe'en decorations are jostling for shelf space with Christmas crackers in the supermarkets. (This last point may be a lie, I haven't actually been near a supermarket since coming back from holiday - oh, the delights of online shopping - but let's face it, this year isn't going to be any different from previous years on that front, is it?)

Holidays are funny things though, aren't they? All that pressure on a couple of weeks somewhere different and away from home... if you ask me, they should be up there in the top 10 of most stressful life events. Divorce? Break-up? Death of a close relative? Losing a job? Not half as stressful as spending 10 hours straight in a car with children and their infernal "Are we there yet" questions. Thank heavens for the advent of portable dvd players...

Once you get to your chosen destination, maybe you look forward to some time by yourselves? A little time as a couple? A little time to - dare I mention the "s" word - indulge in the activity that brought about said little darlings in the first place? There is, after all, such a thing as Holiday Horn(TM), which seems to rear it's head (pun intended) when sunny climes result in fewer items of clothing and excess sangria/red wine/babycham loosen inhibitions.

If you will allow me to give a top tip to those looking forward to holiday hanky-panky; do not spend the first few days sleeping in the next room to your mother in law. Now, for some people, being under the same roof as a parent may excite them by reminding them of their teenage fumblings. Let's just say I am not one of them, and no matter how well I may get on with my mother in law, there's something about the thought of her listening through the plasterboard that doesn't really induce lustful feelings.

Never mind, you may tell yourself - this holiday is in several parts, and only the first few days are spent in the company of relatives. Maybe you hope that the prospect of staying in a hotel later in the holiday will reinvigorate things? Think again. Holidaying with children in a hotel rarely lives up to the expectations that you might have had of Egyptian cotton, fluffy robes and room service. Instead you find yourselves in the dreaded "family room" - essentially a normal double, with an additional sofa bed squashed into one end of it. If you are very lucky (thank you, Novotel), this will fold into two separate single beds, thus avoiding the inevitable duvet fights that ensue should two children not used to sharing a bed together find themselves having to do so (thanks for nothing, Disneyland Paris).

Your children will of course have managed to grab forty winks in the car on the journey from wherever you have come, and will be rested and full of beans when you reach said hotel. Not for them therefore the early bedtime you had hoped for and that had you dreaming of the smuggled cans of beer and gin and tonic you had packed with tremendous optimism and foresight. Instead, they will join you in the hotel restaurant, demand televisual rights and generally fidget and be wide awake so much that you are forced to employ the final weapon in your arsenal.

Yes, it's time for the "but it's so late even mummy and daddy are going to bed" argument. This involves you putting on nightwear, brushing your teeth (so much for the sneaky alcoholic drink), getting into bed, extinguishing lights and feigning sleep in the vain hope that for once in their lives your children will follow your example. Of course, the inevitable happens, and you reawaken at midnight, dribbling, thirsty, and slightly disorientated by the fact you were asleep at 9pm...

So it is that after two weeks of sunshine, fun, Mickey overdose and 2000 miles of driving, you return home, tired, sexually frustrated, and in need of another holiday...

So this is August...

...and what have I done?

With apologies to John Lennon, this is one of those "OHMYGODWHEREHASTHETIMEGONE" kind of posts. With less than a week to go before we finally go on our summer holiday (and believe me, it feels like everyone else has been and we've been waiting FOR EVER for it to be our turn), and then straight back into the new school term just after we get back, I am currently experiencing a strange mixture of holiday de-mob happiness and back-to-school madness.

Will we have packed everything for our fortnight in France? Will everything have been washed? Will my children have all their new items of uniform fully labelled before they return to the classroom? Will I remember that I am off on a business trip the week after we get back? Who knows... I like to think I'm doing a halfway reasonable job of remaining organised about it, but there may be an element of denial about the whole thing.

As the Germans say; Augen zu, und durch! (*roughly translated as Eyes closed, and through...)

Happy holidays!

Nostalgia is for Old People

The date stamp on the draft of this post says 8th June, so let's just pretend this post is inspired by recent events and gloss over the fact I've been meaning to write it for nearly two months and failed miserably, can we?

Two unrelated events over the past couple of months have got me thinking about nostalgia. Firstly, our half term holiday to the Peak District brought back a flood of familiar names that I remembered from my childhood. There I was, transported back to the age of 12, sitting in the car outside an antiques shop in Buxton while my parents rummaged around and oohed and aahed over "boring old junk". Or maybe thinking back to freezing in a cave with my friend Alison, laughing as the water dripped onto our heads from the stalactites above. Lyme Park hadn't changed much in over 20 years - unless you counted the state of the art playground that now seems de rigueur for any self-respecting tourist attraction.

Driving home after our holiday, we detoured to try and beat the inevitable South Manchester traffic jams, until there they were - the really familiar names from my childhood. Cheadle. Gatley. We passed my old school - the school where I spent only two years, and yet where, if I close my eyes I can still see the crowds of uniformed pupils meandering down the corridors, or smell the fear of going into the girls' toilets in case the older girls were in there smoking.

The day after we came back, myself and a few girlfriends - all now in our 30s and (shhh) 40s - went to a local 80s night, where Limahl (he of Kajagoogoo fame) and various other artistes transported us back to our youth, along with a crowd of other similarly middle-aged people.

I tried explaining all of this to my daughters, whose blank incomprehension finally made me laugh. The thing is, nostalgia is completely lost on the young. Try telling a six year old that there were only 3 television channels and no tv in the mornings when you were young - or that nobody had mobile phones, and music came on giant black discs. The look of withering pity and incomprehension is enough to make you sob into your snakebite and black...

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go and put my legwarmers on.

In Need of Perspective

We watched Ratatouille with the kids at the weekend. There’s a scene towards the end, where the big restaurant critic comes to dine at the restaurant. “What can I get you”, asks the waiter. “Perspective” replies the critic.

If only it were so easy to order perspective like that. I could do with some of it myself right now. I find myself strangely down with no apparent reason. I’ve written before about my tendency to internalise. I’ve never been a big “sharer”, preferring to withdraw into my little shell until the mood passes.

The problem with this approach, of course, is that when, or if, something eventually gives, it can come as a complete shock to those around me, who had no idea of the thoughts or feelings that have been welling up over time. Case in point; bursting into tears when my husband came home last night. I couldn't even really tell him what was wrong. The truth is, I don’t even know why I am feeling sorry for myself at the moment – I certainly have nothing at all to complain about. 

I heard a story recently of a friend of a friend of such anguish and heartbreak; involving a severely disabled child, broken homes, domestic abuse that really made me think about perspective, and my seeming lack of it. To paraphrase and garble that famous saying beloved of all parents; I can’t believe I’m stressing about not finding a holiday when there are children starving in Africa.

Today, I’d like a healthy dose of Perspective please. With a side order of Count Your Blessings.