Selfish Thoughts on World Book Night

Posted in Family life, London, Writing by carolcooper

No, I’m not doing anything for it either. Not giving out any of the 20 lovely books, or encouraging people to love reading. Nor (and thank you for reminding me it’s also St George’s Day and the anniversary of Shakespeare’s death) even reciting random sonnets while dressed up as a dragon. Though it might have been fun.

I’ll be doing something far more self-centred. Writing two more books, and hoping that at least one of them will be done by the deadline without my turning into a dodgy fabric merchant. The worst thing about writing is that you become a recluse, as my family often points out. My husband is hovering as I write, holding up that dragon costume that will remain unworn this year, just as last. I may look up momentarily and point out that St George, if he slayed the dragon at all, slayed him in Lebanon, not England, before returning to my work in progress.

The second worst thing about being a writer is that you run out of time for reading. But all authors love reading. It’s what made them write in the first place.

So I’m pointing you in the direction of a celebration of reading by the authors of Outside the Box: Women Writing Women, with Jane Davis, Joni Rodgers, Orna Ross, Kathleen Jones, Roz Morris, Jessica Bell and myself, along with a guest spot from bookworm extraordinaire Peter Snell. It’s all right here on Jane Davis’s fine blog.

Happy reading.

14Mar2015

What’s Sauce for the Goose is Sauce for the Gander

Posted in Family life, Marriage, Pillow-talk by carolcooper

I’m all in favour of egalitarian relationships, as I’m sure you are. Last week I blogged about how to annoy the hell out of your husband, so this week it’s only fair to cover the ways in which your other half can drive you round the bend.

If you dished it out, you’ve got to take it – right? So woman up and let your husband (partner, boyfriend, lover, whoever) do his worst. Here are some of his methods.

1 Battles in the bathroom. And no, leaving the toilet seat up doesn’t count. It’s just too predictable. Blokes can do far more infuriating things in bathrooms. Like locking the door and singing along to the radio at full volume, so he doesn’t hear you bashing with all your might, pleading to be let in before your bladder bursts.

Like leaving the bath-tap in the ‘shower’ position, so you get an impromptu soaking when you next try to run a bath.

Like using up the last of your megabucks-a-bottle sodium-free shampoo on his own barnet – and later refilling the bottle with the ordinary stuff. The kind that works like paint-stripper on your expensively Brazilian-straightened hair.

2 Reveal that he’s much younger than you. There’s no going back with this one, because it’s the kind of thing people remember. Then, even if he’s barely a year or so younger, he’s forever known as your toy boy. For added impact, he may even tell people you’re older when it isn’t true.

3 Playing dumb. Poor lamb, he does get confused between your hairbrush and the cat’s.

As you can see, they look nothing like each other. Not to begin with, anyway.

He may also fail to distinguish between coasters and your favourite books. This one’s really challenging, since both are vaguely rectangular and can be found on tables.

coasters

not coasters

Then he makes it tough to get angry because he wears an innocent face that plainly says, “I’m only a man. What do I know?”

4 Cooking fabulous meals. Which means using every single pan in the house, and leaving it in the sink. “I’ll do it later.” Course he will. Three days later.

5 Doing the laundry. This includes washing your cashmere socks in the machine. In case this hasn’t happened to you yet, I’ll tell you that this shrinks them to the size of baby socks and makes them as soft as a kitchen scourer. There’s no option but to buy another pair. Which your other half will also put in the washing machine. “Just being helpful, darling.”

6 Being a duvet bandit. Like marriage, it all starts off equal, but come morning you’re hypothermic and sleep-deprived. Your side of the bed ends up like this.

I tried to photograph the other side, but I tripped over in two acres of duvet and sprained my ankle before I got a decent shot.

7 The final one, the ne plus ultra, without which no programme of annoyance would be complete, and frankly you may as well stick a couple of fingers down your throat.

He does this: totally amazes all your friends. Maybe he cooks them all a fabulous dinner (AND clears up afterwards). Then he sings YOUR praises to the skies, declaring that you’re prettier than Claudia Schiffer, smarter than Stephen Hawking, and funnier than Omid Djalili.

It’s totally sick-making, of course. But it reminds you that, despite the fact that he’s driven you round the twist, he’s a keeper.

7Mar2015

How to Annoy the Hell out of Your Husband

Posted in Animals, Family life, Marriage by carolcooper

Your own husband, obviously. It’s not nearly as much sport baiting your BFF’s bloke. I should mention that smug marrieds don’t have a monopoly on annoying, so all of the following apply equally to partners, live-in boyfriends, same-sex couples, etc.

It was comedian Rita Rudner who first said “I love being married. It’s so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.”

with thanks to Ben Earwicker

Rudner may have said it in the 1990s, but driving each other nuts has been part of the pact since time immemorial. I’m surprised it doesn’t feature more often in marriage vows. Bottom line is, if you’re not annoying your OH, you’re doing it all wrong.

Here are 7 ways to do it right.

1 When he’s ill, tell him it’s psychosomatic. You can use this in multiple situations, eg something is bleeding or about to drop off, or it’s the dreaded Man Flu. Just make sure he’s unaware of research showing that high testosterone levels weaken the immune system (in other words, flu may really be more severe in men).

2 There’s something far worse than man flu. Baldness. It’s a fear that goes back to Samson. All you have to do is glance at his bonce and say, “Don’t worry, dear. You can always wear a hat.” Careful, though. This one is irreversible. Even if he has a full mane of hair, you’ve planted a seed of doubt. After that, every time someone mentions hair or heads, a nervous hand will creep up to his scalp to check.

3 Be insufferably pedantic. “It’s not my fourth glass of wine. It’s exactly the same one I started out with.” Note that it’s more effective if you can say it without slurring your speech. Or falling over.

4 Move his stuff, like keys, the remote control or his favourite shoes. You’re not going to put them where they don’t belong. They’ll be in the right places for you. Just the wrong ones for him. When he eventually finds whatever he’s looking for, he’ll give a sigh of relief and say “It’s always in the last place you look.” Well, of course it is, you tut with a superior look (see 3).

5 Let the cat into his side of the wardrobe. For best effect, it should be a long-haired breed, but any cat will do. Even a kitten can totally customize clothes within minutes. When he pulls out the trousers and announces that they’re ruined, completely ruined, FFS, you can, for additional impact, say you had no idea they still fitted him.

6 No list of strategies for annoying would be complete without bringing a mother-in-law into it. So tell him your mother is coming to stay. For extra shock value, try “My mother’s coming to live with us.” Caution: about 30% of people with heart attacks die before they reach hospital.

7 Here’s the coup de grace, the ultimate weapon: blog about him. That’ll do it.

1Feb2015

A Holiday Home for the Cat

Posted in Animals, Family life, Places by carolcooper

Moving house is a real performance. Just ask my cat.

Even if your heart isn’t set on a pad with an eye-watering price tag, like London’s Princes Gate or the Bishops Avenue aka Billionaires’ Row, it’s a major expense, and that’s before stamp duty. There are also surveys to arrange, solicitors to pay, and a mortgage to sort out. Get ready too for the gazumping, gazundering and chains which make the property game an expensive version of snakes and ladders.

Cats have no such worries. All Mishmish had to do was let herself be transported to a weekend retreat. “We’re going on a mini-break,” I tell Mishmish. She takes this announcement in her stride.

The weekend starts well because she loves her basket. This always surprises me, considering it’s only used for transporting her to the vet and back. Maybe it’s the ‘and back’ bit she remembers best.

The journey itself is no trouble, though it’s hard for the humans to squeeze into a car packed to the gunwales. It’s all very reminiscent of trips with my three children when they were young. Only in this case there are two cat trays, a favourite water bowl, the special cat food, her favourite toys, and of course The Blanket.

Not that anyone would call it a blanket now. You can always tell who has cats. Their blankets look like towels and their towels look like knitting mistakes, says the author of How to Live with a Calculating Cat. This little book has been making people laugh since 1962 because it’s so damn true.

Anyway, on arrival Mishmish bolts out of the basket and heads under the IKEA sofa. There she stays, oblivious of efforts to coax her out.

Husband and I put out food, water, toys, The Blanket, even a welcoming sign.

We talk to her in a silly voice. She sits there watching us make idiots of ourselves.

After a few hours our knees hurt and I wonder if she’ll be there until the sofa self-destructs. This could take a while. Many people I know have an Ektorp sofa and it lasts years, sometimes decades. As reliable as a Volvo, though without ABS brakes.

We tell each other that you can’t make a cat do something. You can only make a cat want to do something.

Actually, scratch that. If your cat doesn’t want to do something, it’s never going to happen.

Cats are highly territorial, but my first ginger cat was far more adaptable. Bananas went places. As a student, I’d take her from London to Brighton and back. When I was a junior doctor, I’d often have to spend 80 hours at the hospital, so I’d take her with me to my on call room if nobody else could look after her.

But I have to accept Mishmish is different. She’s a homebody. And now she’s turning a couch potato.

Over the course of the weekend, she doesn’t venture out, not even to use the tray placed about 5 feet away. I get that. If there are predators around, a fresh deposit will give away your presence faster than a big brass plate on the door. But still.

So after 24 hours we go home, with Mishmish having seen no more than the underside of the Ektorp sofa.

Back and seat frame: fibreboard, moisture-resistant particleboard, plywood, solid pine, polyurethane foam 20 kg/cubic metre.
Cover: 100% cotton. Machine wash, warm 40°C.

We try again two weeks later. It begins exactly the same way, with Mishmish heading straight for the sofa to complete her PhD in furniture construction. All I can hope for was that she might graduate to an armchair for her post-doctoral research.

The breakthrough comes on Sunday around 2 a.m. This, I can only assume, is the moment she realises she isn’t going to be mauled by a lion, and the ceiling won’t cave in if she emerges from her shelter.

Her eyes are wide. There are loads of new crannies to investigate and new places to play.

“Cupboards! Wow! This one must be mine.”

“Ooh, windows!”

“And what’s this? Instead of wooden flooring there are carpets! That means the whole house is a scratching pole. “

We’re kind of sleepy but this cat, having conserved her energies, is ready for action.

Pets depend on us, but they’re not children. Still, I get a warm glow now I see Mishmish likes it here. And it thrills me that she’s now eating and drinking.

Over the next few hours she uses both trays, sending the cat litter flying. I’m grinning from ear to ear with pride. Was I this delighted when my kids first used their potties and upturned them over each other? I’m really not sure, because my eyelids are drooping and I’m done in. Must repair to the sofa for a rest.

On top of it, not underneath.

4Jan2015

An Epiphany

Posted in Family life, London, Writing by carolcooper

Twelfth Night looms and Harriet cannot wait for all traces of Christmas to be gone.

Simon packs every single decoration off the tree into its rightful place in its box. Only he knows where this is, so all Harriet can do is make tea. It’s Lapsang Souchong, brewed in a pot because he always says it tastes better that way.

Freelance journalist Harriet is a character from my novel One Night at the Jacaranda.

On the first day of Christmas, Simon gave her a cashmere and silk jumper, but it’s not nearly as soft as Pushkin was.

On the second day of Christmas, they had turkey drumsticks and leftover roast potatoes which, Simon reminded her, had not been as crisp on the day as they could have been.

Of course they weren’t. The heart went out of Christmas several years ago.

The tree survived well, but that was because there was no Pushkin to climb its branches or bat the baubles off.

“It’s just ailurophobia” she’d told Simon at first. But it wasn’t fear of cats. His breathing was really bad, beyond the help of inhalers, pills and sprays, and there was a tissue permanently attached to his nose. She tried products to keep down fur and dander, to no avail. It would have to be the RSPCA or the Mayhew Home. What alternative was there?

It was December 18. Simon got the cat basket out of the cupboard and Pushkin promptly fled under the bed.

“He’s gone into the bedroom!” cried Simon. “Now I’ll be wheezing all night.”

“Well, he won’t be here much longer, will he?” Harriet retorted.

Pushkin emerged warily, though not warily enough.

“Grab him, Harriet. I’d rather not touch him.”

Harriet picked him up and kissed the soft places behind his ears. It was too awful to let him go. “It’s raining,” she pointed out. “Pushkin hates rain.”

“Put a towel over the basket if you’re so concerned.”

The car was parked two streets away. Simon went to get it, but he drew the line at driving to the shelter. “I’d rather not spend the next hour sitting a foot away from him.”

Harriet lugged the basket downstairs and into the car. As Simon got out of the driver’s side, he warned, “Don’t bottle now, Harriet.” He may as well have added it was only a cat.

Harriet negotiated the traffic out of London. She thought the RSPCA place off the A1(M) would be best, as there’d be more chance of finding him a suitable home in a rural area. Plus with a shelter that far she’d be less tempted to rush back and adopt Pushkin herself.

She got stuck in a fierce bottle-neck on the A41, trapped between a bus and a Chelsea tractor surely bound for Brent Cross. When she finally moved off, a van driver nearly clipped the wing of the Peugeot.

Harriet had transferred the basket to the passenger seat. Pushkin yowled and stared at her through the grating with huge eyes.

“Come on, big boy,” she said, her voice catching. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Her words failed to reassure a stressed Pushkin, and the car filled with an unmistakeable aroma. Fresh dog turds occasionally smell of coffee grounds. Cat shit, on the other hand, only ever smells of one thing.

Harriet wept openly on arrival. The kindness of the RSPCA staff only made things worse.

“My partner’s allergic to cats,” Harriet explained.

“Has the cat had any health problems?” the girl asked.

“Well, he has a slight irritable bowel.” What kind of luck was it to have a fastidious boyfriend and a cat with loose motions?

Tears streaming, she left Pushkin and a large donation and returned to the car with the empty basket.

The potatoes had been soggy and the turkey tasteless ever since.

As the last bauble goes into the box, Harriet thinks of this year’s Christmas message from the Queen and its theme of reconciliation. She wonders whether it can ever apply to them.

***

Twelfth Night marks the end of Christmas for many people, but in the Eastern Orthodox Church Christmas isn’t until January 7. That means there’s still time to enjoy the Christmas Party Blog Hop devised by Helen Hollick. My own contribution is below, and you’ll find about 25 other bloggers taking part too.

19Dec2014

How to Be a Party Animal

Posted in Family life, London, Places by carolcooper

Christmas parties come in many shapes and sizes. This one had four legs. The Mayhew Home’s Tinsel & Tails extravaganza at St Paul’s Church, London W6 was a red carpet affair with candle-light, chilled fizz and celebs galore. We had a fabulous time. I also gleaned valuable tips on being the ultimate Christmas party animal.

1 Dress up for the occasion. Ditch the much-loved blanket and get into some glad rags, like Rufus and Bobby.

photo of Bobby and Rufus by Bonnie Baker

Here’s Evie in a red frock, a classic choice for Christmas.

2 Get some humans to volunteer for something eg giving readings and drawing raffles.

At this year’s Tinsel & Tails, Sylvia Syms and Beatie Edney did a mother-and-daughter routine, assisted by their Mayhew dogs Bunny and Billie. Peter Egan, fresh from guesting on Downton Abbey, read poetry while his pooches provided vocal encouragement.

3 Have a bit of a sing-song. Georgian choir Maspindzeli sang a few numbers, while The Great British Bark-Off competed at the back of the church.

4 Don’t invite cats. They always climb the tree and raid the buffet.

5 Make sure there’s plenty to drink. You don’t want to run out of the good stuff halfway through.

6 Watch out for gate-crashers. Big stars like Bill Bailey get their own bodyguard.

7 Have fun, but remember the true meaning of Christmas. When CEO Caroline Yates outlined the Mayhew’s work at home and abroad in countries such as Russia and Afghanistan, there was scarcely a dry eye in the house.

Some less fortunate souls didn’t get to go the ball.

Amaruq (photo from The Mayhew)

You can find out more about 17-month old Siberian Husky Amaruq by clicking here.

Alfie Moon (photo from The Mayhew)

Alfie Moon had to live rough for years. But he’s a gentle boy who likes the quiet life. Find out more here.

Rambo (photo from The Mayhew)

Despite his name, Rambo is a sweet 4-year old cat who likes having his cheeks rubbed. Find out more here.

Honey (photo from The Mayhew)

Honey is a 9-month old female Staffy crossbreed who arrived at The Mayhew because her owner was no longer able to look after her. She’s active, with a sensitive side. Find out more here.

Merry Christmas, one and all, and here’s hoping all these dogs and cats find forever homes in 2015.

dog-tired

As you can see, Evie is now partied out, but you’re invited to continue the Christmas Party Blog Hop with my fine blogger friends. Big thanks to Helen Hollick whose brainchild it is. Now follow on below for more fun. Look carefully. There’s even some party swag in there.

Helen Hollick: “You are Cordially Invited to a Ball” (plus a giveaway prize)
Alison Morton: Saturnalia surprise – a winter party tale (plus a giveaway prize)
Andrea Zuvich: No Christmas For You! The Holiday Under Cromwell
Ann Swinfen: Christmas 1586 – Burbage’s Company of Players Celebrates
Anna Belfrage: All I want for Christmas (plus a giveaway)
Clare Flynn: A German American Christmas
Debbie Young: Good Christmas Housekeeping (plus a giveaway prize)
Derek Birks: The Lord of Misrule – A Medieval Christmas Recipe for Trouble
Edward James: An Accidental Virgin and An Uninvited Guest
Fenella J. Miller: Christmas on the Home front (plus a giveaway prize)
J. L. Oakley: Christmas Time in the Mountains 1907 (plus a giveaway prize)
Jude Knight: Christmas at Avery Hall in the Year of Our Lord 1804
Julian Stockwin: Join the Party
Juliet Greenwood: Christmas 1914 on the Home Front (plus a giveaway)
Lauren Johnson: Farewell Advent, Christmas is come – Early Tudor Festive Feasts
Lucienne Boyce: A Victory Celebration
Nancy Bilyeau: Christmas After the Priory (plus a giveaway prize)
Nicola Moxey: The Feast of the Epiphany, 1182
Peter St John: Dummy’s Birthday
Regina Jeffers: Celebrating a Regency Christmas (plus a giveaway prize)
Richard Abbott: The Hunt – Feasting at Ugarit
Saralee Etter: Christmas Pudding – Part of the Christmas Feast
Stephen Oram: Living in your dystopia: you need a festival of enhancement…(plus a giveaway prize)
Suzanne Adair: The British Legion Parties Down for Yule 1780 (plus a giveaaway prize)
Lindsay Downs: O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree

Thank you for joining in, and see you in the New Year.

Easy tweet: “How to Be a Party Animal by @DrCarolCooper http://bit.ly/1vbXmo3 #winterparty with @HelenHollick @alison_morton @clarefly & other bloggers”

14Dec2014

I Hope Aliens Don’t Find my Phone

Posted in Family life, Writing by carolcooper

There’s a lot of embarrassing rubbish on my mobile, including the logo.

As my husband pointed out, aliens could be mighty confused if they ever got their hands on it. I’m confused just looking at the memos. ‘Next book’ is one of them. Here I meant to jot down amazing plot ideas as they came to me while sitting on the 13 bus. But what could I have meant by ‘Dr Tiggywinkle’, and then something about cradling a fire extinguisher? It hardly seems the stuff of which Booker winners are made.

The shopping lists are easier to decipher. There’s no spellcheck on memos, so one list goes

Bresd

Winr

Benecol?

Veg

Narnite

Surely everyone likes a bit of Narnite on their bresd.

I have 389 bonkers photos, mostly blurred, which may be just as well. Alongside Remembrance Sunday in Aldeburgh and the cat sitting on my neck trying to suffocate me, there are toilet facilities in Lion Yard, Cambridge:

Here’s Sigmund Freud clutching his belly in what can only be an attack of womb envy:

I’ve kept this great memento of a shag on the beach:

There are slides from a lecture by Roger Neighbour:

Every cat owner has close-ups of their cat sleeping. I’m no exception.

I’ve kept some choice texts, like the one from Henk the oven cleaner, and the exchanges with wretched PPI claims companies. My usual text reply? PPISS OFF.

At five minute intervals, there’s a pop-up which invites me to validate my BlackBerry ID credentials. I’ve forgotten it, so that’s not going to happen.

There are a gazillion back and forth BBM exchanges from friends I never manage to meet, and WhatsApp messages from people I’ve never met in my life. One mystery missive asks me

Es tu cumple hoy?

If you speak any Spanish, you probably know this isn’t as obscene as it sounds.

I’ve no idea what else is on there, as the thing has just seized up. Excuse me. I’m just off to write a letter to Santa.

My next post should be a lot more festive as I’m going to a party. A Christmas blog hop, no less. And you’re invited too.

27Nov2014

The Top 5 Things I Learned this Week

Posted in Family life, London by carolcooper

You’re never too old, right? This week I found myself on a steep part of the learning curve, and began to wish I had crampons to stop me falling off. Here’s what I learned.

1 It’s entirely possible to tell the difference between hairspray and other kinds of spray, but – here’s the tricky bit – I have to remember to look first.

Still, I had the reassurance of knowing that my hair wouldn’t smell like mouldy trainers.

2 ‘Loading’ does not have a strict definition set out in legislation. If you think stopping to pick an order from a shop constitutes loading, then be prepared to argue your case. The general interpretation is that loading/unloading should be in the nature of a collection/delivery. It does not include parking in the loading bay while shopping or, if you’re feeling peckish, visiting McDonalds.

If you too are just getting to grips with that little lesson, you may like to check out Ticket fighter.

3 There is only one correct way to offer a horse a lump of sugar. FYI it is not by holding the sugar cube in your fingers.

If the first one doesn’t bite your fingers off, the second one probably will.

4 Although drinking alcohol on London’s underground system has been forbidden since 1^st June 2008, it doesn’t mean the guy swilling Special Brew on the Jubilee Line will thank you for pointing that out to him, especially if he has a fuck-off haircut and a nasty glint in his one good eye. No, not even when you explain you’re only trying to spare him a hefty fine.

On the other hand, you may qualify for a discounted coffee at London Bridge station (wonder if there’s a sliding scale of discounts depending on the location of the injury?).

5 Letting a child with a cold kiss you is a really bad idea. I’d show you the end result, but it proved far too gruesome for a photo.

You know what really worries me? The week isn’t over yet.

10Nov2014

Remembrance Sunday in Suffolk

Posted in Family life, Places by carolcooper

Did they know, 100 years ago, how many would come?

While I didn’t count heads at Aldeburgh cenotaph, I noticed the variety of individuals come to pay respect.

Elderly veterans, chests heaving with medals and emotion.

Britten buffs (it’s next door to Snape).

Local dignitaries, the vicar and the obligatory Laurence Binyon.

Children. Dogs (pride of place to Aldeburgh’s First Pooch Snooks).

Hell’s Angels too.

3 Regiment Army Air Corps, based at Wattisham. They weren’t all on parade that day.

An Apache flew past, doing the length of coastal Suffolk.

The crowd finally shuffled away, to warm houses and hot dinners.

We owe.

******

PS If ever you’re in Aldeburgh, see Moot Hall. It’s been here since 1520 and is set to be around a few more years.

28Aug2014

Back to School, and Not a Moment Too Soon

Posted in Family life, Writing by carolcooper

The summer holidays begin full of promise, as ever. Karen has loads of ideas. It’s only when she begins to take her four kids on outings that she remembers everywhere is (a) crowded (b) expensive (c) leads to whining from at least three of them. Nothing ever changes.

Karen is a newly single mum from my novel One Night at the Jacaranda. She has one daughter and three sons.

At nearly 11, Charlotte is the eldest so she whines loudest and longest. Damon is 9 and his speciality this summer is sulking.

They go to Wales for a few days to a friend’s cottage, the cheapest family holiday Karen can think of. It’s a long drive in the ancient Toyota, with plenty of time for daydreaming. What might it be like to go off to the Gower for a mini-break with a nice man?

Her reverie is broken by the youngest who wants to be sick, so they stop by the side of the road. Edward aims most of it into the plastic bag she holds out for him, but inevitably a few blobs fall onto Charlotte’s new pink T-shirt.

“Eeuw!” shrieks Charlotte, even though there are several spare pink sequinned T-shirts in the boot. At the moment everything she owns, whether it’s clothing, a pencil case, or her duvet cover, has to be pink and have sequins.

Karen is concerned for the next mile or two in case there’s more vomiting but she needn’t worry. In less than five minutes, Edward pipes up “I want salt and vinegar crisps!”

When they get there, they find acres of soft white sand, perfect for jogging off excess fat, building sandcastles, and losing young children. There’s a moment or two on every holiday when Edward can’t be found. For a four-year old, he can go a long way in just seconds. Ashley, being a year older, is infinitely wiser and spends his time searching the sands for buried treasure. He’s sure there are shipwrecks around here, and he’s determined to find gold coins for his mum. “Cos we need more money, don’t we?”

Treasure hasn’t been found in Rhossili Bay since about 1834, but that doesn’t stop people looking. Karen is pleased to see her children so happy, even if Charlotte is channelling Lolita in her pink sparkly swimsuit. Only Damon, sitting hunched in the depths of his hoodie, hasn’t got into the beach thing yet.

They stay in Wales four days in all, during which Edward behaves and doesn’t try to run off again. Karen feels a mite guilty for threatening that big red dragons would get him, but at least he’s stopped having nightmares about them.

They return to London with a carful of sand, a carrier bag loaded with shells, and couple of pieces of driftwood. Now the children are playing nicely in the garden. Correction: the younger boys are playing while Charlotte is on the phone to her new best friend Belinda, and Damon sulks under a tree.

Karen is about to ask Damon what’s wrong when she sees he isn’t sulking. He’s reading! An actual book! With pages and words and everything! This has never happened before, so it’s quite a turn-up for the books. Literally.

Now Ashley is crying because Edward has peed into his toy wheelbarrow. When Karen tells Edward off, he says he thought it was a toilet.

“Rubbish” says Karen, even though it does look a bit like a loo.

It’s now the last week of the holidays and it can’t be put off any longer. Buying school uniform and such is a hassle. They have to contend with umpteen other families looking for shoes that fit, while shop assistants try to fob people off with insoles. Karen steels herself for Charlotte’s inevitable hissy fit when she realises she can’t have pink heels with rhinestones.

But maybe some things do change, thinks Karen, because this year Charlotte falls in love with shoes that come straight from the pages of an orthopaedic footwear catalogue. Apparently they’re just like the ones her best friend Belinda has.

Back in the car with the shopping (and the sand, shells, and driftwood), Ashley says “You know what, Mummy? When it’s school-time I want it to be the holidays, but when it’s holidays I want it to be school-time.”

She smiles and knows exactly what he means.

Pills & Pillow-Talk

Carol Cooper – trained to observe, born to write.

Category Archives: Family life