Cabin Fever

Here I am sandwitched between Little Ally and her mum, taken last month. I've known them forever. I miss my friends. Since moving from London I've kind of isolated myself a bit. I know lots of folk, but it's not the same. Nutty Nora next door drives me demented, as do most of the "ladies who lunch" set that I feel oblidged to tolerate for the sake of my kids.

But Little Ally, she's my sister, and I love her to pieces. I've been to her eighteenth birthday party, cried at her wedding, and again over her divorce. She's nursed me through a broken heart, my mother's suicide and the acceptance of my child's mental disability. I can pick up the phone day or night and know she's there for me. It cuts both ways.

I usually either stay with her, or she stays with me when I visit London. We revert to teenage delinquents, stay up all night and drink far too much. We interrupt to finish each others sentences, giggle like school kids. and hatch evil plots to execute a Thelma and Louise type getaway together. She's seen me at my best, and has healed me at my worst. But the thing is, distance is a barrier and I can't just pop over for that coffee and a chat like I used to.

I've been on my own for most of the week, and as I had no car I was also housebound. The family took off to our place in London, leaving my eldest and me behind. He has some serious exams to sit after Easter and needed to hit the books. I had a sneaky suspicion that if left to his own devices he and his mates were more likely to hit the Vodka and our phonebill over any swotting up, so I elected to stay behind to "help" with his revision. Went down like a lead balloon, but I wasn't born yesterday.

Anyhows, he buckled down, did a fair bit of studying, and when he wasn't in his room doing that, he was off out with his mates. I barely exchanged three sentences a day with him, I usually woke after he'd left for the gym, and didn't see him unless he and his mates were cluttering up the kitchen.

I'd kind of looked forward to this week, a chance to write, pamper myself, contemplate. I'd planned to take long walks with the dog, potter about in the garden, read some of those books I've always meant to but haven't quite yet got around to picking up. Except. We had rain and storms all week, the telly was crap, and I couldn't seem to settle in to much of anything.

It got boring.

The first couple of days were fine. It hit me, I have no friends over here. It's my own fault, I beat people off with a stick, it's too much of a hassle to get to know them. I want to find an intant Little Ally clone without laying down all the time and energy it took for us to get to know each other so well. It's not going to happen. I guess I need to make the effort for that (sigh).

I can feel another London trip building.. (Wink)

Rallying Point (2)

So here I was stuck at the top of this windy wilderness, with a carrier bag, warrant card and instruction leaflet clutched between my stiff little (rapidly numbing) mitts, in desperate need of a pee, and nervously wondering when the race was about to start.

I guessed my first priority should be to cordon off these two roads of mine, so I trudged along and cast about to find them. Sure enough, there as promised, I found the lengths of rope next to the entrance that needed securing. I dutifully tied it off, and set about finding the other one.

It wasn't there.

At least not where they'd told me it should be. Oh, bugger.

It had to be here somewhere. I walked up further, tried the other side of the track. Nada - nothing. Becoming a trifle anxious, I walked back to where I'd started, heading down the way now, scanning for any hidden lane or concealed entrance I may have overlooked. Nothing. With visions of a tractor rounding the bend and slamming up the death rate,I put more urgency into my hunt.

It simply wasn't there.

Stemming my rising panic, I thought maybe I should phone the emergency number, ask what to do? I got dialing. The pillocks had only gone and switched it over to the answer phone, hadn't they? Well sod it, I'd tried. Consoling myself it was probably nothing to worry about (well, what was the point in fretting?), I focused on the other pressing matter of whether or not I had enough time to risk a quick crouch behind a bush.

The sheep looked a tad too friendly to my liking, so I opted for the field opposite, a rather more exposed venue than preferred, but it's not as though there were many available options.

Mid-way through the biggest relief of my day, my ears tuned in to the unmistakable sound of an approaching engine. Oh, for goodness sake! Talk about having a bad day.. I hastily fought to finish up, barely managing to pull up my drawers before a packed car load of teenagers pulled up behind the cordoned off barrier. I scrambled back to my post and tried to look nonchalant.

"Bloomin' heck, where did you spring from?"

As if I was about to tell him. With a nod and a smile, I willed them gone. Guess I looked official enough for them to think I had some clue as to what was going on, because the spokesman of the group, with his mates following in tow, ducked under the cordon to cross over to join me.

"Er, you're not s'posed to do that, you know - " (That told them.)

"Has Jo Bloggs passed yet?" (Nah, he didn't really ask about Joe Bloggs, but he might as well have, I wouldn't recognise a rally driver if he squished me beneath his wheels.) Since no one had passed, I was knowledgeable enough to answer him no. This was good news, they had time to pick out a better vantage point.

"Oiy, what do you think you're doing? Get back here!" I watched them disappear around the bend of the road.

"I could arrest you for that, you know." I bravely whispered. (Well, let's be honest, even assuming they would allow me to, what was I likely to do with them if I did.. tie them to the nearest sheep until help arrived?)

I decided to read the leaflet, see if I could pick up a tip or two - Lord knew I was in sore need of some. The opening paragraph hardly inspired confidence:-

"Marshals must carry a fire-extinguisher and a sharp knife with them at all times." Those rotten sods hadn't issued me with so much as a butter knife. Not that it mattered, reading further, I realised I was in the wrong job.

"In the event of a crash, extinguish any flames and pull the driver clear of the vehicle- "

Yeah, as if I'm about to dive in to an explosion. In the event of a crash, you can count on me diving for the nearest ditch, dialing a message for the emergency answer phone to hurry up and get me the hell away from there.

"Use an appropriate flag to signal the road closure."

Where were these flags I was supposed to brandish? They could at least have given me a flag or two, don't you think? Sheesh! Bunch of bloody amateurs..

I broke off reading to witness the first car swiftly approaching. Gee, this guy must be good, he'd shaken off all the other guys already! Didn't look as though it was going to be much of a race though.. I waited, counting the seconds between his lead. I kept counting. Two full minutes later, another lone car shot past. Two minutes after, another. Never slow on the uptake, I began to catch on. Oh boy, unlike the Super bike's, rally cars are not that big on over-taking. (Big girls blouses.)

Bor-ing!

I started to explore if I could unpick the sewn up pockets of my jacket, but my frozen fingers were too numb to cooperate. That's when I felt the first wet splats against my forehead. Could life get any better? The fat, cold water bombs increased in tempo, giving on to a torrential downpour. Ever the optimist, I began to cheer up, surely the race would be called off now? I fished the phone out and dialed up the emergency number. Glory be, someone actually answered (telling me in no uncertain terms to stay put,and to quit tying up the line). Charmed, I'm sure.

To stave off the onslaught of hypothermia, I considered lunch. Peeking ino the carrier bag, I found a bag of marmite crisps, a cherry diet coke, and an anonymous tin foil package. Who the hell these days makes up sardine sandwiches? I fed them to a friendly sheep, (upon closer inspection he turned out to be a ram) in return for bending his ear over the next hour. He was very sympathetic.

Ten minutes after the last car splattered me in back spray, I gave up looking for the Head Marshall's car, wiped the mud from off my lips and dialed for home. Two hours and half a tank lighter in petrol, they finally managed to locate where Billy and I were holed up, huddled together under a dry-stone built wall. I felt quite emotional bidding my little Billy farewell.

Chalking it up to experience, I'm thankful that - more down to pure chance than good planning - at least no one actually died on my watch. I'll never, ever, ever put myself through all that again. If my experience is anything to go by, it's little wonder there is so much carnage over our racing season. I know the rules have been tightened since last year, and that the bike marshalls at least now have to attend a two day training course. But for an island that relies so heavily on the revenue which these races bring in, it's high time we stopped depending upon the good will of volunteers, and to instead find the approriate funding to safely police them.

(nb. I let Sam keep the orange vest, I reckon I'd earned it.)

Rallying Point

Sam being Sam, he holds a clutch of obsessions dear to his heart. One of those is to listen with an ear glued to our local radio station. He can happily sit for hours trawling through the radio website, recognising each and every DJ at a glance. Of course he's also been down to do the tour there, gathering every t-shirt and mug his pockets can buy. Everyone made a huge fuss over him, further cementing Sam's undying loyalty to his favourite station.

Naturally, I receive regular bulletins and up-dates from the lad, as he thunders in to the room in that bull-horn voice of his, to announce what ever latest thrilling tit bit he's discovered. He is apt to get a tad more excited than most, and his enthusiasm is frequently downright exhausting. Much as I hate to admit it, I often find myself tuning out, nodding and oooh-ing in what I hope are at appropriate intervals. I suppose it served me right then, when it finally landed me in a such a bumper shed load of trouble (sigh).

Apparently, a call had gone out on air, appealing for more volunteer Marshall's. There was a threat the stock car races may not go ahead without them. This is nothing new, they NEVER seem to have enough Marshall's, be it for the stock car rallies or for any of the other many motorbike races that our island is legend for. They always seem to manage in the end, and as far as I can recall, not one race has ever actually had to be cancelled due to any shortage of helpers. The problem is, my lad doesn't deal in shades of grey, and once he gets the bit between his teeth, he never let's go. By stubbornly refusing to help out (as I said I would), the race would cancel, and it was all my fault. Worse - I'd promised! (Huh?)

The last thing I needed was for my smug eldest daughter to chip in, "Yeah, mum, you did - I heard you!"

Next thing I knew I'd been press-ganged in to honouring my word, the phone was thrust into my hand, and a band of witnesses had rallied (if you pardon the pun), to force their poor old mum into offering her services. I still held out the hope I might get out of it, after all, who in their right mind would want to put someone like me out there?

"No, you don't understand, I know nothing, nothing at all, about car rallies.."

"Are you under a hundred?"

"Um, yes."

"Do you have a pulse?"

"Probably."

"You'll do."

Bugger.

The next day everyone loaded in to the car, with me still protesting all the way. They booted me out at the allocated meeting point and then sped off to enjoy their cozy pub-lunch without me. I began to regret favouring my stylish jacket over my winter overcoat, and belatedly realised perhaps my high-heeled boots were not best suited to a rural setting. I approached the group with severe reservations. Drawing closer, I was further alarmed to note I was the only female present. Oh joy.

I sought out the bearded, pot-bellied guy who seemed to be organising everyone. All voices stopped as I tried to explain who I was and as to why I was there.

Mortified I might be seen as a "groupie", I hastily added I was only here because of my son, really.

"Oh, is he one of the driver's then?"

"No, um he's more - like a fan.." I decided to stop digging a hole, and changed tack. "So, what exactly does this involve?"

He thrust a carrier bag in to my hands. "Here's your lunch."

LUNCH? It's 10am on a freezing April morning - just how long were they planning on keeping me here? He gives me a form to complete and sign (why do they need my next of kin)? I'm told to raise my right hand and am astounded to learn I now have the temporary powers to arrest. Blimey!

The next thing I know, I'm being bundled in to the back of a rally car, with two middle-aged Hells Angel look-alikes, being sped off to destinations unknown.

Sometimes I think my family are a little too trusting.

All the main roads had been cordoned off by now, and crowds had gathered at the edges. All eyes were on us, so naturally the driver couldn't resist putting on a show. You'd be surprised at the lack of suspension these vehicles have. It's hard to pose for the masses with your head being repeatedly smashed against the roof. We zoomed past the town and villages, and soon found ourselves kicking up the mud in the back tracks of deepest countryside. The car skid to a halt and we all piled out. I had not a clue as to where we were. I realised this probably wasn't a good time to ask where the nearest loo was.

The tallest of the two gave me a rather less than fetching orange vest to don, and scrawled his mobile phone number on the back of a leaflet for me.

"If you see a crash, ring me. Don't try to take off their crash helmet, okay?"

You what? Hold up a minute, what the hell's going on? They're not about to leave me here(are they)? I try to reason with them, "But, what am I supposed to do?"

"Across the road and up a bit, you'll find some rope, cordon off the entrance there, and then find the other entrance a few yards further on. Make sure they're both shut off, okay?"

I nod, uncertainly.

"Don't let anybody walk on the road."

There's only sheep as far as the eye can see. I nod. "But, where am I? Will I be picked up again, afterwards?"

They exchange frowns. The little guy shakes his head, pulls the leaflet out of my hands, and marks a cross on a tiny smudged map there. "Look, this is where you are. I thought your hubby dropped you off? Just ring him and tell him to come pick you up after you see the head Marshall's car pass, at the end of the race."

I can't even read an A to Z, let alone an ordinance survey map.

"But I still don't know what to do.."

They pile back to the car, eager to get away before the race starts, "Read the leaflet, it'll tell you all you need to know. Good luck!"

And they were off. Humph. Course, this is where my troubles had only but started..

Bestest Friends in the Whole Wide World

My youngest celebrated her eleventh birthday a few weeks ago. She enjoyed the presents and all the fuss, but what she wasn't too happy about was turning eleven. I thought she was joking, but evidently she was deadly serious, as the special dispensation above will attest to.

She had been concerned enough to voice her mis-givings at school, to her very best of bestest friends, Ashley. Ashley, being a thoughtful kind of a child, had a think about it. She decided if her bestest of best friends didn't want to be eleven, well then, she shouldn't have to be. She set about to make an exemption certificate, and even had it validated by several signatures, including their teacher's. Now Abby is delighted, and carries it with her wherever she goes.

"But sweetheart, why don't you want to get any older?" I asked.

In her most reasonable, matter-of-fact voice, she sweetly explained, "You can't chuck me out if I'm never eighteen."

(Nice to know some of the things I threaten the kids with occasionally hits home..)

Chasing Pebbles

Ragged sea-offerings lie twisted and tide-torn, carelessly stomped about by a sharp northerly breeze. Seaweed and kelp strew helplessly across the sand, silently bleeding their vibrant colours to the dry suck of the lack-lustre sun. It's March, cold and biting, but no threatening clouds survive to dampen the sky.

Thrusting numbed glove-less hands deeper into her pockets, and mindful of the sudden rock-pools and miniature islands skirting at her feet, Adrian crunches across a narrow path of shingle, making her way towards the wide softer stretch of yielding sand which borders the waters edge. Picking her way around the hostile, beady stare of a resentful gang-thuggery of gulls, she braces her eyes against the tear-inducing wind to scan the shore-line.


Yes, he is there - the only other one fool enough to brace these elements, he is waiting. An involuntary smile hi-jacks her heart, and she quickens her pace.


He laughs, catches her excitement and throws his warmth about her. Erasing her life without him, she basks in this, her daily fix, light and twenty years young again, all is well.



"Have you been here long?"



He shrugs. "I'm always here."


"True."




Breathing his briney essence, she closes her eyes, drinking him in. They walk, pausing every now and then to examine a piece of treasure scattered along the shore. They know the art of dancing pebbles across the waves, have mastered the skills to condense the world in to one precious hour, and have the wisdom to know it is all and will only ever be, make believe. Outside her head the real world calls, a place they can never share. But here, tasting the sheer salt-spray joy of him, as each second is filled with a million shared thoughts..
It is enough.

Not safe to be let out alone

I was more than a little relieved to learn I needn't find my own way back to Gatwick again. Give my mate her due, she saw me off in style. With a slap up meal and glass (or two) of wine, we
had time enough for a last few piccy's before her partner called round to take me to the airport. He even helped me with the meggacase. I said my goodbyes and trotted off to the check in with almost a full two hours left to spare. Boots, jacket and belt removed, I even finally escaped setting off the security alarms.


I don't know about you, but I find airports and ferries deathly boring. You are always waiting in limbo til you can move on to the place where you are really meant to be. Waiting for the gate to be announced, I found me a bar and relaxed with a sigh into my new Stephen King novel. Perfect, huh? Well, it was, up until I glanced at the clock.


Oh no! Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger!!! It was ten minutes after my flight was scheduled to depart! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! I still didn't even know which gate I was meant to board from. I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I truly have no internal compass where it comes to directions, I always get lost even at the best of times. Darting around like a headless chicken, even with the gate number now in my mind, I still couldn't find the way to where I was supposed to be. I'm running at this point (skinned toes n'all). I had visions of me having to spend an extra night at the Hilton again. (This happened the last time I visited my mate, but that wasn't my fault - honest Guv' - and besides, that's an entirely different story altogether.) Now I can hear the gallery incredulously asking why on earth I didn't hear my name being called? Because, my dear friends, Gatwick is a silent airport - they no longer announce stuff like "Can the stupid bint holding up flight no. XYZ kindly get her arse into gear?" any more.



By the time I arrived, flushed, out of breath and apologising profusely, the gate had already closed. I have to say they were very nice, all things considered. Seems they'd been waiting for me. Of course, everyone had already boarded by this time. I might just explain something here - the plane I catch is only a hundred seater, and this being the last flight out on a Sunday night, it was fully booked. Did I tell you what a tiny island I live on? As luck would have it, my seat was at the very back, the farthest one away from the door. Even avoiding all eye contact, I still felt the collective wave of hate swimming up to greet me. Worse, at least two thirds of the passengers probably knew me by sight, if not in person.

I waited last to disembark, and kept my head down. I'd delayed us by half an hour. Of course, this had a knock on effect upon all the hapless folk waiting to meet us outside. My fifteen year old has the voice of a fog-horn (and he has an uncanny ability to cut straight to the chase.)

"Mum!" (Yelling from 50 metres) "Your plane was late, why was it late?"

I ducked the barbed mutters from the crowd and went to speedily bundle him back to the car, whispering, "I'll tell you later, bonny lad.."

When the proverbial hits the fan

Yup, I hold my hands up, I should have known better than to use my real name and location in blogland. I guess it was a tad naive to say the least. Ah well, I'm trying to close the barn door - despite the horse having already bolted.

How do you like my new site? Much as it pains me, I've taken my old one out of action. Those who know me are probably aware my family are not exactly comfortable about me broadcasting their little peccadillo's to all and sundry. I didn't see much harm in it myself, but then what I hadn't figured on was what a small island it is we live on. Word got out. Teacher's, work colleagues and neighbours started peeking in.

Then Nutty Nora tripped over it (sigh). Well, she's not a happy bunny, is she? She's even less of a happy bunny now. I could kick myself, I always meant to remove that post, (I've copied it over if you want to see, it's the one directly below) but you know how you get caught up in things and stuff? Anyways, Looking on the bright side, I hardly see anything at all of her now (giggle).

Oh gosh, I've not been around for months, have I? So much has happened - where to start? Okay, first up, if any one of you ask me about this sodding not-quite-yet-a-book-of-mine, I'm banning you from ever coming back in here. Two thirds in and I've hit a brick wall. Wee Karen (my main protagonist) and I have fallen out big time, I hate the little brat. I'm sure we'll patch it up eventually, but I really don't want to talk about it, so please quit with the nagging.

Swiftly moving on - (tee-hee) - I managed to escape the family last weekend, and flew over to London for a couple days of reckless fun with my bestest, bestest friend. Ahhhhhhhh, I do miss her. But as she says, it's probably just as well I now live where I do, otherwise we'd both wind up dead inside of a month. Her rotten brother was supposed to pick me up at the airport. Hmph. The unreliable little sod cried off just as I was about to set off. Man-flu, so he said. (I so hope he didn't suffer TOO much..)

Now, even back when I did live in London, I haven't negotiated the underground tube system in well over twenty years. Have you seen what they've done to it since then? Bloomin' heck, I normally get lost simply crossing the road, I just wanted to die when I got down there. What happened to all those little ticket booths with real people behind them, you know, the ones where you pay your fare and get those helpful directions from? Don't forget my massive over-the-weight-limit suitcase I had in tow (a girlie always needs to be prepared).

A word to the wise, don't ever trust your credit card to those thieving machines down there. I keyed in for a single to East Croydon and wound up with a day return for London. I wouldn't have minded so much if, when I did finally find my way to East Croydon, the dummy guy at the gate hadn't torn it up as I passed it to him. I was too knackered to argue the toss by then.

I don't know East Croydon. My dear mate assured me I'd find her office no problem, just ask - everyone knows where Croydon college is. Well I'm sure she's right, it's just a pity none of them speak English. I knew it was a bad move to wear my high heels.

I finally staggered through to reception gagging for a fag (you can't smoke anywhere these days), so as I waited for my absent friend to work her way down from the fifth floor and sign me in, I limped outside to join all the fifteen year olds out on their ciggie-break. 'Course, I had to lug my meggacase with me in case it had a bomb. I looked the oldest runaway in town.

It was all worth it in the end, her boss is great, he obligingly sent us off to enjoy an extended lunch. At the end of the day her work crew piled off to the pub with us, and a very fine time was had by all. Thankfully, my mate's partner had the good sense to finally come and collect us (we were meant to be going out that evening).

I can't handle staying up all night anymore. My head hurt like hell in the morning. But still, I had a great time, and it was good to play catch up again.

It truly is a crying shame what happened with me on my flight home (still cringing). But that's a story that will have to wait 'til next time. (Wink.)