I love London, I do. I love my neighbourhood and, contrary to popular myth, I find it much friendlier than the countryside ( I lived in Hampshire for part of my growing up years and found it far more insular despite its verdant prettiness)
What I don't love, is that part and parcel of living in a densely populated city with a large transient population is the unbelievable amount of littering. This aggravation has lately been added to by a growing trend for gobbing in the street. I walk alot, and when I'm not dodging dog mess ( aah, the Brits love their dogs, but if they really want to treat them as babies I do wish they'd make them wear nappies) I'm dodging green gobbets of phlegm. Yuk.
We are blessed in this city with lots of green spaces. Almost daily I walk to the shops through our local park. I grew up in this area ( and returned to it as an adult) and remember well the park keeper who guarded his rose beds and lawns with the care of a devoted parent. The park keeper has long gone. The local authority employs a couple of "Rangers" ( natty title)  to roam the borough putting on the odd  'environmental' event.  No doubt they have their hands full, but I've never seen them. 
Last year, I decided to be a "Lone Ranger".
I was pushing my buggy through Springfield Park, when I spotted a lady sitting on a bench with her children. It was pleasant weather and they were having their lunch, which was nice. Or at least it would have been had the ground around their feet not been stewn with the wrappings and other food detritus.
So much litter was being thrown to the ground that it looked a bit like a child opening all their Christmas presents at once.
I hit on a plan  that would hopefully awaken the womans social conscience and, most importantly, not end up with me being handed my head.
I emptied one of my Morrisons bags into the other,walked over, smiled serenely as I said hello and knelt at her feet to clear away her litter. She helpfully moved her feet for me. "Are you an environmentalist?" she enquired. "I'm not sure, I don't think so" said I " I just rather like this park, and it seems a shame to litter it".
At this point I held up the carrier bag and asked her if she wouldn't mind putting the chicken bones in herself. This she helpfully did, before continuing to chow down on a doughnut. "Do you know of any flats to  rent around here?" she said between mouthfuls. I looked up at her, she looked down at me hunkered on the path at her feet, picking up her childrens ice cream wrappers,  and smiled expectantly. She certainly didn't look like the sort of psycho who might hand me my head. I tried to look like I was racking my brain, "sorry, none that I can think of".
We'd made a connection, and as I straightened up, I hardly had the heart to add "and if I did I wouldn't be recommending a litterbug like you".
We exchanged cheery goodbyes, and as I sauntered off, I swung the knotted carrier bag full of her rubbish into the nearest bin.
You couldn't make it up.

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We've been homeschooling for almost a year. One of the things that, in my more tremulous moments, scared me most was the whole issue of 'going it alone'. Funny, how that very aspect has turned out to be one of the most rewarding.
 It occurs to me that school is a bit like those fairy cake mixes you can buy in the supermarket. Someone else has worked out the recipe, all you have to do is add an egg and stir, then you pop it in the oven, and when it's cooked you stick a little rice paper Disney picture on the top, and, 'voila!' a  batch of pretty cakes.  Thing is, you know when you read the packet, that all sorts of spooky ingredients have gone into your not so homemade creation.
When you make your own cake, you have to find your own recipe. You fumble around assembling the ingredients, make mistakes,sometimes you phone an expert friend for some advice or look it up online. Over time, you find you have a well stocked larder and a growing confidence in what works. You depend less on the help of recipe books and expert friends, your are becoming your own expert. You can add a 'pinch' of this and a 'dash' of that without risking calamity.
This Christmas has been the first without school. No plays, no costumes to provide, no lines to learn, no gifts to wrap for the classroom 'secret santa'. How would we manage?
This year, we made our own 'cake'.  We started on the first day of Advent. Every evening we hung a very homemade, cardboard painted ornament on our Jesse tree. We sang "O come O come Emmanuel' together, with the 16 year old on guitar, and we did a short, rather shambolic bible study.
London is frosty and foggy now, which lends it a picturesque air ( to my eye at least) and whilst we did occasionally venture out into the spectral mist , our homeschool days were spent mostly at home. We played carols and read Christmas stories. Gabriel and Colmcille sat at the table chopping up dried fruit with scissors for the Christmas puddings we will be giving to our family. We made orange and clove pomanders.
I have discovered that embroidery is a wonderful activity for a jumpy 8 year old.  I doubt that even the Mona Lisa could have been so poised and still, for such long periods, as was Gabriel, tongue sticking out and cross legged, embroidering a cushion for his brothers and humming along with Handels Messiah.
We did have a Christmas play. Gabriel goes to a little bible club on Tuesday afternoons. It is a rather quaint affair, run by four ladies, ex missionaries, all of the sort of  generation that still refer to 'motor cars' and ' zipper fasteners'. The venue was a sitting room, the audience, seated on sofas with small children on the floor waited for the play to begin. The actors shuffled in. Some shy, some bold. Some, so carried away by the moment, forgot their parts. Doreen was on hand to give them their line. Head dresses were falling off, the Baby Jesus doll occasionally dangled by his ankle, small siblings in the audience added their impromptu offerings. At the end we all stood to sing ' Away in a manger' and ' O little town of Bethlehem'.
It was all so unslick and so sweet, and so fitting. My friend Wendy remarked that it was such a refreshing change to have the story of the nativity presented so simply. Each year in school there seems to be a new twist to the old story, from 'Rock Around The Manger' to ' The Whoopsadaisy Angel'.
Sometimes, the simple things are the best. And that is what I have learnt this year.
Happy Christmas!

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"Climate change" is very much the buzz word for the hip 21st century young gunslinger ( such as moi ). My problem is, although I use the phrase when I mutter darkly about our weird weather (fave Brit topic) I'm not sure I understand what it actually means. Moreover, I can't shake the idea that it might,just might, be a tsunami in a tea cup.
I came across this today by the provocative Melanie Phillips.
Her closing paragraph is very well put and just incase you lazy ones at the back of the class can't be bothered to keep reading to the end I'll paste it in here:

The point about reason is not a passing curiosity. It lies at the very heart of our present malaise, going far beyond the issue of climate change. We are living in the most advanced age of reason known to mankind, in which our worship of rational thought, our belief that the only truths are those which can be empirically demonstrated and our scorn for what we deem by these lights to be irrational have led us progressively to junk religious faith and embrace secularism. And yet, at the very same time, we have abandoned reason for belief in irrational claims that correspond to certain prejudices or obsessions or ideologies; we have deconstructed the very idea of truth itself, that lies at the heart of reason, and as a result display daily credulity before an avalanche of lies and ideological propaganda from a host of different quarters, with the further outcome that those who vainly attempt to point out the facts are themselves dismissed as irrational, cranky or mad. It is a paradox; and at the heart of it, I suspect, lies the collapse of religious faith itself, whose eclipse has destroyed the very quality of reason that its secular destroyers claim to uphold.

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Blogging today from sunny Italy. We are visiting friends who lived in London for 5 years before returning to what can only be described as an idyll of bucolic loveliness. Living now up a mountain outside Rome, with heart stopping views, with access to food so fresh and simple and clean and in season that I can hardly bear to think of eating anything out of cellophane again. Add to this a country so replete with history that stony remnants of the glories of ancient Rome, can still be found sitting around in fields, like so much flotsam and jetsam. A chunk of carved pillaster in an olive grove, reminders of ancient grandeur are everywhere and commonplace. Claudio and Catherine are the perfect hosts, enthusiastic, energetic and endlessly patient with all our questions. They have really bent over backways to give us a week that we will never forget, not to mention a gastronomic introduction to Italy that would never have been available in even the finest restaurants ( While Catherine cooked she patiently tolerated my head over her shoulder, answered my questions and happily shared from her encyclopaedic knowledge of food facts ) Claudio has driven us around this part of Italy in his big old Mercedes minivan, we've gone off the beaten track in ways that would never have been possible had we been by ourselves. Past ancient hamlets carved out of the side of the mountain, looking like it grew out of the living rock, through the gladiatorial, horn-tooting arena of motorists that is the city of Rome, taking a detour to go swimming on a beach with black volcanic sand. The bubba looked as though he had been rolled in ash. Yep, we went swimming and it's nearlly November, AND we needed sunblock. Gotta go, Claudio is cooking pizza in his big old pizza oven on the terrace tonight. Potatoe and rosemary, tomatoe and mozzarella, pepperoni, anchovy...my mouth is watering already.

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But the best of all are friendships. I have been blessed with some wonderful friends.
I met Julie at Queen Charlottes when we were student midwives. She attended two of my births. I lay with my head in her lap when I laboured with Dominic. When I had Gabriel she was there too. Andi, heavily pregnant with Tilly, was  looking after me. This time it was a problematic labour. I had been induced a couple of weeks prior to my due date owing to concerns over fetal well being, a very different birth to the low key home birth a few years earlier. Julie and Pauline, as before, were in attendance.
Julie is cool. At one point, surrounded by all the high tech paraphernalia that I had so hoped to avoid, I looked up despairingly and saw Julie, leaning against the resusitaire eating a yoghurt. She grinned and gave me a little thumbs up. Funny, the mundane little things that lift your spirits, things that stay etched in the memory. Julie eating a yogurt . It made an abnormal situation a little more homely somehow. No disaster expected here, no need to be afraid, the quiet, benign, watchful midwife is eating a yoghurt.
During one rather broke period she lived with us for a while. Owing to her habit of stopping off at Shams fish bar for a saveloy and chips on the way home from work, she was known as Junk Food Julie ( maybe the yoghurt was a healthy abberation)
She was a very outdoorsy girl. She went through a big kite flying phase. She said it felt "elemental". On some memorable weekends, she got us all flying her kite on the beach. We caught the bug. My husband bought a stunt kite. I drove down with her to the Seven Sisters one day. It was blowing an enormous gale when we got to the coast. Me and the kids stayed in the car and watched her flying the kite. I thought she was going to blow away. We caught some of the exhilaration just watching the kite swooping and diving, and Julies hair making some shapes that nature never intended. Then we had chips and went home.
Everyone loved her.
When she went to New Zealand five years ago it felt like a little death. The Irish held wakes for those who emmigrated years ago, and thats how it felt saying goodbye to Julie.
She nearly did die a couple of years later in a terrible head on crash.People rallied round. One friend, also from Charlottes, came to the hospital and bathed her, some Samoans sat round her bed and prayed for her. We felt helpless to do more than send flowers and annoy the nursing staff with endless questions, but we were grateful that she wasn't alone
 For a time she was in an electric wheelchair, bought from the proceeds of a benefit fundraiser  held by  new friends.  Her recuperation took an age. She exchanged sailing and surfing for the more sedate sport of bowls,  a pastime that can be enjoyed when only one arm is functioning. she was told to forget any hope of practising as a midwife. It was a rather bleak time.
But mend she did. She came back to England last week on a visit for her dads 80th birthday.
 Andi, Claire and I greedily whisked her away for a weekend in Dorset. Just us, and Andis latest sweet bubba Lola. We drank wine and ate chocolate. We went on a cliff top walk and ate a pub lunch overlooking the sea. The weather was perfect. She is just the same. No hint of the cataclysm that nearly took her away. She is still the same loveable, accepting , philosophical, interesting and  arrestingly beautiful Julie that we waved off five years ago.
In a somewhat sentimental frame of mind I  came across this quote on friendship:
" Do not save your loving speeches for your friends till they are dead. Do not write them on their tombstones, speak them rather now instead" -- Anna Cummins

So Julie, this is for you, with alot of love.

And finally, if you can forgive me quoting scripture to you:

"The LORD bless you
       and keep you;

  the LORD make his face shine upon you
       and be gracious to you;

  the LORD turn his face toward you
       and give you peace." 

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Back in July I posted this:

“I am a terrible newshound, and find myself grimly gripped by the terrible events unfolding in the Mid East. I am so enormously frustrated and disappointed by Britains lazy, ignorant and predjudiced "intelligentsia". Again and again, the narrative  is that of Palestinian victimisation and Israeli oppression. British public opinion has hugely bought into this , and  considers itself humane and sophisticated for having done so. Don't misunderstand me. I feel enormous sadness and despair for the position of the Palestinians and of course the Lebanese, whose country is being used as a battleground. But yet again, the voices raised in protest are almost entirely not against  the genocidal warmongers of Syria and Iran, but against their primary victim, Israel.”

And this:

“Leaving in half an hour, couldn't resist one swift peek at the news. Now I'm cross again. Where are the "Leave Israel Alone" marches?, ah, that will be the one organized and attended by Jews. Why is the rest of the country tut tutting at Israel but languidly silent on the topic of Hezbollah? They find the energy to go on 11 marches across the country protesting against Israel but appear indifferent to Islamofacism. Aaargh!

Right, thats it. I'M ON HOLIDAY!!!!”

Last night, a drive by anonymous commenter said this:

“It seems odd to me that so many otherwise liberal individuals, who abhor racism and hated the apartheid system, are so blind to the way that the state of Israel operates. No other country in the western world is based on such ideas of racial and religious supremacy. The fact is that if you are an Arab in Israel you are worse than a second class citizen. And if you are unfortunate enough to be a palestinian inhabitant of the occupied territories, at best you are like an inhabitant of one of the Indian reservations in the US, at worst a ghettoised member of a vast prison camp. The fact that you are a Christian makes your one-sided views even more reprehensible. Remember God heard Hagar's tears and he had pity on her...”

Dear Anonymous

Since you haven’t specified a particular offending phrase, I will assume that it is my general “tone” of support, or concern for Israel that irks you.

Allow me to clarify. I wrote my comments at a time when civilian areas within northern Israel were being targeted and bombed by Hizbollah rockets, rockets that were packed with ball bearings, the better to inflict maximal maiming. The same (Iranian) rockets that were used with lethal success on the July attack that killed eight railway workers. Recall that only a few days earlier a Hizbollah commando snuck over the border into Israel, killed three soldiers and kidnapped two more. It was ( or should have been) abundantly clear that Hizbollah were picking a fight. When Israel didn’t bite Hizbollah upped the ante, firing over one hundred rockets daily into Northern Israel.

Can you imagine Anonymous? Here in London, taking to bomb shelters? Sending our children up to Scotland or overseas to stay with relatives?

Yes Anonymous, you are right. I do abhor racism. Dead Jews upset me every bit as much as dead Rwandans or dead Sudanese. I am upset when Jews are killed and my country holds marches saying “ We are all Hizbollah now”. What should Israel have done? Sent postcards to Hassan Nasrallah?

Your comment suggests that because you “believe” Israel to be a state “founded on racial and religious supremacy” that it should therefore put up with having its civilians killed and its soldiers kidnapped.

Basically, Israel can’t win. At the core of your views is, I suspect, a conviction that Israel should not, in fact exist at all. Am I right Anon? If so, that is a whole nuther argument and everything else is a red herring. If that is so, it might save time, and be more honest, if you simply said “Israel has no right to be there. Therefore, don’t criticize Hezbollah (or hamas etc) who are only trying to get the job done. Because Israel shouldn’t be there they should quietly accept their bombing and disappear.”

You said “No other country in the western world is based on such ideas of racial and religious supremacy”

That, is emotional, highly charged nonsense Anonymous. Be ashamed of yourself and go to the back of the class. The State of Israel is based on principles of liberty, justice and peace, upholds full social and political equality of all its citizens without distinction of religion, race or sex. It guarantees freedom of religion, conscience, education and culture. The fact that they find themselves engaged in a protracted war for survival does in no way make them racial or religious supremacists.

I notice that you neatly insert “western” world. Are you willing to apply the same scrutiny to Israel’s neighbours?

You said “The fact is that if you are an Arab in Israel you are worse than a second class citizen.” Actually Anonymous, the fact is that if you are an Arab in Israel you have full voting, healthcare and education rights the same as any citizen. Just ask the Arab members of the Knesset.

The real fact is that if you are a Palestinian in Lebanon, you are most assuredly a second class citizen, and that Anon, is not a matter of hyperbolic emotional blethering but of record.

Palestinians in Lebanon are marginalized, repressed and discriminated against in every meaningful way. Socially, politically and economically. Attempts to integrate Palestinians into Lebanon are actively resisted. They are kept apart from the Lebanese population, and cannot access secondary or higher education. Those lucky enough to get a work permit still don’t qualify for social security or insurance benefits, or a regular wage increase. Employment is governed by sectarian rules. Palestinians are excluded from more than 72 professions; they are thus forced to work in the informal sector with low wages, insecurity and no benefits.

I could go on to list the building restrictions which are imposed on them and result in severe overcrowding and very grim, insecure living conditions, but I want to come on to your closing salvo.

You said “The fact that you are a Christian makes your one-sided views even more reprehensible.”

 No Anonymous, it is your views which are all on one side. Injustice, regardless of the victims race, whether “on the ground” or “virtual” through defamation and misrepresentation is reprehensible, and anyone with a moral conscience ought to feel likewise. I suggest it is you who are blinded to the truth.

In your comments, you are so provoked by my very modest expression of concern that you make huge assumptions as to my views generally (“Remember God heard Hagar's tears and he had pity on her...”) Erm, I guess you are suggesting her that I, on the other hand, am pitiless towards the Arabs. Exactly where in my post did you get this? The fact is that Arabs pay the highest price for the madness of their leaders. Leaders who, for the most part, they get no say in electing.

I don’t have oceans of sympathy for the Jihadists who bomb Pizza parlours, or Mullahs, who would ( as I said in a previous post) have me in my own ready to wear tent quicker than you can say Dhimmi.. I have nothing but sympathy for the millions of honest, innocent Muslims/People of Hagar who are among their most numerous victims. Nothing I have said suggests otherwise, other than your own lazy prejudiced assumptions.

If I can remind you of what I said in an earlier post: “I feel enormous sadness and despair for the position of the Palestinians and of course the Lebanese, whose country is being used as a battleground.” I just don’t believe that it is all the fault of Israel. I think that those who do, and who, like you, object to my very moderate and uncontroversial concern for a people under rocket fire by a group committed to their utter annihilation, are lazy or willfully ignorant.

And why, exactly, do you find my concern for Israeli civilians more reprehensible because I am a Christian? Should Christians be blasé about such civilian deaths?

Let’s clear this issue up (since you raised it).

As a Christian, I understand that the bible testifies to Gods love for our physical world, and for all mankind. This is a love that we must share. Therefore, the Christian is bound to be profoundly interested in the state of politics, in her country, and in the world. At the same time, she understands that merely reforming this world is never going to resolve its problems, Gods kingdom must break in from outside.

When we remember that God loved us and sent his son to die for us, while we were sinners and hostile to him, we should be humbled and desire the same mercy and compassion for our enemies At the same time, and in no contradiction to this principle, we are moved to speak he truth and challenge injustice in the world.

I hope Anonymous, that this may clear up any misunderstanding you have regarding my views.

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I am greatly in awe of the homeschooling mummies who regularly blog. Its a trick which, you may have noticed, I have not fully grasped. I have been getting to grips with other issues which were demanding my attention however, so now, I'm back in the saddle and raring to "giddy up"!
On Saturday, I met up with a fellow Brit  blogger  (  a  Yank  actually,  but  living  here  so  I'm  claiming her for our gang  since you  lot have  more  than enough mates to be getting on with, and we're a tad thin on the ground)   We had arranged to meet up at a home education fair in Notting Hill ( I 've seen pics of US homeschool conventions and let me tell you, over here it is a very different  affair.  You have something that looks like an aircraft hangar, we have a rather quaint church hall. Picture a local bring and buy sale at a community hall  ) It took all of about 10 minutes to peruse the stalls, and then we  scuttled off to the local Starbucks to do what girls do best ( other than shopping, no doubt that was taken care of later down Portobello road tee hee!)
It was a bit like a blind date. She has dark curly hair and wears glasses and would be wearing a pink top. I have dark curly hair too. " I thought you had blonde straight hair?" " Nah, that pic on my blog was taken when I was going to a murder mysery party" I was going through a blonde moment, and I'd blow dried my hair straight in order to be in character. It was a 1930's party, I had a cloche hat and a fur stole  and a fabulous vintage flapper dress. My husband had to make do with a dinner jacket and a pencil moustache artfully drawn with eye liner pencil by moi. My outfit was much more fun, thanks to my theatrical neighbour who loaned me the gear ( incidentally he was the chief hair guy on the Titanic and Sliding doors, and has a loft full of interesting wigs, a great man to know if you're going to a murder mystery party)
But I digress, thanks to mobile phone technology, we did'nt need to resort to wearing a carnation in our jackets for ID purposes and even though I was an hour later than planned ( Central line down, thanks London Underground) we passed a very pleasant afternoon getting to know eachother. Even if the Home ed fair wasn't anything to write home about, the weather was lovely, and the Portobello Road was fairly jumping with good 'ol  London market vibe
So, Mr. DeedeeUK, you have a most delightful wife, and no doubt you were very pleased to get her home again . 

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Leaving in half an hour, couldn't resist one swift peek at the news. Now I'm cross again. Where are the "Leave Israel Alone" marches?, ah, that will be the one organised and attended by Jews. Why is the rest of the country tut tutting at Israel but languidly silent on the topic of Hezbollah? They find the energy to go on 11 marches across the country protesting against Israel but appear indifferent to Islamofacism. Aaargh!

Right, thats it. I'M ON HOLIDAY!!!!

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Its nearly 1am, the laundry baskets are empty, the cases are ( almost all) packed, my dining table is loaded with "last minute, afterthought" items, and I thought I'd take a moment or two for my sorely neglected blog.
We're off for a weeks camping in Suffolk with our church, then we come home, turn the laundry around and nip off to lovely Wales  for a week in a proper house with beds and electricity and all mod cons.
Much as I love the city, it will be wonderful to be on the coast. The weather is oppressively hot, even at night, and us Celtic types don't bloom in the heat, we wilt.
I do hope the tomatoes will cope on their own.
A period of enforced computer celibacy will be no bad thing for me either. I am a terrible newshound, and find myself grimly gripped by the terrible events unfolding in the Mid East. I am so enormously frustrated and disappointed by Britains lazy, ignorant and predjudiced "intelligentsia". Again and again, the narrative  is that of Palestinian victimisation and Israeli oppression. British public opinion has hugely bought into this , and  considers itself humane and sophisticated for having done so. Don't misunderstand me. I feel enormous sadness and despair for the position of the Palestinians and of course the Lebanese, whose country is being used as a battleground. But yet again, the voices raised in protest are almost entirely not against  the genocidal warmongers of Syria and Iran, but against their primary victim, Israel.
My parents broadly disagree with me, but I blame them for stimulating an interest in such things in the first place. When I was 7 or 8, my mother took me to hear Harold Wilson speak at Acton Town Hall.I had no idea what he was blethering on about, but no doubt that's when the rot set in.
Changing the subject ( onto less controversial matters) Gabriel, The Bubba and I were walking past Gabriels old school a couple of days ago. His classmates were playing basketball in the playground. One of them spotted Gabriel and came over to the railings, he was glowing like a Belisha beacon in the midday heat and he said " Hey, gabriel! We're having so much fun playing basketball, you should be here and you'd be having fun too" I didn't hear Gabriels response, but as we walked on I asked him who the boy was. He said, blithely, " Oh, that's Connor, he was just trying to make me feel jealous. The thing is Connor thinks that the play ground is all fun and the classroom is all boring" Then he added " I used to think like that, but I don't anymore". We walked on with a spring in our step and I reflected that, in a nutshell, that is precisely what homeschooling is all about. Real learning truly is about the best fun you can have. And the lure of half an hours sweaty basketball in the burning sun really is no compensation for that.

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Blogging took a bit of a back seat last month. Since I'd been officially homeschooling for 6 months, I decided it was time to take stock and consider settling down to an actual curriculum/system/philosophy/approach. My research time is pretty limited owing to the fact that simply keeping the small, but not inconsequential, matters of keeping food and laundry requirements ticking over could, by themselves keep me pretty fully occupied and out of mischief for, well, ever. In addition, since  there's only so long I can stay online before my eyeballs bleed, My blog had to take a bit of a back seat.
Having trawled through, printed out, pored over and otherwise bored myself to death running hither and thither, allowing myself to be wooed by every homeschool philosophy that I trip over, I have learned a little more about me. Namely that I am shallow, and find it hard to pick a path and stick to it ( incase I miss out on something else that's really, really great, and simple and perfect and....aargh! You get the picture?)
This lesson learned (ish) I think I am finally zeroing in on an "approach". Classical      cum Charlotte Mason seems to fit my bill. I really like Ambleside Online. Not least because its free, but also, because, unwittingly,I seem to have been doing something similar, partly by instict, already ( Clever old me!). We have just finished reading Children of the New Forest, we are memorising little poems, doing ancient history and reading " Our Island Story" ( well daddy reads that at night with Gabriel) So it shouldn't be too big a shift to get into the CM groove.
It does bug me a little, however, that most of the books need to be ordered online from  the good  'ol US of A, I can't even get them at the library.  It's great that  alot of  material is reproduced free online, but I'm guessing that its still probably cheaper, or at least equivalent, to buy it than to spend the money on ink cartridges. In fact, it might be cheaper to book a flight and take the lot back home in a suitcase. You Yankee doodle dandies don't know you're born, boy, the stuff I could buy on Amazon for peanuts ( before I factor in the postage). Oh well, I did get to take Gabriel on a hands on tour round The Golden Hinde ( Sir Francis Drakes funny little boat) today, and I guess that might cost a sight more than the tube fare for some of you. Can't have it all I guess.

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On the 7th July last year my two oldest were going on trips. Brendan left at 7.30am to go to some sort of careers exhibition in Docklands, he was getting the tube to Fulham Broadway and was going on a coach from there to the ExCel Centre in Canary Wharf.  
I waved Dominic off at 9.15. He was in high spirits, London had won the Olympic bid the day before and there was still a bubbling euphoria in the air. Better still, he was going on the tube to the offices of The Guardian newspaper on the Farringdon Road to see how the news stories were put together. Oh happy day, the weather was fine and it felt so good to be a Londoner. The buzz of optimism was sweet and palpable, and the newspapers would be full of it. 
My friend Catherine came round for coffee. Like Dominic, her son Benjamin was giddy with excitement. At about  9.45 I got a text from Noreen, it read " WHAT IS GOING ON???!!!" I showed it to Catherine. What did she mean? Was she offended that I hadn't contacted her for a while? I think I texted back something like  "eh?" I later learned that she was on an overground train from Finsbury Park and it was stuck just outside Kings Cross. Then Pat phoned, he said that there was a problem on the tube, I checked the news online and it said there had been power surges, he was suspicious and thought it sounded odd.
A litttle concerned, we phoned the school. We couldn't get through. After what seemed like an eternity of pressing redial we were told that the children had been turned back at west Acton due to the line being closed down owing to "power surges".
It was impossible to get through to Brendans school in Fulham, however they did have a website which announced that all the children had arrived at school and were safe, that the boys on the coach trip to Docklands were in transit and parents were advised  to keep checking the website for updates. we later learned that one of the Prime Ministers children ( who attends the school) had been picked up by a limo and" masses" of bodyguards ( "masses" could have been schoolboy hyperbole, but it caused a tremor of excited speculation nonetheless.)
The rest of the day was spent glued to the television, slack jawed, tearful and fervently praying. Before our eyes the scenes of  carnage were shown on a loop, over and over. The wrecked bus  at Tavistock Square, the flashing sirens, policemen and paramedics, commuters covered in soot looking blank and traumatised. All the familiar scenes, no longer dull and ordinary, but damaged and dear. I felt a tug of concern and distress for strangers, and a deeper, nauseating tug of fear for my own.

Memories of 9/11. The same gut wrenching concern for the ordinary, everyday commonplace person suddenly caught up in a cataclysm of evil. But this time the evil was visited on my doorstep, in my city and on my neighbours.
My sons came home. But many others did not. My heart ached for the grieving in many houses that night. Loved ones that never came home. Like 9/11, posters went up with smiling photos of the missing. It took agonising days for many to be identified.
We later learned that the younger sister of Brendans teacher had perished in the Russell Square bomb. Noreen, who normally travelled in the front carriage of the  Russell Square train had been late to work that day, owing to a change in her schedule.A little admin alteration that probably saved her life. She is Colmcilles Godmother. I've known her longer than I've known my husband ( who I met through her) How banal, the details that can preserve us, or send us, in an instant, into eternity.
A few days later a website was set up, it was inundated with masses of images, of Londoners, and others around the world. People holding up bits of paper announcing that they were not afraid. Spirited words. Since the Fall we have been vulnerable to fear. Adam hid because he was afraid.  When I feel the cold hand of fear clutching my guts I take Gods word like medicine. Psalm 91 is my crisis medicine "You will not fear the terror of night,
       nor the arrow that flies by day,

  nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
       nor the plague that destroys at midday.".

My family and I are alive. I refuse to allow that our  peace today and our hope for tomorrow be destroyed by fear.

Reflecting on the power of faith, John Donne wrote this " He that fears God fears nothing else" and I couldn't put it more succinctly than that.

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Today, I'm blogging about someone elses post. Yes, pain gives a certain perspective not readily available to the painfree.For some wisdom from a veteran read this.

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With thanks to the Cavalry, who boldly rode to my rescue I can now attempt to repost. Here goes. For your delight and delectation dear readers across the pond, I give you a great British institution. Nora Batty. A veritable Brittania.
And here's the song.
And finally, since I'm so excited at getting this right at last
My Four Green Fields:


And the birthday boy ( in his sequinned birthday t shirt) with littlest bro'



Jay, I salute you!

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Whilst I rather liked my girl on swing avatar, I got a bit restless tonight and decided on a little blog DIY. I chose this one because I was having a Lillian Gish moment and Pat thinks it makes me look thoughful, and therefore cerebral.I liked that because I don't normally look cerebral in photos, mostly I gurn and look  like Nora Batty
I tried to paste in a photo of my doppelganger Nora but it wouldn't work, I still have a long way to go before I am accomplished in the science of blogology.
No doubt I'll get bored of this avatar soon and put up a new one, because variety is, after all, the spice of life. I have a photo somewhere of me in a cowboy hat ( I wore it constantly last summer since I have the skin of that gawjus monk in the da Vinci flop) I was going through a Patsy Cline phase. I may put that up next, as a little homage to Amerikay.
On another note, I wanted to share this with you. It was the surprise no.1 hit here in the UK at the end of last year. I think it was one of those weird internet songs that just struck a chord with people. I think its rather a homeschool anthem. "Me and my dad havin' a top laugh... I'm so glad I'm not in school boss"  The writer was dyslexic and had a tough time at school, his dad used to take him out on his JCB . He sings "The engine rattles my bum like beserk, we're singing 'don't forget your shovel if you want to go to work' "  Lovely.
And finally, having typed this out and previewed it, I realise that my links aren't working. Instead of linking to a pic of the lovely Nora and the song,  it's taking me to a very dull Microsoft page. Since its late and I've already tried a few things like disabling my firewall, I'm going to leave it there and hope that someone can tell me where I am going wrong ( Jay? are you there? help me out techno astronomy guy!)

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Dominic, my number 2 son was 12 on the 19th May. How in the world did that happen? Is it just me or is time speeding up? Is the planet spinning faster or what?
His was a very gentle birth. I love to recall it.
I planned a home birth, and my dear friend Andi was going to deliver me, with Julie and Pauline attending as back up. It wasn't a smooth run up. He was breech for ages until the afternoon I found myself doing a little DIY external cephalic version ( I don't recommend this ladies, its just that one thing led to another and ... well it worked!) Once the head was down he engaged pretty quick and the head was only 1/5th palpable for weeks. I really thought I would labour early. So it was mental torture to find myself going so overdue that the possibility of the home birth I had so planned and hoped for  was hanging in the balance.
On day 9 post due date, I started contracting, oh joy! When the contractions started to fizzle out I plunged into despair.I cried so hard I got a splitting headache. Pat came home from work and  sent me to bed with  a cup of tea and 2 Paracetamol.  I poured my heart out to God and  during  this time  the name Dominic kept coming into my mind.  I looked it up in the well thumbed name book I had by the bed. It means "belonging to the Lord". Ok, I did a deal with God, I told him that if I had a son tomorrow,born at home as per plan, I would call him Dominic ( it wasn't my first choice of name) but if it wasn't tomorrow, all bets were off. Well God is very nice to me, even when I'm petulant.
The following morning, I woke up with tightenings, all day I continued to niggle, not daring to call it labour incase yesterdays scenario repeated itself. By lunchtime, I took my mums advice and went down to the chemist and got some castor oil, just to keep things "ticking over". The pharmacist, seeing my condition, was a bit wary, but I told him I was a midwife and knew exactly what I was doing ( I didn't!) I followed my mothers instructions and took it with orange juice.Oh boy! You don't need to hear the details, but suffice it to say I hung around the toilet, alot.
Around 3 pm, my friend Nicky took Brendan to her house and I got into the bath. About 4pm I was contracting good and strong every 4 minutes or so. I still didn't call anyone, I was scared I'd go out of labour again. I went down to the local shop for milk and bread. I remember the look of alarm on Mr Patels face as I clutched the side of the chilled food counter and tried to look casual as I breaaaathed it away.
Walking back home took forever, It felt like I was carrying a ton of milk in that bag.

4.30 pm I called Andi, I told her I thought I was having strong Braxton Hicks and maybe she'd come round when she'd finished her post natal visits. Ok, dear reader, I am a midwife, Andi and I trained together, and I looked after her when she had her daughter, but this was my labour, and I'd  lost  my midwife brain. I also phoned Pat, and told hime not to put the flags out, but not to be late home from work as this might be "it".
Thankfully Andi ignored me and came round fairly promptly. I was so glad to see her. Within minutes of her arrival I was on my hands and knees breathing hard. I was a little surprised to see her start to disrobe there and then and climb into a pair of old leggings and a t shirt like she was about to start an aerobics class or something.
I looked up at her and said " Please tell me I'm not having Braxton Hicks" She gave me a pitying look and said " Clare, you're a midwife, thats not a Braxton Hicks contraction, you are in labour" What a relief, I wanted to kiss her, I think I did.
Then things got heavy, Pauline and Jules arrived with the Entonox. I love Entonox. I retreated into my own little world. I stared at the chest of drawers where I could see a little man with a rucksack. He was climbing my chest of drawers, like it was Everest or something. I could hear him puffing and blowing trying to reach the summit. When he got to the top he'd sit there and enjoy the spectacular views. I told my midwives, they chuckled. Pauline suggested it was Russell, an obstetrician I'd worked with. They  got a kick out of that. I aim to please, even in labour I was making them smile, that felt good. I focused on Russell, I knew it was me really, I wasn't totally nuts.
Pat took care of the midwives, made tea, put the champagne in the fridge and then settled himself in behind me. I felt thoroughly loved up, but I wasn't able to show it, I had work to do. Being in labour is like running a marathon, the focus is intense. You are glad of your supporters, but you can't stop to talk to them. You can't sit down on the track and stop or you'd lose the momentum. I was aware of the pain, but I felt like I was gliding above it.
The girls took turns with the camera ( Pauline later used some of the pictures for a talk she gave at a midwives conference on home birth)
Julie is sitting cross legged on the floor with my head in her lap. Andi is sitting ready to catch like a wicket keeper ( Pats words) Pauline is writing in the notes. Pat is holding my hand. I'm silently talking to God " Thank you God, thank you God, thank you God"
I move onto my knees. At 7.15pm my little son glides quietly into the world caught by Andi. She passes him into my arms, a boy, his name is Dominic. I say it aloud "Thank you God".
I can hardly believe 12 years have passed. 12 years so full of delight and blessing. Dominic is sleeping upstairs with his brothers and my heart full to bursting with gratitude. I can't find a new way to say it, so I'll let my words be few,  I'll say it again with feeling " Thank you God"

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I've been tagged by Ruth At ihopeyoudance! How blogtastic! Now I feel as though I've really arrived.Hello Blogworld!
OK, 6 random factoids about moi:

1) I was forty last year, but my wardrobe still has'nt copped on. I still buy in Top Shop. I need help to grow old with dignity without turning into Margaret Thatcher circa 1977.

2) I love music of many genres, but if pressed I would say that Johnny Cash Rules
I said that when I was 17 and I still stand by it today.

3) I like to wrestle, but I fight dirty ( just ask my kids ) I also bite my tongue when I wrestle- its not photogenic.

4)I have a deviated nasal septum and had a bunion operated on when I was 12 but neither of the above mars my true ( inner ) beauty. Nor does it stop me from imagining I'd give Isabella Rosellini a run for her money so I don't need your cheap pity ok?

5) I am a night owl, but I dearly, dearly want to be a lark, tips from early risers welcome.

6) I have interesting ancestors. My maiden name Mulvany means "son of the tonsured (baldie) monk". I come from a long line of clerics, rebels and ( well one ) artist.Whilst I find it all fascinating and delightful I am aware that, compared to theirs, my life is  quiet and unexceptional. Not that I'm complaining, my lifes ambition is for my character to grow in conformity with that of Jesus,and to raise my children according to his will. Its a lofty ambition, but I am depending on His grace.Thank God He is patient!

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My family have been plunged into gloom tonight. At least  two of them have. My husband and son no.2 are devoted Arsenal fans and tonight was set aside, in high spirits for the champions league final ( Arsenal V Barcelona ). A couple of friends turned up with beer ( of course) and all was set fair. I could hear from the roaring ( I was in the kitchen) that things were looking up initially. But any optimism was short lived .In short the Gooners lost. 2:1 to Barcelona.
Do I care? I'd rather watch paint dry. I missed out on the sport loving gene. I just don't get it.

When I was at high school we had to play hockey. Or I say play. I had to turn up in a gym skirt and hold a ridiculous stick. I couldn't in all honesty say I actually played. If any action came near me I ran away from the ball. No way was I letting those grim faced gels near my ankles with their sticks. Pah! have the ball if you want it so much. I care for my bony eminences, ankle hitting hurts!

A few years ago I was invited to go "urban paintballing". It was a corporate team building event and they were 2 short so they invited Noreen and I to make up numbers, they must have been desperate.
It was held in an old victorian warehouse in Kings Cross. It was very dark and dank and "atmospheric".  Lit by the occasional dim, flickering neon light . Shadows everywhere, oil drums ( for "cover") probably spiders and slimy ick, if you could see it, ugh! I am such a girl!
We were split into teams and given a pep talk by our leader. The objective was to capture the enemy flag and also to prevent them from capturing ours.I felt totally ridiculous in my body armour, "military stylie",  but some of them were loving it. The staff, by the way were hilarious, one of them got changed out of his work camo's at the end of the evening to go home, and he emerged from the changing room in his own set of camo's. Clearly a devotee.
During the pep talk I made it clear that I was actually quite/rather/very/extremely scared of getting hit ( I know its not life threatening, but coming home with nasty , black bruises on my thighs is not my idea of a good evening out)  Noreen and I were "detailed" to hang around our flag and shoot anyone who tried to take it. A "low action" post since it didn't require charging round a pitch black warehouse like Rambo.
 Honestly, I was petrified, the atmosphere, and the masks and everything really got to me. We found a little cupboard near the flag ( it was a really weird building) and we decided to squeeze ourselves in there and hide. There was no action for ages. We could hear shouts and bangs, but from our hidey hole we couldn't see anything. We kept peering through the cracks in the wood, our sniper guns poking out. We were the Crack Hiding Squad. We chatted in whispers, it got boring, I got cramp,the adrenaline started to ebb. We were like twins in utero, all knotted up together. Eventually the odd stray "soldier" would approach the flag with caution, seeing no one around they got bold. We waited till they got right up to the flag and then...Bam!... Sorry, its horrid, but war is war. We were actually rather successful cowards but at the end Noreen decided she couldn't take it anymore. She ran out, just like the closing scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. She was brilliant. Then, as I recall, she spoiled it all when she got hit, by running round like a demented ninja and using profane language. I very much doubt that Butch or Sundance did that.
For my part, I stayed put, the whole time. Even when it was all over I came out with my hands up shouting " I'm a girl!  I'm a girl!"  Just incase there were any warriors, like the Japanese, who didn't know the war was over but might draw the line at shooting  a blubbering, quivering, scaredy cat  Doris.
My boys were thrilled at my adventure, they think I have the heart of a lion. But like the lion in the Wizard of Oz, I just misplaced my nerve, added to which, I just don't have any competitive urges.
 I hope that I could rise to a real challenge and be brave, like Gideon, just so long as I didn't feel like a berk in costume playing a make believe game.
“Don't be afraid, because the Lord your God will be with you everywhere you go.” (Joshua 1 v 9)
For a wimp like me, that is the best news.

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Jayfromcleveland ( I can’t do “links” yet- tips please!) wrote this:

“I've always said the USA is the ne'er-do-well-cousin-made-good of the European family. One day we crash the family reunion with a trophy wife and a ring on every finger (so to speak) and our cultured, well-mannered European cousins have no choice but to grudgingly admit that we made out okay in spite of ourselves. But not to worry, "The American Century" is over and we are well on the way to once again becoming a nation of farmers and tinkerers (if not Al Qaida sleeper cells!!!)”

I think he’s spot on.

His comments reminded me of a letter I read recently in a newspaper complaining of a visit to a "quality" restaurant being ruined by the proximity of a group of "chavs" with their crass manners and their designer bling. It seems to me the lower orders are charming so long as they are acting like peasants and enjoying peasant pursuits. Once they get money in their purse and start acting "above" themselves they are mocked and ridiculed.

I detect a similar attitude towards America.

 No country is above reproach, and as the major world super power (for now) America has to expect criticism, deserved or not. I am pretty certain, however, that a lot of carping is borne out of a sneering, snobbish, resentful outrage at America's astonishing success and power.

For my part, I'd rather have a gum chewing Yank bestriding the world with his Stetson and his spurs, like a Cowboy Colossus, than a turbanned mullah who'll have me in my own ready-to-wear tent quicker than you can say "dhimmi".

I think Jays right, the “American century” is over. I think its’ passing is a matter for regret. I think its time we remembered the manners we’re so fond of and said “Thank you”.

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Since I took Gabriel out of school at the beginning of the year I've been slow to work my way around the various home ed groups that meet up around here. My dh was of the opinion that it would be better to find our feet at home first and I think that it was sound advice. Most of our time is spent at home.

Leisure time is spent digging for worms in the garden, doing jigsaws and building marble runs. Lately the bubba has become entranced by watching the washing go round in the machine. This activity can while away a good half hour in silence, punctuated only by the occasional shriek as the water rushes in or drains away, or he spots his “rocket” pyjamas.

When the two older boys come home from high school they all wrestle like fox cubs, doing rugby tackles and throwing each other into the beanbags.

Despite the apparently unanimous agreement (amongst non homeschoolers) on the importance of “socialization” Gabriel has not even once expressed a sense of missing out on that aspect of his old school life. This has taken me by surprise. I thought that of all the elements that make up the school day, play time, despite its hazards, would be the most keenly missed.

Shortly after he left school, I asked him how he felt. He’d had his lunch and was lying on the floor doing a puzzle. I pointed out that his school friends were all, at that time, in the playground. He was indifferent. I probed a little more. “Do you miss the playground?”  Gabriel put down his puzzle piece and gave me one of his speciality goggle eyed “Are you insane in the membrane?” looks. “Muuuummm, the playground was just noise, noise, noise, it gave me a headache”.

So when people enquire as to how I am meeting his need for socialization, I am able to assure them that that box is ticked. We happen to be a very “social” household and have guests in and out throughout the week. They’re just not (necessarily) the same age as Gabriel. And that’s the way (uh huh uh huh) we like it.

That said, I decided last week to investigate a group that meet locally, it’s a bit like a co operative. It was interesting. Most groups have their own “corporate” personality. Judging by the newsletters and photo montages on display ( which I assiduously studied so as not to look too much like the “Billy-no-mates” I  actually was) this groups personality was very, well, “eco-conscious”. There were lots of Greenpeace posters and a petition about GMO crops. There were some jolly looking photos of field trips with lots of people who looked a great deal like Swampy the eco-warrior, I think they were making a yurt in a forest.

I met an American woman, she was very friendly (Americans  mostly are, in my experience) She had long curly hair, like Crystal Tips, and little John Lennon pebble glasses. I felt a little surge of optimism and kinship (well I’m practically American now aren’t I? Since I blog here, and I say “homeschooling” and I know what Tootsie rolls are- thank you Edith!) I asked her about hs in the States.  I opined that it seemed to me that the homeschool movement in the US was considerably more advanced than it is here.  She was lovely, and it was kind of her to spend a bit of time with me, since no one else was finding me nearly as fascinating as I do myself. But she said “ well, yesss, maybe. But it’s actually not all it’s cracked up to be. You see, mostly, the homeschool movement over there is dominated by Christians, so it can be very hard to find like minded people” What could I say? I didn’t want to say “Well, I’m a Christian” It just didn’t seem appropriate disclosure at that point. I just cocked my head to one side, and went “hmm” and looked thoughtful (I think!) and nodded to signal “I hear you”. I was an undercover Christian, cunningly disguised as "A Normal Person" I was a bit hopeless really. What would you have done?

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The Clink prison is located on the banks of the Thames near London Bridge. It is (probably) the oldest prison in England and now houses a museum and a collection of hideous instruments of Tudor torture, it seems the various bishops of Winchester were particularly creative in this respect. Amongst the "touch and feel" display of ball and chain, boot, stocks etc, the curators had seen fit to include a chastity belt , more about that later.
Since the occasion of my friend Laura and her broods visit from China had been met with the customary "surprise" downfall of rain which caught us unprepared as we emerged from Cannon St station, we had to hastily revise our plans for a boat trip on the river.
Like a company of drowned rats, we looked very much the part as we descended into the ancient gloom of the prison. At least it was dry. Although that hadn't always been the case for the unfortunate inmates who often found their bedding awash in sewage when the basement prison flooded.
Whilst Laura and I grew pale surveying the testament to inhumanity at every turn, the children were in very bouyant mood. Merrily, they stuck their heads in the stocks and posed with their head on the block. Despite their pleading I refused to take a photo of my son cheerily  raising an axe to his brothers head. Hate to be a spoilsport, but that is not one I want for my album.
Gabriel, the boy who could put the "fun" in "funeral" got our attention ( and that of all the other visitors)  "mum, MUMMMM! look how they strangled people! This is gross!!" We all turned at once. He was wearing a chasity belt on his head. . Time to go home...
Holidays are great though. We drove out to the beautiful Chilterns and walked the legs off the darling bubba who was delighted to have his first al fresco wee wee. An experience he is longing to repeat.
We went to a St Georges festival  where we were treated to London Pride Morris dancers and a display of jousting by the company who do the horsey stunts for films like Robin Hood Prince of Thieves. Very impressive.
We invited friends over for a seder meal. Brendan ( the 16yo) has been honing his guitar skills and  led a few worship songs. The bubs busied himself dipping all the parsley in salt water and declaring it "yummetty"
Yup, holidays are great. But it was back to business today and Gabriel seems to have forgotten how to add up. He said " I remembered it, but my brain forgot" I know just how he feels.

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