Saturday, December 28, 2013

1985 and 2013

1985 garden          


So, what do these two photos have in common?

Yes, they are both of me... on the left I am 17, on the right I am 45...

I've always been a wanderer. Itchy feet... my dad would say. I like to travel, I like to move abroad and back, I even like to move house every few years whenever I can!

2013 hasn't been the best year from that perspective... every time my kids were off school, I had too much work on to take a holiday and the consequence has been that for the very first time since the first photo was taken here, I have been nowhere. I have not been abroad, I have spent every single night in my own bed - no sleepovers, no nights away, no holidays - how thoroughly depressing. Life's too short to spend an entire year looking out of the same window (at the same rain).

I can't really see how 2014 will be any better either but one thing I can definitely predict is that my feet will become itchier and itchier!

Advocaat

As a child, we spent Hogmanay at my granny's house. I've mentioned the format before. But the one thing I didn't go into was the alcoholic content. Gramps used to drink a little too much (and sing about belonging to Glasgow) and consequently Granny didn't. She certainly didn't believe children should be given alcohol either so every year she'd take out (presumably the same) bottle of Advocaat that she'd bought years before for all the non-drinkers. I think she thought it was liquidized egg, that's what she told me anyway... I doubt she'd ever read it closely enough to see it contained 18% alcohol. She certainly used to present it to me as the non-alcoholic option - a bit like shloer only yellow (and dare I say bloody awful).

Even as a young child of eight or nine, however, I was drawn to all things exotic and this putrid alcohol contained two 'a's side by side and the word 'Dutch' on the label and to me that meant foreign, exciting, and making myself like it became a goal in itself. I'd nurse a glass of the viscous liquid all night willing it to taste better because I was desperate to escape into some dream of foreign wonder. But after my gran died, I gave in and accepted Advocaat wasn't my tall, dark foreign, stranger (I opted to marry several foreign men instead!)


Nearly thirty years have passed since I last tasted Advocaat and then my friend Siobhan asked me last Saturday if I'd like a glass. Straight, it was exactly as I remembered it, in all its vileness... But then she asked if I was insane drinking it neat, she filled my glass with Mexican lime juice and lemonade and presented me with my first taste of a Snowball and I am more than gobsmacked to say, not only did it inspire me to buy my first bottle of Advocaat since I came of age, but I also intend to ring in the bells this year, for the first time since 1983 with a glass of Advocaat in my hand!

Cheers!

Biryani

Curry night by PhylB
Curry night, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.

This popped up from my favourite little happy chef on Boxing day. I must work my way through this list as biryani is my favourite food! (And if you don't follow Sanjay on Facebook, I recommend you should - it is impossible to watch him without ending up with a huge smile on your face - he's such an enthusiastic, happy guy!)

You you've been in publishing too long when...

Mike hat by PhylB
Mike hat, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
you have this type of conversation with your eight year old...

I was in Tesco on Xmas eve and I decided to have a quick look to see if they had a specific novel for Charlotte's birthday (a week after Xmas). The problem was that I was already stressed enough and couldn't remember which novel it was she'd been going on about. Worse still Léon hadn't finished his shopping and was rabbiting on in my ear about what to get Lots for Xmas.

Me: Léon can you shoosh a minute, I'm trying to find Lots a book and I can't remember what it's called.
Léon: What's its name and I'll help you look.
Me: I can't remember, that's the problem.
Léon: What colour is the cover.
Me: Blue I think, dark blue.
Léon (very loudly in the crowd of shoppers) And what font is the title in on the cover??

Boy, did we get some funny looks. Don't all eight year olds ask that? ;-)

Friday, December 27, 2013

I like her logic

Boxing day, 8:09pm, in complete seriousness...

Amaia: Mummy! I've got an idea!
Me: What?
Amaia: Well, I quite liked Christmas so maybe we can do it again tomorrow?!

Chancer!

Thursday, December 26, 2013

3 year old logic

Amaia by PhylB
Amaia, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
Amaia: "Is it a nursery day today?"
Me: "No you're on holiday"
Amaia: "Oh goody, when are we going on the aeroplane?"
Hmmmmmmmm.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Lockerbie

I've never written about Lockerbie but I guess my kids probably want to know how I experienced that just as they asked me once to write down my experience of 9/11.

It was Christmas of 1988 and I was spending it alone in Besançon with my then boyfriend, André. He had decided he didn't fancy a family Christmas so had claimed to his mother that he had too much work to come home for the festive season. I was studying for some uni exams so was home alone in the flat while he was in the office. André and his mother, Annie, had always been afraid of flying, terrified planes weren't safe so every time anything happened to one they dissected the accident in every detail. I was pottering about when the phone rang. I lifted the receiver and said 'allô?' Annie sounded terribly distressed and said just one word 'Dumfries' in a her strong German accent. I didn't catch what she meant. I was, of course, assuming she was speaking either French or German to me (as she had no English at all) but she repeated the word 'Dumfries' over and over, half panicking, half crying. She hung up, I turned on the news and was surprised to hear TF1 discussing Lockerbie. These days Lockerbie would probably have meant very little to me as I fly everywhere but 1988 was pre-RYANAIR so as a student I couldn't afford to fly. I used to go by Eurolines coach to France all the time and the last night stop before Glasgow was Lockerbie, so I'd passed through often.

Over the next few days accidents were ruled out and terrorism in but it was more a news story than anything else... a news story about my country, but not really something tangible. Of course I calculated quickly how few more minutes the plane would have needed to fly to hit greater Glasgow and that was quite terrifying. I watched and felt the world had changed a little, for the worse.

A week later I was coming home. I had a seat by the window on the coach and was staring out at the world as it changed from France, to England, from London to countryside and finally across the border. Thirty-five hours into my trip the bare, treeless hills loomed up covered in sheep - finally I was nearly home. I had crossed the border into Scotland. No one had prepared me for what I was about to see and I cannot begin to imagine what it had looked like a week earlier. Very suddenly, without warning a deep lozenge-shaped pit, we've all seen the photo, was just there beside the road, the houses looked as if I was in a war zone, smoke was still rising from the plane-shaped pit. (The third photo shows the road our bus drove along). The bus passengers gasped but didn't speak. It was so close to me I could almost touch it. The bus was made to slow down and file past the hole by police, who seemed to be everywhere. News suddenly became reality. That day the horror of what had happened finally hit me and still today I can see it, smell it as if it was twenty-five years ago. I lost a bit of my youth and innocence that day.

To this day I cannot imagine why it came as such a surprise to me. I knew my bus went through Lockerbie and I had seen the photos on TV in France. Why was I so unprepared? It just didn't seem real till then. I still can't look at that specific photo without feeling that sharp intake of breath that had hit me back in December of 1988.

10 mins old

10 mins old by PhylB
10 mins old, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
Surreal conversation of the morning:
Amaia: Who's that baby?
Me: You.
Amaia: What number was I when I was born?
Me: What?
Amaia: Was I 3?
Me: No, you were zero.
Amaia: Ok. And was I a boy or a girl when I was a baby?!
Me: A girl.
Amaia: Well I don't look like a girl!

Why we find even Italy expensive...

I came across this map the other day and it started to explain something I had been wondering ever since we started visiting Thomas's parents both in Denmark and then latterly in Italy...

I know Danes earn much more than we do so it was never a great surprise that the Danish supermarkets felt a bit pricey on my meagre UK income. But we have all known since the 80s and early 90s that Italy was a great cheap destination for Brits and Danes alike. I still remember lira notes that were worth less than 50p when I lived in Perugia in the 80s. So finding this helped me finally understand that although Italy might feel like a delight to my Danish relatives, to us poor UK earners it is no longer the financial paradise of my youth!

I am always amazed how expensive I feel visiting Tuscany is. The petrol is dearer, the food shopping feels extortionate. I rarely find a full trolley in Tesco, Silverburn costs me more than £120, whereas Coop in Bibbiena can easily fit £200 + in a smaller trolley. But if you look at the price level indices above, it can be explained in several ways. Italy's average is 111, but of course Tuscany is one of Italy's most affluent areas, so to reach a national average of 111, I guess Tuscany must be well in excess of that, at least in the 120-140 bracket. The UK's average is 104, but London is our affluent area and is drastically more expensive than Glasgow so for the UK as a whole to be 104, Glasgow must be in the 80-100 bracket or even lower. 

On top of that we, as a family have two other major issues. Given there are seven of us, we rarely shop for our main items in Tesco or ASDA, we bulk buy our meat, cheese, stock, coffee, butter, rice, pasta, mayonnaise etc in Makro, so get them all at trade prices. In Italy we can't bulk buy anything as we don't have the storage facilities to do so, so things cost almost double in real terms. 

Finally, and perhaps sadly most significantly, we are self-employed, and that means we have no paid holidays. So where most people relax with their feet up earning their annual, well-deserved break, we see every day of every holiday (here or abroad) as a huge financial loss which is unfortunately not offset by a decrease in mortgage, and other living costs during this period. In the old days, freelance staff could command a salary of 20% more to offset this, but those days are now gone. We're more likely to be given a paycut as an incentive to get work than a pay increase.  With little visibility too, a holiday can only be booked at the last minute, making it almost impossible to coordinate. If things don't improve, I find it hard to imagine our kids seeing much of the world, or even the Scottish coast. It is hard to believe that just eight years ago flying to New York for a long weekend was a normal thing for me to do!

Having checked out the map above, it looks to me like we are going to have to beg all our family and friends abroad to consider annual meet-ups in the likes of Poland in future unless something happens to improve either our earnings, or our unpaid holiday status.




Friday, December 20, 2013

And while I'm ranting anyway

Léon and I at Xmas by PhylB
Léon and I at Xmas, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
I know I don't usually moan about living in this affluent area - we moved here for the schools and ours has just come in the top three in Scotland again so it is all worth it, but you know what really pisses me off here...?

I've long since given up trying to compete with the kids' classmates presents. This year's norm seems to be a new games console - either the new PS4 or the Wii something or other, of course with that you need a game or two of course, and a few lego figures, maybe an iPad to go...

Unfortunately two self-employed people, five kids and an awol ex don't really qualify for that lifestyle so we make Christmas about family and making biscuits together, reading together, hugging in front of a movie and so on. Gifts don't need to cost much, it's the thought that counts... But when you've bought each of your kids (as their main present, not their stocking filler) a DVD of a recent movie, for the very reason that you couldn't contemplate the £50 it would have cost to see when it came out a few months ago in the cinema, then it really seriously pisses you off that on the last day of school, their classmates (who've simply received the DVD as a normal every day request from Asda as soon as it came out) bring it in for last day of term entertainment. Suddenly two of my kids' major surprises for next week have just been shown to them today because everyone's already seen that of course... Except they bloody haven't!

Ok, rant over - I'm just feeling a bit sorry for my babies! Just as well kids don't mind seeing DVDs more than once.

Next year I'll keep them home on the last day so they can get their Christmas movie as a surprise rather than just a re-run :-(

Wishing me a stressful Christmas?

my kitchen window by PhylB
my kitchen window, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.

Is December 20th the hardest day of the year for those of us who are self-employed?

I remember well my years employed in other people's companies. By December 15th, you were starting to wind down, you'd the office party to look forward to, and projects to dust off... In publishing there were many projects passing for press up to Christmas Eve. You'd often spend that afternoon eating mince pies, and chatting getting ready for a very well-deserved holiday and if you were lucky the boss would let you away half an hour early. Working in a multinational department, you'd spent the couple of weeks before that waving off friends who were flying home to France, Spain, Greece, Germany or wherever for the holidays. You felt their anticipation and the atmosphere was great, if manic.

Something you don't think enough about before you opt to freelance, or run your own business is the truly hideous concept of 'unpaid holidays'. It is not that I don't need a holiday. I have worked almost every day since February, including most weekend days, so I bloody need a holiday. But as I watch my dozens of facebook friends today at their office parties, their drinks session or count down to the long drive home, no one seems to have a depressing status saying something along the lines of: No chance of any freelance work for the next two weeks, everyone's on paid leave, so trying to make ends meet in the most expensive month of the year with half my normal monthly income. I guess that just wouldn't be in the Christmas spirit. And of course, the knock-on effect of that is that you are half a month down on salary when you start 2014 so you spend it playing catch-up from day one! Stress! At least during summer there's still hope, but please excuse me if I find Christmas a tad more stressful than I used to...

New boiler

When we moved into this house six years ago there was a fairly inadequate heating system. It always seemed very much as if someone had installed a boiler and then added the two extensions, thus doubling the size of the house, and halving the efficiency of the heating.

Over the last nine months the radiators have got colder and colder so we finally decided to replace the boiler. The new one was installed on Tuesday. We wondered if it would be noticeably better but within ten minutes of it being switched on it was obviously better. Improvements include actually needing to put cold water in the bath when you run it - that's not been necessary for years. The radiators are almost burning to the touch too, instead of just seemingly being filled with tepid water.

But I'll give Rosie the last word. Has it passed the hamster test? For the eight months Rosie has lived with us she has buried herself at the bottom of a sawdust tunnel every time she has fancied a sleep. But since Wednesday morning - well she's taken to sleeping on top of her sawdust. I assume it is a bit like when I sleep under a duvet in Scotland but swap it for a light sheet on a Mediterranean holiday!

Thumbs up for the new boiler!


Tuesday, December 17, 2013

A worry

'Decorationing' the Xmas tree by PhylB
'Decorationing' the Xmas tree, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
I love the way small children's minds work sometimes...

Léon knows there's no Santa. We have always done 'European Xmas' in this house - presents on the night of the 24th from relatives so Santa doesn't come during the night.

Now he's in primary 4, a good number of the kids are now also in the know. To be honest, thinking back to when the other two were that small, I am very surprised anyone still believes at that age, but there you go...

So today we were driving to school when Léon got into a tizzy. I asked what was worrying him and he said that it had just occurred to him that some parents might never actually get round to telling their kids about the Santa myth and what would happen to their kids in turn if they didn't realize there was no Santa, because that would result in no one bringing them any presents!

I did try to explain there's usually quite a gap between believing in Santa and becoming a parent - well in this particular suburb of Glasgow anyway!

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Quote of the day...

Fun in the snow by PhylB
Fun in the snow, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.

Quote of the day from Amaia (3): My sister has long, long, long hair but my daddy, he's just got pricks on his head!

Amaia

Amaia by PhylB
Amaia, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
From the minute I worked out Amaia's due date back at Easter 2009 I knew this day would come.

This morning the nursery issued us with the form offering us an extra year because sending her to school next summer would make her one of the youngest in her year.

The way the Scottish education system works is as follows: let's take next summer's intake as an example. All children who will turn 5 between 1/3/14 and 28/2/15 should start school in the August of 2014. Children whose 5th birthdays fall between 1/1/15 and 28/2/15 are offered an automatic right to defer school entrance so as to become the oldest starters of the summer of 2015, rather than the youngest of 2014, if their parents so desire.

We didn't have this issue with Anna two years ago as she missed the deferral cut-off by 12 days. So she went to school at the age of four and is more than coping psychologically, socially and academically. She's an outgoing, confident little girl and doesn't let her age stand in her way. Still I wish she could have been older when she went. Amaia is a quieter one though. She's more introvert, less self-assured. She very much reminds me of her sister Charlotte who I deferred back in 2004. At the time those who had chosen not to defer often commented that their child was clever enough to start at 4. I learned to let that wash over me because I wasn't deferring Lots for academic reasons - she already wrote all her own Christmas cards at the age of three and could quickly calculate but she didn't like stepping onto the stage and singing, in the playground she was not confident enough to seek out friends and often sat quietly hoping they would come to her. At the time I thought Charlotte would benefit hugely from not having to be the baby of the class over and above being quiet and introvert. I also reasoned that the highest achievers of our European neighbours are not those who start at 4 but rather those who start at 6 or even 7. I was also pushed in that direction by having been a February baby myself, in the days before deferral was introduced. I had all my vaccinations a year later than my classmates, I sat my uni entrance exams at 16, I couldn't go to university social events till six months after I started as I was just 17. I was sent to teach in France at 19, just a year older than the students. All in all I had a huge chip on my shoulder about being the youngest at school. Of course, it didn't affect me academically but I still lacked confidence because of it and didn't fully come out of my shell till long after my teens. Of course as deferral didn't exist back then, I did not hold any grudge against my parents at least!

As time has gone by I have found further benefits to having deferred Charlotte. As far as I can see 15 is the new 17. Marcel and his classmates were exposed to drink, drugs, sex and peer pressure by about third year at high school. By deferring her, she is now hitting that age more able to cope with it from a maturity perspective, and furthermore, with no chip on her shoulder and nothing to prove.

When I knew this decision was coming I, of course, discussed it at length with Thomas but I also discussed it separately with both Marcel and Lots herself to get their input. Marcel immediately suggested we defer so she had nothing to prove. The older ones in my year tend to lead, the younger ones prefer to follow, he advised. I asked Charlotte if she felt any regrets given one downside was that she had been first in her year to reach puberty and was not comfortable with that at all at the time. To my surprise she actually said that she'd have found coping with puberty even harder if she'd had all the hang-ups about age too. She thanked me openly for making what she decided was the right decision for her. As she pointed out, she has to choose the subjects she's taking on to 4th year in just eight weeks - she'd have felt even less ready to do that a year ago than she does now.

As I said, with some kids, especially the socially extrovert, calm ones who are very much at ease with themselves, it might not be wrong to send them but I think both Lots and Amaia have the type of personality that definitely won't have anything to lose by being a little older when they have to make life's more important decisions. Even Léon, who turned 5 after the first 2 months of p1 would have coped better emotionally, had he been able to start a year later. He was so young at first that although he was as bright as a button, he just wasn't all that interested in formal learning when he could have been charging round the playground in a dinosaur costume! I really don't think we'll hear any complaints. I'm 12 years into schooling from a parental perspective and have yet to meet anyone who has told me they wish they hadn't deferred their child. The same is not true of the opposite. Given I work from home and am therefore not financially constrained to send her to school, although it would of course make my life logistically much easier, I cannot justify to myself not offering her an extra year of childhood before formal education starts to take her from us. So we signed the paperwork today, to keep our little girl another year. Five and a half is a better age...

Toy hamster

toy hamster by PhylB
toy hamster, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
Thomas doesn't buy the kids an advent calendar, he makes up 24 little gifts of his own, wrapped in napkins every year. Some days they get sweets, others, toys. Yesterday Anna and Amaia each received a toy hamster.

Mid-morning, I went to the loo and found someone had put quite a lot of paper, which looked unused, into it. I also noticed there was no loo roll on the holder. I then walked into the living room in time to see Amaia making her toy hamster (which has a ball underneath) roll back and forwards through an empty toilet roll tube middle. I think she remembers how Rosie used to do this as a baby so acquired one for 'Butter Cheeks' her own way!

Schneck

Ah Sunday by PhylB
Ah Sunday, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.

In the part of France I (used to) come from, these are not 'pains aux raisins', as they are everywhere else, they are 'Schneck' (not Schnecken, I hasten to add - that wouldn't be good Frallemand!)

So with that backdrop in mind, we had this cute conversation in the car yesterday. Marcel came in from school with a letter inviting all the advanced Higher French class pupils to a frogs' legs and snails lunch in Glasgow for Xmas. He remembered tasting frogs' legs in Paris when he was eight, but was unsure as to whether he'd ever had snails. Lots remembered the same from when she was six. Léon asked if he had tasted frogs' legs then too. As he was about six months old at the time, I was sure he hadn't and pointed that out. 'Oh but I've definitely had snails, though' he replied. That would surprise me but he did go to France a few times to see his grandmother after I split up with he who shall not be named, so maybe he was right. I asked what he'd had them with, expecting the answer 'garlic' so was gobsmacked when he came back with 'croissants and pains au chocolat!' I guess, despite not being much of a German speaker he understood the word 'Schneck' after all!

I might add when I explained I actually meant the slugs with shells, he was somewhat dubious as to their edible quality!

Sunday, December 08, 2013

That wonderful way only little people can sleep...

I have photos of all of them doing that at some stage in early childhood - it is so sweet. And once they are fully grown like Charlotte and Marcel, through my photos I can look back and cherish the toddlers they once were.

Friday, December 06, 2013

Nelson Mandela



"...But Gregory escorted her around the door and before either of us knew it, we were in the same room and in each other's arms. I kissed and held my wife for the first time in all these many years. It was a moment I had dreamed about a thousand times. It was as I were still dreaming. I held her to me for what seemed like an eternity. We were still an silent except for the sound of our hearts. I did not want to let go of her at all, but I broke free and embraced my daughter and then took her child into my lap. It had been twenty-one years since I had even touched my wife's hand."

I was was about 26 when I read A Long Walk to Freedom. At 26 I could not begin to imagine being deprived of human touch and tenderness for 21 years. I think the simplicity with which he wrote that phrase blew me away and it was the first line I remembered nearly twenty years on when news of his death broke last night.

Over and above that, I don't think there's much I can humbly add to what has already been said today, except to mention my pride as a Glaswegian in the little part we played, renaming the address of the South African consulate to Nelson Mandela Place, long before that was the accepted thing to do, our awarding him the Freedom of our city and my own university's election of his then wife as rector, to put pressure on their regime.

Thursday, December 05, 2013

Nursery update

Hazeldene came very close to having to change its motif this morning...



Hazeldene has always used the tree across from its main building as its emblem. This morning, after the chaos at the primary, I checked carefully that neither the Hazeldene tree, nor the other large tree to its left was moving before parking there for five minutes and dropping Amaia off at 9am. At 12 when Thomas and I went to pick her up however we were shocked to see the morning's events.






Nursery is now closed until this can be removed from the parking area. But it seems no one was hurt in the chaos despite it happening when nursery was open and full of kids.

Looks like the council made more than one bad call this morning.

Another mini hurricane



It's been a blustery night... 
I could tell from the fact that the wind woke me up every hour that things weren't completely normal out there. I got the little ones up at 7-45 and told everyone that I'd take them to school this morning. Normally Marcel and Lots get the bus but I figured if they'd to walk the 15 minutes up to school from the bus stop they'd be soaked through for the whole day. 

Marcel had done his paper round as usual. Today would have been a good morning to hand out his Xmas cards to his customers I think - no one would have dared not to give him a Xmas bonus as he was (despite being nearly 6 foot tall and carrying a bag with thirty odd newspapers in it) blown from the pavement out onto the road several times, not to mention he spent more than an hour dodging flying debris in the dark.
Marcel told us how bad things were so we checked two Twitter/Facebook feeds - East Renfrewshire Council's which informed us all schools were operating normally, and the local Police who were advising people to leave the roads free for essential travel only! Ho hum.

So we all set out at 8-25. The high school is seven minutes away and they need to be there at 8-45. The first obstacle was on Crookfur road. Where they have recently torn down the pensioners' houses an old tree had fallen over and was blocking three quarters of the road.






The large chunks were on the right of the road but the left was blocked by the top of the tree so cars took turns driving up on the pavement to pass it by. This added ten minutes onto our journey. Things were calm from there on until we reached Waterfoot road where the high school is situated on top on an exposed hill. Our car - a seven seater people carrier with six people inside was lifted noticeably off the the ground and shaken from side to side. Lamp posts swayed and I could see the old tree in the farm had been blown over and destroyed but fortunately it was lying on the field rather than the road (I'll take a photo later). 
 At this point we got to drop off and Charlotte had no problems getting out (the C8 has sliding doors in the back) but Marcel actually couldn't open the front door and when he did it blew back and hit his head. 

From there we drove to the primary and things seemed calmer as we left the exposed hill. But the photo above is the infant school entrance! I heard parents discussing that this had 'just happened' but I wasn't there so don't know if anyone was trying to walk down the path when it blew over. People do like a drama.

From there I went to nursery where two trees were damaged in the garden adjacent to the nursery building.











Now, anyone who knows me knows I am not a health and safety parent. The primary ban on kids sitting on the school wall or running about on the grassy embankment drives me mad. I fully believe they should be out throwing snowballs in the snow and not stuck bored in classrooms looking out at it. I let them climb trees, cook, use sharp knives etc but I do believe the council made the wrong call this morning. Things are calmer now and kids could easily have been told to stay home until the worst of the storm was over and then come in. But I drop my kids every morning a street from school and let them walk in alone. I give them that independence to help them grow and I do not expect them to be crushed to death by a tree on the way in. If this happened, it was clearly not safe this morning.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Marcel's trip and charity work

I know this will come as a shock to the many of you who probably, like me, think Marcel is still wee and cute and cuddly - I did only have him, like yesterday, after all... but the thing is he's going off to India to work in a deprived community after his Highers next year and is fund-raising and working to pay his way. Every weekday morning he works from 6-7am and on weekends from 5-30am to 9 to pay his way. He's baking, arranging pay-to-watch football tournaments at school and doing this sponsored 10K too to reach his full target of £2300. So far he's managed to earn £800 himself, so I hope a few people might encourage him with a little sponsorship, if you can. Thanks from a proud mummy xxx

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Denmark's designer chair culture

I didn't really discover the finer nuances of Scandinavian culture till my late thirties. I had my preconceived notions of course but it wasn't till I had family there and therefore entered their houses that I started to observe all the things that stand out as different.

One of the main things that strikes a foreigner in Denmark is seating. Scotland, on the whole, for all of my childhood was mainly a three piece suite kind of country. Later people got daring and bought two couches occasionally or even a corner couch but that was about as exotic as it got. Denmark is full of very minimalist seating. Armchairs are tall, short, oddly shaped and elegant but often, in my humble, foreign opinion, rather uncomfortable! :-) Houses I've been in have an odd assortment of these (extremely) expensive curvy seats.

I've been watching Borgen a lot recently. I started to notice something else that struck me as very foreign. Although I often work for Danish companies, I work remotely, so am not actually in their offices. I started to notice that every time Torben calls a meeting with his staff, which isn't terribly different from a publishing office in the UK, they all start to discuss everything on the agenda, standing around a tall table, with no seats a bit like they were in a German sausage bar! Furthermore, when we see scenes from Katrine's TV news programme in the first series or those from Juul og Friis in the second, the panel are always standing rather than sitting.

Now, it struck me, that that would be quite daunting for me, were I to be living in Denmark. You see, from my experience of travelling around Copenhagen, I would potentially be dwarfed by all my workmates. I would certainly find it intimidating to try commanding a team from a foot below it!

So is everyone in Denmark the same height? And why aren't they using all their fancy seats? Are they perhaps merely ornamental? ;-)

If I do ever get invited over for a meeting, I might just take my IKEA BEKVÄM with me, in case I need it to stand on!

Scandinavia, where they are racing to the top instead of the bottom.

If you missed this last night, it is well worth a watch.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Léon with wild hair

Léon with wild hair by viralbus
Léon with wild hair, a photo by viralbus on Flickr.

Léon has the most amazing hair. I think if it gets much longer we might actually be able to spray it orange and turn him into a lion!

Marcel and Amaia

  by marcelbuchanan10
, a photo by marcelbuchanan10 on Flickr.

I know I've said it before but when you find the two of them (number one and number five) playing together in her room, you realize what a special relationship siblings can have even when they span childhood in its entirety. Even thirteen and a half years isn't too big a gap when love is this big. He lets himself play the child he no longer is for her and that is lovely to see. I think they'll always have a special bond.

Equal marriage

The topic of women's suffrage has come up over dinner on several occasions recently as both my older kids are studying various aspects of the world women's suffrage movement in history at the moment. At just 16 and 13 it is completely inconceivable to them that women were ever denied equal rights. It just seems ludicrous to them.

I hope one day when they are sitting with their own children at dinner, that generation will be both shocked and surprised that in the 21st century people used to be denied the right to marry simply because of their gender. The time for that is long over. I'm ecstatically happily married to my best friend and can't believe anyone should be denied that right simply based on the bigotry of others.

Monday, November 18, 2013

More on the cone.

Just saw this on Facebook - it's well worth a share to start this Monday morning ;-) I just love weegie humour.



(Apparently his horse was called Copenhagen!)

Parental empowerment

Tuscany 2012 by PhylB
Tuscany 2012, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
I'm not sure if it is the sheer size of my family that has changed the way I approach life compared to many of the people around me... (some don't realize that when you have five kids, you still only have the same two incomes you had when you had none, to pay for everything, including the five extra bedrooms). Or perhaps it is the instability of the current economic climate, especially given I own my own business. But sometimes when I look at the positives, rather than the stresses this lifestyle affords me I have to conclude that it can even be empowering...

I used to play the game... the middle-class game of providing my children with all-class parties, of attending all the mums' dinner nights, even when I was too busy, too tired or too skint. I paid for the obligatory swimming lessons at a fiver a go, the summer clubs, the badminton, the martial arts, the football and all the rest. Childhood was regimented instead of wild like in my day.

But now I couldn't go to five sets of mums' dinners even if I wanted to - I'd be out all of December for a start and two stone heavier at the end of it, so I can choose not to! I can take back my childrens' birthdays and have a few kids to my house, ones they actually want to play with, rather than lining the pockets of the local softplay and having my kid ask me at the end of the day whose party they had just been to, lost in the circus of it all. I have been spurred on by their overpriced swimming lessons, to get into my own swimsuit and actually get in the water, as my father did before me and, with Thomas, teach Léon and Anna to swim all by ourselves. You feel a sense of achievement, and dare I say empowerment, taking back your life to the individual level once more. I know society doesn't expect parents to go swimming with their kids any more. Everything conspires against it - the crazy permitted ratios of adults to kids in public pools - it is only now that Léon is 8 that we can take all three wee ones together. And when Léon tried to get his swimming badge at Beavers last year the leader said he needed to bring in 'a letter from his swimming teacher' to prove he could swim. When he pointed out he had learned without lessons - in the river on holiday, they scratched their heads and weren't sure that counted! But shouldn't that count more? Passing on your knowledge and skills to your child rather than delegating them to someone else is definite a recession positive I have learned to cherish.

(Oh, and if you are wondering what inspired this - Anna learned to swim under water today using only her pretty pink goggles - she was very pleased with herself! But of course, you're not allowed to take photos in public pools either, grrr, so you'll need to wait till she's next at the seaside for photographic proof!)

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Switzerland and Children in Need

I was reading about the Swiss vote on pay in the Financial Times last week. We have been hearing since the 80s that the rich are getting richer. I certainly know from my own situation and that of many of my friends and acquaintances that the once comfortable middle class (for want of a better word) are finding it harder and harder with time. But nothing has shown me quite how stark that gap has become than, surprisingly, Children in Need.

Anyone who follows my blog knows I am not Pudsey's greatest fan. It's not charity I have an issue with, but being told when to give and the minimum acceptable sum to give to. For example this week has been Pudsey mad once again - all money in the country apparently has to go to Children in Need. Much as I appreciate how much better and more fun they make some kids' lives, this week I would much rather donate the pounds the various schools, shops, afterschool clubs, radio, TV etc are trying to get out of me to the orphans and the starving in the Philippines, for starters. I can think of at least half a dozen causes I would prefer to support, but that is apparently not acceptable.

Anyway back to the point... I listen to Chris Evans on the school run most days and this week he's been auctioning stuff - the kind of things money can't buy - there was a five day golf tour with some well-known celebs, the hiring of a dozen or so vintage Ferraris for five days, a five course meal prepared by world-renowned chefs while some well-known pop stars entertain you and finally a five day Monaco Grand Prix thing. Given I only spend a total of about 18 minutes in the car going round all my drop-offs I missed some of the more pertinent points of the packages but those are the bare bones anyway. These packages on auction, of course, can only be bought by the richest in the land (or perhaps even corporate buyers) but for the most part they seemed to be going to individuals.

So let's put the proposed Swiss model to the test. The best paid in the country ought to earn no more than twelve times the worst off. The UK national minimum wage is currently £6.31. That's about £12K before tax if you work a 35 hour week. So let's imagine a couple on minimum wage earns £24K. If you are a couple on that income you might be willing to spend one month's salary on your summer holiday if you have no dependants or debts, so let's say £2K. Given these prizes are not something you could ever hope to buy in a life time you might just try to stretch to £3K and forego next year's holiday. Of course these packages are not aimed at Mr and Mrs Minimum wage, they are aimed at the top earners. So on the Swiss scale the top execs should be bidding somewhere in the region of £24K or even stretching to £36K for the privilege of partaking in this treat, but no, the bids on Radio 2 this morning, all in the space of half an hour (so with no time to organize a bank loan or rob a bank) were around £225K which suggests to me that the current UK gap between rich and poor is not in fact 12 times salary but 120 times salary. Whether you think the Swiss model is ideal, or could even be argued up or down to say 15 times or 8 times minimum working wage, I find it hard to stomach that some people earn 120 times more than others. In the current climate people who have spent years studying at university are working day and night, skimming along on close to minimum wage while others, oblivious, are bidding around the average house price (which some of us work for 25 years to pay) for a five course meal for two. Much as it is nice for the charity to gain some of their obviously superfluous cash, it really is a sick society that allows a gulf that large.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Danish

Copenhagen by PhylB
Copenhagen, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.

I'm feeling a tad frustrated on the Danish front... 

When Thomas and I first got together we visited Denmark several times a year and saw his parents often. That meant I was often immersed in a Danish-speaking environment and it seemed only natural that I would eventually be as fluent in it as I am in French. 

There have been several hurdles however. Changes to our financial circumstances since the big crash in 2007, coinciding with Thomas's parents getting rid of their large manse in Denmark have meant that we rarely go there now as meeting them in Italy, where they have a house makes more sense than meeting them in Denmark in a one bedroom flat. When a trip to Denmark is called-for it usually makes more sense for Thomas to go alone as seven flights are dear and there is nowhere we can stay. While good friends and family could, at a pinch, be asked to find floor space for us all for one or two nights, the cost of seven flights makes such a short stay completely unviable. Often in the old days we would take the opportunity to visit Denmark whenever the three biggies visited their gran in France. Many people are perhaps not aware that I now have full custody of the three older kids and they no longer visit their father or grandmother, so we are now always a package of seven, for better, or for worse. So I don't ever find myself in a Danish-speaking country. I was last there nearly four years ago.

We've also been seeing fewer Danes here. I guess at first they were curious but I can't remember the last time someone other than family was over. Maybe we overwhelm with our numbers! We have a large family and so does Thomas's sister so sadly a long weekend every couple of years is about the extent of our socializing with them. It is sad that the cousins have little opportunity to get to know each other. Thomas's parents seem to dropping by less often too. This year we had on so much work in the company during the school break, and we are tied to that for any trips we make, that we were unable to visit any of them so I think my all-Danish immersion periods this year can't number much more than about 10-12 days.

We have managed to watch two series of Borgen and all of Matador (without subtitles I hasten to add!) and I have done quite a bit of translation work for Syddansk Universitet. And of course all Thomas's conversations with the three youngest kids take place in Danish too but the level of language isn't exactly challenging and the topics seldom vary! I could expertly tell Léon to sit on his bum while he's eating, or remember to use his knife but I'm not sure those skills are overly transferable on the social front! The problem is that none of these pastimes are active, they all involve passive use of the language - listening to it, reading it, translating it and so I feel my ability to converse, interact and write Danish are all stagnating horribly. It is terribly frustrating. I am often commissioned for translation work by email. I receive and instantly understand what I am being asked to do but I feel I can't reply as I have never learned to write grammatically correct Danish so replying in Danish would frighten people off but explaining that I am competent enough to translate a series of children's books from Danish to English (one of the things I have done this year) but not capable of replying to their email correctly is a hard one!

I have a feeling that if I spent a year in Denmark or Thomas's parents spent six months in Scotland I could get somewhere but as it is I am probably destined to feel forever tongue-tied in a language I understand almost fully. I could try switching to Danish while talking to Thomas himself but our discussions are too deep and fast moving for me to keep up on anything other than the mundane. I'll probably be a grumpy pensioner one day, being laughed at by my own children for my eccentric and incomprehensible pronunciations... oh wait a minute I already am!

Lone man in the woods

Greenbank gardens by PhylB
Greenbank gardens, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.

I quite like this photo I took yesterday. Thomas was standing in the morning sun across the water from me looking very mysterious so I snapped him before he could move! I love the way the blue sky that you can't see reveals itself hiding in the water...

Monday, November 11, 2013

Sunlight

A trip to the park by PhylB
A trip to the park, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.

I took this photo of Charlotte in the park yesterday. She turned to look at me half in the shade of a tree and as I took the photo I noticed the strange effect the sunlight had on her eyes. One pupil was in the shade, the other in very strong, low sunlight. It's quite spooky really.

In'cone'ceivable


Glasgow Gallery of Modern Art by PhylB
Glasgow Gallery of Modern Art, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
There I was going about my daily business when this story jumped off Facebook's page at me. I had to sit down from shock! Once I'd gathered my thoughts I had to marvel at the logic of GCH paying £200 a week to send someone up to take it off when every week for 30 years (plus) it has reappeared. Everyone who has studied in this great city knows that someone in the pub/union on a Friday night will always get merry enough to suggest a trip to the Wellington, so this is the most colossal waste of money imaginable. Moreover whoever got them to agree to £100 a pop is definitely a shrewd business person (has no one in the council ever looked at it?) - I know for sure that I could easily pop it off with my extendable window-washing mop (it reaches to top floor of my house from the garden so why, if they are so hell-bent on removing it twice a week, is the street cleaner for Queen street not simply given one of these poles? - they cost a tenner in B&Q)! (Otherwise Complexli Ltd would be happy to put in a lower bid for the contract!) Furthermore, they are going to use £65K during the worst financial downturn in 100 years to raise the plinth by less than a metre! This, my dear council members, is not a deterrent, it's a bloody challenge! No matter how high the plinth gets, Wellington will always have a cone on his head. If you put him in a perspex cage some witty chap will superglue a cone to the top of it. If you take him away someone will put a cone on the very apex of the GoMA itself! And finally, one thing is sure, after it was revealed that an Edinburger was at the heart of the campaign for its removal, old city rivalries were stoked to the point where all I can say is: they may take our lives, but they'll never take... OUR CONE!

PS I can thoroughly recommend following this on Twitter as it unfolds - we are awash with true Glasgow humour from WellingtonCone to everything #conegate! Loving it...

PPS Here's a useful petition!

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Amaia's first selfie

Amaia's first selfie by PhylB
Amaia's first selfie, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
I love the way kids as young as two or three are already so competent with technology. No sooner had I left my phone down on my bed this morning to have my coffee, than Amaia had turned it on, bypassing the lock, chosen the camera, reversed it to selfie mode and had taken a shot of herself!

And of course, not to be outdone, it was then Léon's turn to fill my entire memory space with silly faces!







Saturday, November 09, 2013

... That feeling of guilt you get when you microwave a cuddly toy...

So it's -2 and our heating has packed in (thanks boiler!) We're scurrying around the house looking for things to warm us up. Two, three, four and five have been dispatched to bed in onesies with a hot water bottle/lavender and wheat microwavable bed warmer toy and I have finally given in and become the last member of the family to buy a onesie. I am seriously hoping an undiscovered volcano doesn't erupt nearby in Pompeii fashion and engulf us in this state forever - my husband in a Santa onesie, me in a giraffe one. How would future generations analyse that?
I'm looking forward to British Gas turning up tomorrow morning as promised and hopefully fixing the heating in time to wash the kids for school on Monday.

Pies


I was out last month for lunch with two of my old uni friends in the West End. The waiter in the café mentioned that their special of the day was chicken and chorizo pie. Now, I'm not chorizo's biggest fan, simply I guess because I am not a great sausage eater but I was lost in conversation and it was a bit dark so I was finding the menu hard to concentrate on and simply agreed to a pie. When it came, I have to say it was a taste sensation. Suddenly I remembered what a big pie fan I am. The funny thing is, I never make pies. I don't have a pie cookbook and wouldn't know where to begin. I think I might make 2014 my year of the pie. I just have to find a good recipe book first.

Thursday, November 07, 2013

Autumn ferns

Autumn ferns by PhylB
Autumn ferns, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
I've always had a bit of a thing about ferns. My granny had a fern in her garden when I was a child and I used to sit and watch, fascinated, as it uncurled and reached out its arms. It seemed almost animal-like rather than plant-like to me.

I think if I'd a big garden, like the one in the house where Thomas grew up, I'd have my own wee corner of ferns that I could watch and photograph all spring, summer and autumn.

Wednesday, November 06, 2013

A new word for my next dictionary?


The homework instruction read 'Read your words, cover them and write them out three times from memory, without looking'. I think I might be tempted to add 'Pay attention and focus' onto the end... ;-)

Monday, November 04, 2013

Granda

68gramps granda

I was born with three grandparents. (The untimely death of my grandmother, five days before my birth, changed my name (from Linda to Phyllis) and my relationship to my grandparents forever. Let's take Willie first.



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Willie was a school janitor and lived in the little building attached to the front of this school in Govanhill until 1981.

(Don't you love the way Google Maps can take you down memory lane without you ever having to leave your bedroom!?)

I don't know if Phyllis, my dead grandmother, lived here too or if he moved into it after her death but it is the first place I remember him living. It was situated exactly six miles from the house I grew up in. We visited him here probably twice a year. He also later had a 'girlfriend' who lived in Burnside so we would go there once a year too. In addition, he would drop by our house once or twice a year. So all in all we would probably see him six times a year for an afternoon.Visits were not planned and when we turned up unannounced he would make us a cup of tea and he'd chat to my parents for an hour or two. I don't remember Granda ever playing with me or taking me away on a day trip, despite his relatively young age (52, when I was born) and I never stayed a single night at his house. He never stayed a night at mine. He never babysat me alone so we had no chats. He never helped me with my homework so I have no idea what he was like intellectually. No Christmas days or birthdays were spent in his company either. Months would pass between our visits. Months feel much longer to a child than to an adult so the three or four month stretches between his visits meant that he was not really on my radar. He was mostly invisible in my life and as I was a child, that didn't bother me. Despite the fact that he lived until I was 22, I never knew him, not really. Any information on his personality was gathered not from my meetings with him but from anecdotes told to me by my father, mainly after Willie's death.

He was injured in a house fire (caused by his downstairs neighbour) during my finals at university, when my parents were abroad. That made me his next of kin so I felt I ought to go and sit with him in intensive care. His fingers were blackened because of the fire and his flesh smelled of smoke. He lay in a hospital bed and I remember the feeling of trepidation as I walked through the door for the first time. He was my grandfather and I barely knew him. What was I going to say to him? How could I comfort him? He'd never told me anything about his life, about my father's childhood, or about my grandmother. We'd barely got past milk, no sugar in twenty years. He was unable to speak after the fire so there was nothing I could do other than sit with him. I remember taking his hand in mine. It was large and rough in comparison to my very small hand. I looked at his nails as I held his hand and realized I had never touched him before. Of course I probably sat on his knee as a toddler but this was the first time in my living memory that I had held his hand in mine. We'd never hugged. I was 22. I thought I was grown-up back then but now I know I was merely on the brink of adulthood. I had so many questions I wanted to ask... I'd spent 22 years carrying his wife's name and I had never asked him what she was like. He had never told me anything about her. I guess the timing of my birth had put a wedge between us. It could have gone either way at the time. He could more or less have moved in and been a permanent fixture in my life, or he could have shrunk from us and the week I represented in his life history. The latter is what happened unfortunately. He didn't write down anything about his life, no memoirs, and there are few photos so I know so little. When my gran died that week, it was as if he died too. I went over in my head how things would change once he got out of hospital. I would visit him and get to know him. I would ask him about his life, his parents, his siblings. I would get to know the man who was my grandfather, the man who had fathered my own father, who was unimaginably dear to me.

We held his hand for 22 days and then he died. He never spoke again. I have no idea who my grandfather was. I know he must have been dear to my father because I remember his tears at his death. One morning before my mother and brother were awake, dad and I sat looking through the only tin of photos he left behind until dad, who was 47 at the time, dissolved, sobbing 'I'm an orphan now'. That man who hadn't let me in must have been special after all. I feel terribly sad to have grown up with a grandfather who was able to visit me but didn't, who was able to have created memories for me to cherish, but didn't and who has left me with many 'what ifs'.

Saturday, November 02, 2013

Lone quince

Lone quince by PhylB
Lone quince, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.

I noticed today, now that most of the leaves have blown off our quince tree, that we missed one fruit when we were picking them last month for jelly. It looked rather atmospheric on the bare tree with the grey, winter backdrop. I think I'll leave it there until the first snows or fog. I think it'll make for a nice photo.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Misunderstandings

Hiding from granny by PhylB
Hiding from granny, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
Why I love having kids, (over dinner):
Charlotte: I bought a poppy at school today.
Amaia: Yuck. Where is it now?
Charlotte: I pinned it on my blazer.
Amaia (somewhat surprised): On your blazer? How did you manage that? Did it let you? What with? (turning to me, wailing) Why do we have to have a dog mummy? - I hate dogs! Make her take the dog back!
Tee hee!

Pumpkins come a poor second

Evil turnip lantern by PhylB
Evil turnip lantern, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
I'm slowly coming to the conclusion that I am going to ditch this namby-pamby American pumpkin nonsense from next year on.

The decorative ones are too bland to eat so that's hopeless. And they are so soft and gooey that barely three days after you carve them, they start sinking in on themselves and oozing smelly green gunk. And that's when you don't leave the lit - heaven forbid you actually try lighting one.

No, from next year, we'll be going back to good old traditional Scottish neeps (aka swedes to the less informed.) If you can get into them to carve them (granted you need a mini chainsaw) they last for weeks without disintegrating and their insides do have some flavour! We might just try combining Halloween and Burns' night next year.

Monday, October 28, 2013

As it should have been since the start

DSC_0678 by PhylB
DSC_0678, a photo by PhylB on Flickr.
Here's Léon wedged happily between his two little sisters. After recent developments we had reached a strange situation where I partially shared a surname with four of my five children and Thomas partially shared a surname with the two smallest but poor Léon was in limbo - the only one left with the old surname despite never having lived with his father and no longer being accepted by almost every member of that side of the family. I didn't think that was a good place psychologically for my angel to spend the next four years until he went to high school where I knew they were happy for him to use my surname. I decided to put my case to Léon's school for an immediate change. We wanted him to be a full member of the family who have always been there for him.
He, himself had expressed a desire to share the double-barrelled surname of his younger siblings as he sees the Widmann part as a symbolic representation of Danish fluency. Given Léon is the best Danish speaker of the kids, he's always been peeved he doesn't have it.
I got confirmation today that his records have now been updated so he's one of us - one big happy Buchanan, Buchanan-Widmann, Widmann family looking to the future, not the past and honouring the two families who have brought these children up with unconditional love.

A tad melodramatic

Since Anna started school, years in her head have begun to correlate with school years. So there's no 2013 - there's August 2013 to June 2014.

There are seven of us in our family. Two have a birthday in January, two in February, one in July, one in September and Anna in December.

Today I was almost crucified for pointing out that Anna's birthday was the last birthday of the year.

'My birthday is second in the family!' she stated. 'Léon, then me!'

Not being aware of her school-based year system at that point, I stuck to my guns: 'No Anna, you are last. First there's Charlotte, then Amaia, then me, then daddy, then Marcel, the Léon and finally you. January is the first month, December is the twelfth.'

Hair flying like Miss Piggy, tears exiting her eyes almost horizontally, she stormed up the path shouting 'Why couldn't you wait till I was old enough to cope before you told me such awful news, mummy?!'

Oh boy - when that one gets hormones...

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Scotland Street School


Last weekend we decided to drop into Scotland Street School with the four youngest. Charlotte had been before but we thought it would be interesting for the little ones to see how schools used to look, not to mention introduce them to Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

I was surprised to find it brought back memories for me too. Although I had gone to a very modern primary school which had only opened in 1973, when I was in my second year at school, I had spent my first year at much older school at the other side of the city. Unlike the modern school, my first one was an old sandstone building, with tiled outhouse toilets and cloakrooms much like (a less elaborate) Scotland Street. The cloakroom in particular took me back. I remember often entering it on a cold, damp morning. The smell of damp woollen coats in the old tiled room came back to me vividly. I also remember the pegs at various heights. Being just four years old, mine had to be hung on one of the lowest pegs and I remember all the big kids' coats dripping on mine from above.

From Scotland Street cloakroom we went on to the 50s and 60s classroom. Of course, my classroom had been from 1972 but it looked the same. It had the same individual wooden desks with the opening tops where we stored our pencil cases and books.

When I'd moved to the modern school in '73 I had really missed my functional wooden desk. The new school smelt pristine but lacked character and quirkiness. Even at five I could tell which felt more alive. I also recalled with some shame how I'd watched several boys fill one child's desk with the sand from the sandpit we'd had in the classroom because we didn't like him as he was the only child who used to wear a lime green shirt as opposed to the prescribed apple green one. Children can be cruel!




I loved the Victorian classroom and the old home economics rooms too but need to go back with my DSLR as my phone camera just doesn't do these things justice.

All in all it was definitely a successful, free afternoon's entertainment.