A Merry Crisis Christmas

For the last four years, my Christmas has been about Crisis:

This year is no exception.  Crisis is a homeless charity in London which provides a week long christmas refuge for those who have no place to go. Meals, beds, activities; health, counseling and education services are all provided and run by a small army of volunteers.

It doesn't feel like christmas to me now if I'm not at Crisis. I like presents and gorging myself on food as much as anyone.

But it's a hollow Christmas if that's all it is.

Sir David Attenborough

On the top of the present hitlist for my Husband's birthday this year was:

To take him to see David Attenborough in the flesh.

Attenborough is one of my Husband's childhood heroes. He rates pretty highly on my meter too.  There aren't many like him around anymore when it comes to sheer enthusiasm and knowledge of the natural world.

Last week I got my wish.  We attended  a fundraising lecture at the Royal Geographic Society. The event was in aid of the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature with David Attenborough and Richard Fortey as the guest speakers; there to discuss the whole scientific naming process. I wasn't particularly taken with the topic and hoped it wouldn't be overly dry or boring.

Sir David Attenborough and Prof. Richard Fortey

As the seats in the audience filled to capacity, the Husband nudged me:

Look! There he is!


No, that's not him, I replied authoratively.  That guy is limping. Attenborough doesn't limp.


I was forced to eat my words moments later when the slightly limping, white hair gentleman took to the stage and sat down.

The Husband remained silent.


Ok. Ok. I muttered . I guess he is 84.

Frail though he may be, the minute Sir David opened  his mouth we were in his thrall.  The guy is a damn good public speaker with charisma to boot.  Bucketloads.  Scientfic nomenclature suddenly became fascinating, humorous and inspiring. It was one of the best talks I have been to.

Afterwards as we filed out starry eyed, into the bitter winter chill, I turned to the Husband:

Well? What did you think?

I'm so glad I got to see him. It was the best.

My work is done. 

My Mother Wears Combat Boots

Today I discovered the existence of this book:

I want to read it immediately.

At an estimate, I've read about 70-80 books on the subject of motherhood, pregnancy, birth et al. I started about 5 years ago when a close friend in Australia had her first baby. I wanted to try and get an insight into what she was experiencing.  I ransacked my local library and Oxfam; hoovering up information much the same way a catfish hoovers an aquarium.

Since becoming pregnant myself, I've gorged again on the written word. But much of what I've read is so bland. I feels as if these books are addressing mothers as a faceless, homogenous group. I find that they don't really acknowledge the Person behind the Pregnancy or Parenting and are very Prescriptive.

A few books however have stood out for me. Ones that made me laugh, made me think or seared images into my brain indelibly. Making Babies by Anne Enright which has the best description I've come across as to how it feels to be pregnant. Rebecca Walker's Baby Love; Emma Tom's Attack of the Fifty Foot Hormones; Minus Nine to One by Jools Oliver, Life After Birth by Kate Figes and the one whose title or author I can't remember but whose description of tearing during her vaginal birth and subsequent experience of a fistula made me keep my legs shut for several years. I appreciated her brutal honesty even though it made me wince.

What's apparent is that pregnancy memoirs are more my thing than the Week One, Week Two, Week Three variety.  These have their place and are useful but I prefer people's stories. Even though we humans have been pro-creating forever, it's still a unique experience everytime. Memoirs remind us of this.

That's why I like them.

I Went to the Woods Today

The wonderful snow enveloping the country in the past few days has transformed the woods near our house into Narnia...

Where is Mr Tumnus?

That's What Friends Are For

Amongst the million and one weird things you experience in pregnancy, the most reaffirming and disappointing are the reactions you have from your friends.

Announcing your pregnancy is a strange enterprise. How are you supposed to do it? Lambast everyone you know in one fell swoop? Let the news trickle of its own accord through the grapevine? Tell only close friends and family and let everyone else guess? Or do what my husband did which was to send out the concise email to his friends :

Lavendar's preggers.

I'm six months pregnant now so the news that a little Lavendar is on her way is well and truly out there. But what I wasn't prepared for is once you get the news out, you have people's reactions to contend with.

Most people, even if they couldn't give a shit, still have the courtesy to say, Congratulations, I'm happy for you.

Some people are stupendously happy and excited for you, basking you in a glow of  warm love and concern. They ask you how you are. They don't forget that you're still a person underneath the sumo suit. They put aside their own agendas about birth or children and just wish you happiness in your new adventure. I won't forget their kindness. They get the expensive christmas cards this year.

Then there are the rare few who really don't give a shit and send you this message loud and clear. Thankfully I have only had two of these.

One friend decided that I had wronged her so much that she screamed down the phone at me, showering me with invective so twisted and angry that her words landed like physical blows to my belly.  Pausing for breath to mutter, I know you're pregnant, BUT... she continued to vent her wrath over my wrongdoings because, of course, it's all about her.  I hope she felt better after that. Did I kill her mother? No. But I thought I might  have given the tirade.

The other extreme was the friend who once finding out I was pregnant has just ignored me despite my efforts. Blanked me completely. Maybe she got pregnancy confused with leprosy.

What's the saying? With friends like these.....

Big life transitions always are good for shaking up the firmament of your relationships. You see where the real bonds lie as opposed to where you were just having a polite conversation or acting as a free therapist.

Well sayonara to all that rubbish. I'm middle aged now. Life is increasingly, too short. 

Waterloo! Couldn't Escape if I Wanted To! Waterloo! Knowing My Fate is to Be With You!

When my life tipped upside down recently through returning to study, being pregnant. leaving the 9-5 grind and being on a lower income, my daily rhythms changed too. I am no longer part of the rush hour commute. I spend the majority of my time alone, reading and writing; words swirling inside my head (and quite frankly doing my head in right now).  I no longer have daily interaction with co -commuters or co-workers who formed the wallpaper backdrop of my weekly waking hours for so many years.

In some ways it is a blessed relief. But sometimes it sucks. Sometimes I miss that urban stimulus. The rush of being in a crowd of diverse faces. The buzz of being in a slipstream of Londoners and feeling like a tiny ant amidst it all.

When it sucks, I have a bona fide pick me up. Something that makes me feel alive and reconnected to this wonderful metropolis that is London town.

Waterloo Station at rush hour.

Even during Victorian times, Waterloo Station was chocka-block

It is my preserve of sanity. Slipping and sliding amongst the crowds flooding the station, my ipod plugged in and music pumping, I imagine myself in an 80's video game, dodging all the people hurtling my way. Sometimes I get into a zone where I don't even have to look ahead anymore. Sometimes it feels like I'm floating.

And then all of a sudden I'm out of the station and onto the streets of London and I feel fantastic.

Try it sometime.  Make sure you have a good soundtrack plugged in and don't close your eyes the first time you do it.