So. I haven’t watched It’s a Wonderful Life since Mum died. It was her favourite film. Her favourite line was the one about angel’s getting their wings but we found this when we were looking for words for the order of service at her funeral:

“Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?”

When we got word from the doctor that there was no further treatment, and we were at best looking at months left with her, she tried to comfort me with the words “it could be worse, love”.

“How Mum, how could it be worse?”

She fixed me with a good, hard stare and said “it could be one of you”.

Even when she knew she would die soon, she was grateful that it wasn’t one of us.

The hole is so big.

So, well fed, we hit the streets. A lovely walk along the South Bank (keep me right JBN) followed by a dander to Covent Garden. Man, there’s a lot of nice shoe shops there. I found some boots for Santa to put under the tree in Camper, JBN bought some downright Sasky booties for wee Seb and we both had a major drool in the Orla Kiely store. The Christmas decorations were out in full force (sparkly reindeer!) and it was mighty festive.

It had been at least an hour since we had eaten, and as JBN knows me so well, she decreed that it was Cake O’Clock (my favourite time of day). She took me to Primrose Bakery where we glowered at some Londonites until they left and gave us a table.  Cake heaven followed. I have no words, so here’s a picture:

And then. And then. The big goodbye. Made slightly difficult by the frequency with which JBN returns to Belfast (she’s addicted to our wee city, thank crunchie). J and S took off on the long walk home, and I tried to figure out how to walk to Oxford Street. I decided that I couldn’t handle map reading and trusted myself to the trusty tube. On entering Covent Garden tube station, I had a choice between stairs and lift. I took stairs. And went down and down and down, seemingly into the depths of the earth. About half way down, I saw some people staggering up, saying to each other ‘we’re nearly at the top’. You’re bloody not, says me. From memory, about 140 steps (can that be right?). I made it to Oxford Circus! Yay me. And once there, it would have been rude not to go to Gap (especially with my 30% discount). So I did. And it was top!

I got the word from Em that she was on the approach with the fam. No more wonderful sight than that band of lovely maniacs approaching. A big feed in Nandos, and then we headed to the theatah to see Hairspray starring Phil Jupitus and Belinda Carlisle (sorry Rich). I’m not much of a musical connoisseur, so I have little frame of reference, but it was great. Although I spent most of the show watching Rachael watching the show. Best view in the house.

A long walk back to the tube, a jolly tube ride and a wee dander back to Em’s pad. A G&T, some chitchat with me Julie and bed. Bliss bliss.

The next morning we took a ludicrous walk (well worth it) to see the mighty Tobe play rugby. For the Firsts! It was very exciting (not only because we got to meet T’s dad who is super posh, and we wanted to curtsey) although Julie and I couldn’t watch most of it without flinching and squealing. It was a rather sobering vision of Saturdays to come in a decade or so, when one or both of my boys will be rolling around in the mud (pray for us please).

Homeward bound. Furious to discover that the Krispy Kreme in Gatwick is now a bureau de change.  Traditional buying of books for the boys. Short delay due to bad weather. Touchdown. Hugs with my lads in the airport. The best part of any trip.

So, the wonderful mister granted me 48 hours flying solo in the big smoke to catch up with some  of the very important women in my life (and also my very important nephew and a very important baby). Flew into Gatwick on Thursday evening, got the train to Victoria (NOT the Gatwick Express, Em was very clear about this). Home to Em’s gorgeous, cosy pad in Herne Hill for a curry feast fit for a king (props to The Tobe). Got a very luxurious 8.30 lie in on Friday morning (stop laughing in the back, 8.30 is a bloody lie in!) and then set off to work with Em. Got the tube to Stockwell where I parted ways with my little Londoner with clear instructions how to get to Waterloo. Disaster, the tube I was told to get wasn’t running. I would have to get another tube, and change (I know, the horror, right?). So, there I was standing on the platform, obviously looking Northern Irish, when a very nice Tube worker said ‘do you need some help Miss?’ Who says Londoners aren’t friendly? And I only felt a tiny bit patronised when, after I got on the tube he called after me ‘you can take a seat anywhere’.

So I made it to Waterloo 10 minutes early. Props to me. Called the very darling JBN (forever Drama to me) for directions to her place and within 5 minutes was waiting to cross the road, and waving like a loon at she and Sebadeedoodah on the other side. After a tour of their lovely new place, and a quick catch up with The Stu , we loaded up the buggy and hit the streets. First stop, Tate Modern.   Loved it, but have to be honest and say it made me feel uncultured. I just did not get a good deal of it. Gonna have to go with an expert next time (Carsonist, I mean you…). Drama and I both loved this piece. It was just magical.

Seb (the Dream) slept for half the visit and then he and his mom totally rocked the Bjorn look. Good as gold that boy, not to mention the most cultured baby in the land. After a good four or five (or one and a half) hours, a tea break was required. Inconveniently, the Tate cafe has a policy requiring the purchase of food if you want to sit in. What were we to do? You’ll understand then that we HAD to share a sticky toffee pudding. Had to.

Thus fortified we hit the streets again. We had a lovely walk round Borough Market (very difficult not to eat again but we were saving ourselves for Wagamama), with a quick stop to get some produce from Monmouth for the coffee lover in my life. And then. And then. Wagamama! Yaki Soba, with chicken gyoza (I know it was wrong to email the Stu a pic but it was payback!). I dream of the day when Waga come to Belfast (I email and email, but they don’t come). Someday…

During our glorious lunch, Julianne took this photo of me.

I want to say I’m embarrassed but the truth is I squealed with delight when I saw it later that night on the mighty Facebook (I loves my iPhone).

Part two coming soon.

Okay, okay, Couples Retreat looks horrible. But this? Tina Fey and Steve Carell? Much more hopeful…

http://jezebel.com/5402492/tina-feys-date-night-looks-promising

See? This drives me CRAZY.

Where are the toys for kids? Not for boys, or for girls. Just toys for kids. Why is Lego gendered? Why are baby’s first bikes gendered? We wanted a plain red trike for L’s second Christmas, rather than a boy’s trike. You know, one with diggers or police badges, one with flames (although…awesome).  We had to order one from England from a site called classic toys or some such.

Tried to buy a nice ride on for D’s first birthday. We could get a plastic fantastic one that looked like a quad bike (nice). One that looked like a motorbike. Any number with bloody CBeebies characters on. But to get a plain wooden one? Brio from Amazon.

Flicking trough the Mothercare catalogue, things are pretty similar. Boys with mega blocks and girls with babies. They do have a couple of boys standing with girls at kitchens (never just boys alone in kitchens, that would be ludicrous), not so much of the girls with racing cars.

As I said, drives me crazy.

More funny bad parenting. Actually probably just funny funny parenting.

A guy cycled past me, with a chippie take away hanging off his handlebars. A boy aged 6 or 7 was running behind the bike, with the guy (presumably/hopefully his dad) shouting “run for your dinner”. The boy was laughing.

It made me smile a lot. Perhaps I am unusual.

Last week, I saw something so every day, and yet profoundly moving, that I actually welled up. A man crossed the road to meet his 11 year old son on his way home from school. Neither of them broke step, but the dad put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and lifted his backpack. The boy shrugged out of the bag, and they walked on up the road together, the dad carrying the bag.

It was clearly so routine, and all so unspoken, that I found it almost unbearable. Yet it reaffirmed my faith in the world.

I think it would be fair to say that I am in a somewhat heightened emotional state at the minute.  But it was so lovely.

Go Clinton

I read an article today that pondered whether ‘conditional parenting’, whereby parents turn up the affection when kids are good, and withhold affection when they’re not, was bad for children’s development. I’m not going to blog on that topic, but it reminded me of some of the funniest bad parenting I’ve ever seen.

We had spend the afternoon at Castle Espie, feeding the ducks and generally having a fine old time. Having one last go in the playground before heading home, we heard a boy of around 7 screaming in what sounded a lot like rage. His dad was standing in front of him holding half a chocolate bar saying “I’ve eaten half of it due to your bad behaviour”. The boy was on the ground by now, apoplectic. “If you don’t calm down, I’m going to eat the rest of it”. The boy did not calm down. The dad ATE THE REST OF IT!

We all looked on, Rich and I in disbelief, the boys in fascination as to what was making him make that noise. Well my sons, that boy’s dad is a tool, and that boy will be having a lot of therapy later on.

Now, who wants a Milky Way?

My little sister Em, no slacker in the fight for social justice herself, wrote this about Mum.  I’d add bonkers, because she was, but I couldn’t put it better.

Mum. Funny. Intelligent. Compassionate. Caring. Honest. Trusting. Inspirational. Missed. 

Funny because we once bought her a giant elastic band and successfully convinced her it was a hands free kit for her newly acquired mobile phone.

 Intelligent because she was the first person you’d call for help in a pub quiz. She knew everything about everything.  

 Compassionate because when she died, people I’d never met came to tell me of some wonderful, generous, selfless deed my Mum had done to help them at their time of need.

 Caring because she cared about everyone and everything that was wrong in the world.

 Honest because she’d never lie to you, even when the truth really stung.

 Trusting because on several occasions she took young homeless people into our house to stay. Some of these people stole from her; they stole our Simpsons videos, they stole our pound coins from the TV meter. But she never, ever trusted the next person less.

 Inspirational because at 4 ft 11, a single Mum from a council estate in Oldham, stood up at a Labour Party Conference and told them what social justice really meant.

 Missed because it has been five years and it still feels like a punch in the gut.