Chapter 19: The News

I’ve never been as well informed about current affairs as I am now.  Poppy’s sleep covers the lunchtime news, and Cameron and I rarely miss one of the evening broadcasts.

It’s weird living outside of Britain and still being so up to date with what’s going on there.  It’s a lifeline that we’re clinging onto: keeping our national identity whilst living abroad.  (It’s certainly a lifeline for me.  I’m not sure about Cameron.)

We don’t really know much about what’s going on here. There’s no point watching the Dutch news, as a lot of the language is lost on us.  On the one hand, we should be up to date with what’s going on in the country we live in , but on the other hand we’ve created a little bubble for ourselves in which ignorance is bliss.

We can’t be blasé:  we still have to lock our house and car, and keep an eye on our valuables when we’re out and about, but by and large not knowing about the crimes being committed makes us feel safe.

The only aspect of the News that I take exception to is the insane need for sensationalism.  Why is it that journalists presented with breaking news feel the need to pontificate about the whys and wherefores in order to create a story? I’m sure there’s more airtime given over to hypothesis than there is to concrete news.  Why not just wait for the real information and then present it?

Why hype up a story that is way beyond my most hideous nightmares?  If I want intrigue I’ll watch Morse.  The news should just be about presenting facts, interviewing people in the know and then allowing people to make up their own opinions.  Making headline news is drama in itself.

The sight of helpless children has always moved me, but since Poppy the “disturbing images” have me in tears on a regular basis.  I’m desperate to help, but you can’t help everybody. As the number of people “without” in the world far outnumber those “with”, it seems that we’re always going to be faced with footage of helpless children.

It’s so frustrating when we hear that the money we give doesn’t always get through to the people we’d intended it for.  The bigger picture is firmly in the hands of those in power, on a global scale.

I don’t understand how in a modern age, with a glut of organisations set up across the world to promote peaceful co-living, we have still managed to get ourselves into a position in which atrocities – like those in Zimbabwe or Sudan – can be committed. Where dictators can live in wealth whilst their people starve, or where rainforests can be chopped down to make way for farmland that is then burned after the year’s crops, rendering it useless. It doesn’t make sense.

Neither can I comprehend why people with a vote choose not to use it.  People have died for the right to vote and yet a lot of polling cards still go unused.

Cameron and I can’t vote here because we’re not Dutch.  This might have a bearing on why we don’t take any real interest in what’s going on in the Netherlands: because we aren’t part of Dutch society.    We can vote in the UK, by proxy, but Cameron refuses to inform Golf and Garden of his party preference, so – as they’re the ones who live in our old electoral register district – we’re left without a vote.

I’m not too bothered about not being able to vote over here, because I haven’t grown up with the Dutch system, but I do resent having lost my ability to vote in the UK, because of Cameron’s pig-headedness.  I want my vote back.

To people who’ve never lived outside of their place of birth it must seem a bizarre sort of lifestyle that Cameron and I have adopted.  It wasn’t an easy move.  I don’t know what was the hardest: leaving my homeland, my family and friends or my job.

I have to keep reminding myself why we left.  It wasn’t on a whim.  It all boils down to the fact that we’d both got our European business degrees, which inferred an element of geographic mobility with work.  At least it did to us.

The Scotts had had big plans for moving around: Europe, Japan, The States, then back to Britain.  When Poppy came along Eleanor’s outlook changed, not surprisingly. The thought of upping sticks and moving to a country with a wholly different culture, with Poppy, was unthinkable.  It might have worked for Cameron, but Eleanor didn’t have the work outlet as an escape route.  She was staying put. 

I enjoy living here, for the most part.  There are some things I’d change in an ideal world, but you can’t have everything.

I miss the hills, and I miss our house with its nooks and crannies, and its garden, even though I never touched it.  I miss common courtesy and the expectation that someone will hold a door open for you whilst you negotiate your way into a shop, with a buggy, instead of slamming it in your face. I miss people using their car’s indicators, instead of expecting us to predict their moves by telepathy.

I miss customer service, and being able to buy trousers for short-legged women.  I crave supermarket trolleys that take two children (for when I’m babysitting for Triathlon).  I miss express checkouts, “help with packing” and Parent Parking (not that I ever had the need to use it in the UK, until Poppy and I went back for visits and I realised how much easier it would that make my life, on the occasions that I don’t time my Internet shopping properly?)

I miss John Lewis, pedestrian crossings that car drivers respect, the British pub, and basic pedestrian rights in general. I’ve come to realise that in Amsterdam pedestrians are the lowest of the low and that pedestrians with buggies are scum and should be wiped from the face of the earth!

Last but not least, I miss a fair system of queuing, instead of having to shove your way to the front of a crowd in a bid to get served, which is tricky when you’re the size of the average Dutch eight year old.

Then again, there are many things that I’d miss if we were to leave the Netherlands, like the ability to speak your mind, albeit often seriously overstepping the mark; and bike paths.  I’d dearly miss the small shops culture, where customer service is far superior to the supermarkets, and is sometimes actually very good.

I’d miss the value for money that we get over here; the good food, albeit samey, that’s on offer in cafes and restaurants; the beaches – that we never go to – but that are very close by, should we ever wish to go to one, instead of the garden centre.

I’d miss the fantastic public transport system; companies paying your transport costs to get you to work; the concept of a sensible social housing system that gives affordable rented accommodation to low-earning families in all new developments.

I’d miss the canal view from our living room window and the range of parks that we have access to around here, and getting an appointment with the doctor on the same day.  Lastly I’d miss the lack of commercialism around traditional festivals, where more emphasis is placed on spending time together as a family, and on the creativity that goes into the celebration, as opposed to the amount of money spent on it.

Sometimes I think to myself that I’d be much better off in the UK.  There wouldn’t be the inherent need to speak a new language, but then Poppy wouldn’t have this fantastic opportunity of being brought up bilingually.  Where would we live anyway, if we did decide to move back?

I feel like I’m integrating here more, but I really love having English speakers around me.  I don’t think I’d like to live in a purely ex-pat community, but I appreciate that it’s vital for me to be able to speak my native language, properly, on a daily basis.

If I had to choose I’d stick to my own.  Not that I dislike the Dutch, in any which way, although I do think a little more overt courtesy wouldn’t go amiss.  I’m just much more at home with my own kind.  I love the British sense of humour, even if I don’t always understand it and end up feeling like a twit.

(I’m sure the Turks and the Moroccans at the Toddler Group share my thoughts in tending towards their own people.  Surely it’s only natural.)

I’d like to think that I behave in the same way towards everyone, but if I’m honest it takes me longer to feel comfortable with someone from a different culture.  Living in a multi-cultural community is exciting, with the variety of shops and restaurants it offers, but I can’t see how we’ll ever reach a stage where we fully integrate with each other, simply because of the inherent mistrust we have for people who are “different”, albeit subconsciously.

I suppose human nature dictates that you’re logically more comfortable with your own kind.  It doesn’t mean that you can’t venture out though.  At the risk of sounding like a Talk Show participent, I do think we have to respect each other’s ways and just get on with our different lifestyles.  However, I do feel strongly that if you live in a country, you should learn the language, just as I’m trying to do over here, and it’s imperative not to alienate the natives.

It was a huge decision to come and live in the Netherlands, and now I just have to get on with it: be pleasant to as many people as possible, of all nationalities and cultures, and build up the network that replaces our family.

I’m also clinging onto my roots and trying to keep in touch with the friends I’ve had for years.  Except, that is, when the only subject matter they can find to speak to me about is Poppy, or children in general, in which case it’s time to ditch the friendship and move on.

I don’t feel guilty about not seeing my good friends on a frequent basis, so long as I’m making the effort to stay in contact.  Email is a wonderful invention and I need to get to grips with it.  Cameron despairs that I only check my mails once a month.

I must get a bit more savvy about technology in general. There are so many advances being made in technology and they’re all passing me by.  Pretty soon I’m going to feel as obsolete as the computers we were supposed to associate ourselves with at College.

I have a degree in European Business and I’m technophobic.  It’s ridiculous. I have to pull myself into the twenty-first century, if for no other reason than that Poppy is going to grow up in a computer-led world, where I’m not going to feature.  For her sake and mine, this has to be my next challenge.

Chapter 18: A Coffee Morning in August

We named the day for going far beyond our comfort zone, but as the Law of Sod would have it, Triathlon had “an appointment” on that Tuesday that she couldn’t miss, so I had to go on my own.  I could have waited until the Thursday, but I’d already got myself psyched up and I didn’t want to go through it all again.  Smiley had said, nonchalantly, that the Group was in Amsterdam East – like I’d know where that was – and in an attempt not to look like a buffoon I’d said that I knew where it was.

Once I’d found out that East was about a mile away, and pinpointed the street, I set about packing up Poppy and her bag.  The session was supposed to start at 9.30.  The chances of us getting there on time were always going to slim, as it was 10 before we left the house, but it was our first time, so they had to give us some leeway.

I do have to work on my time management though.  I’ve never been someone who arrives early, but I’ve generally been punctual.  Since Poppy I’ve become totally useless.  How do I expect anyone to take me seriously when my timekeeping’s so rubbish?  I’m living on Hope Time, and it’s got to stop.  Why tell someone I’ll be with them in ten minutes when I know it’s never going to happen. I’m kidding myself.  I’m just hoping, willing myself, to be there as quickly as possible, to make the notion of meeting up more spontaneous.

Poppy will inevitably produce some sort of disaster package as we’re just on our way out of the door, or I’ll leave something vital right at the top of the house, so I have to dash up our four flights of stairs, cursing with every step, to get it.

The vein in my temple will be throbbing before we’ve even left the house, and what’s worse is that I’m taking it out on a toddler! Sentences that start “Poppy, I know you’re only one but surely….” are doomed from the start, and show an outright blight on my character, rather than any element of incompetence on hers.

“More haste less speed.”  Is that not what they say?  Why can I not seem to get it into my skull that running around like some demented Prairie Dog isn’t going to get me anywhere fast?

When we’d finally managed to get ourselves together, we got onto the treasured bike and sped off in search of East.  The vein stopped throbbing and the adrenaline started pumping.  I knew that the people at the Group weren’t going to have three heads, but I really hate going somewhere for the first time.  I loathe it.

East was quite a good place to discover, as it turned out.  I won’t need to buy my curry spices at the supermarket anymore, now I’ve got the genuine article just around the corner.  We pulled into a street of fairly impersonal buildings, found the number and the bell that went with it. Somehow a bell made it even worse.  The first impression I was going to make on the Group would be over an intercom system, in Dutch.  To make matters worse, when I was finally buzzed in, the door didn’t open for long enough for us to get in, so I had to ring again!

Once we’d negotiated the door and parked the bike, we entered a dark area with dimly lit passages going off at every angle.  My immediate thought was to wonder what I was doing there, turn tail and leave, but it would have been such a disappointment to go home, having made it so far.

We followed the tiny signs to the Toddler Group, which stopped when we arrived in a courtyard. Looking a little bemused, we were left to inch our way around the school playground, in which every last one of the children was clinging to the fence, observing our progress.

After what felt like the most epic journey in history, we came across a set of double doors giving way to Volume, and realised we must be in the right place.  Poppy scarpered.  Once I’d grabbed her and strapped her to me – I wasn’t going anywhere near that playground again – we made our entrance.

(I’d made a conscious decision that I was only going to speak Dutch.  It was better to be identified as “Eleanor, who speaks a little Dutch” than “You know, the English woman”.)  We made our way to the cluster of tables slotted together to form one huge overfacing mass, and I tried to work out who to speak to.

As luck would have it my shell-shocked face gave me away as the Newcomer and a blond character came up to welcome me.  Rockchic has to be the most unlikely candidate for a Toddler Group leader I could ever have imagined.  She’d have looked much more at home at Glastonbury, or straddling a Harley Davison.

Once she’d written down our names, we were shown to the hallowed coffee thermos, and then to the coffee machine where people took turns to make the next batch and fill the hallowed thermos.  She also acquainted me with the tea canister, once she’d realised my heritage (immediately) and made some joke about it – which I didn’t understand – but did a stoic act of pretending that I did, and laughed dutifully.

(I hadn’t actually got a clue what she was talking about for the entire tour, but she seemed a really affable lady, albeit oddly dressed as a Gothic, so I kept my broad smile firmly implanted onto my face, and laughed whenever she did.)

Once I knew the costs of drinks and admission, and where the toilets and coat hooks were, we ventured to the large table and I sat down apologetically, hoping that we weren’t taking any Regular’s seat.  I had my prop – Poppy – and my coffee, and now I just had to calm down, look normal and fit in.

Once seated, I observed the other members of the Group, where a fairly substantial age range spanned the mothers:  a couple of Dutch ladies with Chinese girls, a little cluster of Turkish ladies, and a few faces I’d seen about the shopping centre.  People were welcoming, without making us feel any more conspicuous that we already did, and I was perfectly happy to just sit and watch, without feeling the need to open my mouth.

Poppy was equally as reluctant to participate and clung to me as if her life depended on it.  Nothing was going to convince her to enter this unknown world, with all its little people.

The Group, with its Dutch variation on Rich Tea biscuits, and some token influence from the frumpy lumpy jumper crowd, was a forum for discussion: a place to share opinions and ideas.  They discussed a few good places to take the children, the best markets around the area, special offers of the moment, new shops that were coming to the area, and a smattering of health issues.

I learned which playgroups – and schools – were recommendable, which was difficult to digest with Poppy being so little, even though I’d had her name on the list since her first birthday, after Triathlon had told me it was a must.

I made it clear, on the rare occasions that I did speak, that I wanted to speak Dutch, and most people were happy to oblige.  I made a mental note that I wouldn’t sit anywhere near those who insisted on speaking English to us on our next visit.

A couple of loosely dressed individuals had no qualms about breastfeeding their two-year-olds around the table, which is just weird as far as I’m concerned.  Maybe it’s just me: it might well be that I’m the one with the problem, not wanting to witness perfectly natural things going on around me, except that I don’t think there’s anything natural about a child with nearly a full set of teeth wrestling with his mother’s wares in public, rather than being given a beaker of milk.

Then, from out of the throng of females came Solo: a very chatty woman, with a really warm and open face.  The same age as me, a single parent with a son two days older than Poppy, although he looked twice her age.  Biceps spent most of the session getting into trouble because everyone assumed he was much older than he was and should have therefore known better.

Several people had their opinions about other people’s children and weren’t backward in sharing it, which really wound me up.  They would hypothesise that the reason Poppy didn’t want to leave my knee was that she was probably tired, or maybe she was coming down with something, or maybe I should just insist that she went to play with the other children.  In reality, they should have just minded their own business and let me deal with my anti-social child in my own way and in my own time.

Maybe it’s a Dutch thing.  If you ask me, offering someone advice about their Pride and Joy, unless they specifically ask for it is a cardinal sin. Do I berate bare-breasted females about the advantages of modern day beakers?  I do not.  What makes others feel, therefore, that they should have a say in the way I do things?

At eleven twenty there was a murmur and then the entire congregation rose, to set about tidying up:  toys were put into boxes and onto the cupboards along the sides of the room; chairs went onto tables and the floor was swept; crockery was washed, dried and put away.  We all had a role to fulfil, and it became clear from the outset that any shirkers went straight into Rockchic’s bad books and that’s not a good place to be.

(Other faut-pas are: not keeping an eye on your child, especially if the child then starts pushing others around; not changing a child’s nappy within an acceptable time frame; avoiding filling up the hallowed thermos; going home five minutes before clearing away time; talk on subjects that aren’t suitable – which are few and far between. Forgetting money for refreshments or entrance is forgivable the first time, but not on a frequent basis.  Allowing your child to take more than its share of the biscuits provided is also something that is frowned on.)

Triathlon came with me to the following session, and was spared the excruciating experience that I’d had to undergo, as we knew the ropes the second time around.  We breezed around that playground and the children were oblivious to us.  (Typical.) Solo became a friend – having provided her surname within a week – and we started seeing each other outside of the Group on a regular basis.

All in all, once the groundwork had been done, the decision to go to the Toddler Group was the best I’d made in Poppy’s short life. Although it ticked many of the dreaded preconceived boxes, we’d found a regular social outlet and I was happy to go along with it, with its bohemian dress sense and opinionated undertones.

It confirmed to me that Poppy is not the most extrovert of children and that, given the chance, she’d quite happily forego any contact with anyone under the age of grown-up.  It gave me insight into how others treat their children (in public) and the rules that have to be followed when children are playing together.  It gave Poppy the opportunity to see children from other backgrounds and races. It also helped me to realise that nobody is a perfect parent: some are just better at pretending than others.

Soon I was bumping into people I’d met at the Toddler Group around the area and we were able to have a decent conversation about relevant and not always child-based issues.   It had given me an inroad into the community, a foothold in the door, and was just the tonic I needed on my quest to feel that I belong.

Chapter 17: Soaps

Who invented the first Soap?  It was an inspired idea, whoever it was.  Allowing people to look into other people’s lives, without actually encroaching on anyone’s privacy.  Luring people into an addiction to the everyday happenings of a group of fictional characters, so they never miss an episode.  It’s ridiculous to think that people discuss what’s going on in their favourite Soaps with their friends, but I’m as guilty of Soap analysis as anyone.

It’s just escapism, really: a way of tuning into a different world, where every member of the cast comes with their mounds of emotional baggage. Real life is so much more interesting, but you have to know enough people well to find out what’s going on in their lives to get the interest factor up.

When I was at College, I knew pretty much everything about most of my friends.  That was what we talked about.  Finding out about each other and what we were all getting up to got us through our course.  There was the study, obviously, but if I’m honest that played second fiddle to learning how to get on in life.

We’d all left home at eighteen and hadn’t got a clue what our version of the real world was going to throw at us when we were living on our own.  Granted, a lot of students get into Halls of Residence, but I didn’t.  I started life on my own in a flea-ridden, slug infested room in some mad woman’s house in Hull, with two other girls, and paid through the nose for the privilege.

Solidarity helped us escape from our pit and into more habitable lodgings.  Then five months later, we left for Germany where mutual support became essential.

I thrive on being with other people.  I love having time on my own, but time shared with others – people whom I really care about – is crucial.  That’s what I’m missing here: I have never felt so lonely in my life.

I can’t say I haven’t got friends here.  The few I have are great, but I’m not surrounded by people like I used to be.  If I want to see someone, I’ve got to “make an appointment” – as the Dutch say.  Of course I can just pop around to Triathlon’s house, but if she’s not in, I’m lost.  And, much as I love spending time with Triathlon, and much as Poppy tolerates being mothered by her daughter (most of the time) I can’t spend my entire existence with her.  She’s looking into getting a job, which is great, but then I’ll be even more “on my own”.

The one good thing about being in my situation, i.e. being a full-time Mum in a foreign country, is that you come across people who might otherwise never cross your path. Like Siberia, who’s been working as a tour guide for Russians in Scotland for the past few years.

Then there’s Forensic, who’s lovely and speaks excellent English.  She had a fantastic time with us at Ascot and I’d love to see more of her, but she works full-time and the only time I get to see her is when Cameron organises a get-together with Ajax.

There are people I’ve met at the story-reading sessions and through swimming lessons, and a couple of people I’ve met through Siberia, but they’re both very much in the “We’ve only just met each other” stage.

I don’t know whether everybody feels like me, or whether I’m just some oddball who craves the idea of being liked and fitting in.  I get so desperate for company nowadays that I’ll latch onto people much more quickly than I’ve ever done before in my life.  I don’t want people to think that I’m a leech and that I’ll overwhelm people before we’ve even started.

I’ve got Jetset and Steadfast, and College, of course, but they’re not here. I can phone them, but it’s not the same as having them around the corner.  Aside of that, they don’t have children, which is a fairly essential requirement for people in my life nowadays.

I need to be able to discuss what I’m up against in my everyday life, like Poppy not eating, or not showing any interest whatsoever in other children, or how to get out of the house on time, bag packed, whilst also being able to come back to a house that doesn’t look like another one has fallen on top of it!

I could never have imagined that life with a child could be this grim.  It’s not Poppy’s fault: she’s lovely.  She didn’t ask to be born, we wanted her.  I want to be happy, contented and fulfilled, just with her, but how can I be when my life now is a world away from what it was before?

Eleanor had worked, as a temp, in the Customer Services department of Cameron’s company, and had left six weeks before Poppy’s arrival.  She had been in charge of several countries and spent her days speaking French and German and being inundated with work.

Being busy was good for Eleanor.  She was well liked and had gained respect in the few months she was with the company and was told that there would be a permanent job for her if she wanted it after Poppy’s birth, but that was not going to happen.

Poppy isn’t two and she can’t talk yet.  With the best will in the world she can’t replace an adult.  She’s my biggest fan, but standard daytime conversation in our house is, in essence, Mummy-monologue and Poppy-babbling, with a few recognisable words thrown in to let us know we’re making progress.  It’s not really working for me.

So, armed with my toddler, I hit the streets in search of anything that is going to make me less lonely.  The playground’s a safe bet for some sort of adult-interchange.  It might be superficial, but it’s a rare chance for me to practise my Dutch, or for the locals to practise their English.

We’ll discuss a multitude of topics.  Once we’ve established that I do in fact have a daughter, and not a son, (by my smiling politely and emphasising the “She” in “She’s one and a half” in response to the predictable question), we’ll move onto whether I’ve registered her for the playgroup, and whether she still has a lunchtime sleep.  (I mastered the Dutch phrase for “Yes, thank goodness!” a long time ago.)

We’ll cover issues like why we’re in the Netherlands, and how long we’re staying, and whether we like it, and they’ll say that my Dutch is really quite good – which it just isn’t.  We’ll return to the subject of Poppy how her speech is coming on, and marvel how good it is that she’s going to be bi-lingual with any luck, and then we’ll move onto the weather, and talk about the new developments in the area, and then it’s time to go.

I hate the “We’ve only just met each other” stage.  It’s so restrictive.  Asking for someone’s telephone number, so that you can “make an appointment” is a really big deal.  In English you’d say “Maybe we could get (the children) together sometime”, or “It’d be nice if we (the children) could meet up at some stage”, whereas a phrase like “Maybe we could make an appointment”, with its inferred distance, makes it so difficult to get your foot in the door.

Perhaps if I’d attended an anti-natal class I’d have had a head start, but the thought of being surrounded by lots of bulbous Dutch women puffing away, when I’d only been in the country for a year, was a challenge too far.

I’ve never been a Mum in England, so I don’t know if it’s as difficult to latch onto “new friends” there as it is here.  It must be tricky anywhere.

The Dutch have a word to describe a “person you know”, as opposed to a “friend”, that isn’t quite as disparaging as the word acquaintance.  As a result you’ve got to be really close before you merit friend status.  I don’t have any Dutch friends.  You can’t, if you don’t even know someone’s surname (even if you do know absolutely everything there is to know about their offspring.)

I don’t know what it’s like in England, but over here the shutters come down firmly on any tentative, sporadic, social contact at the weekend.  Weekends are strictly for family and friends.  Cameron will never meet the people I chat with around the sandpit because until I get to the friendship stage we’ll never “make an appointment” at the weekend.  It’s a vicious circle.

It could have been the beginning of something special, in Poppy’s first summer, when I took her around to Smiley’s house, she being the only Dutch person who’d seen fit to see me outside the realms of the sandpit.  It was just unfortunate that her eleven- month old son was in the “screaming for absolutely no reason whatsoever” stage at the time.  My tender four month old reacted with fits of hysteria on every occasion, of which there were many, during our draining two-hour visit, so that was the end of that.

I wonder if I’d be faced with the social quandary I find myself in if I were working.  Not that I think that colleagues are automatically going to become close friends, but there is social contact, and a bit of banter at the workplace.  You can meet someone for lunch, share experiences, people watch, or just get things off your chest.

The notion of “doing coffee”, as in “Let’s do coffee”, or “We must do coffee some time” is so much more appealing than the idea of going to a Coffee Morning, which conjures up images of the frumpy, lumpy jumper crowd sitting around in a church hall, munching on rich tea biscuits.

“Doing coffee” implies going to a stylish coffee house with a wide choice of coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, (and toppings).  You can sit leisurely in an attractive, childless environment, being carefree and sophisticated, instead of constantly looking over your shoulder, waiting for the next child-led disaster to happen.

I don’t know enough people to be invited to coffee mornings anyway.  Triathlon and I will spend hours drinking coffee together, which is lovely, and I tell myself how preferable this is to having to make conversation with people I don’t know.

Conversation is an art form.  It involves the discussion of men, children (if applicable), shared experiences or solo experiences (annoying or funny), people watching, fashion, food, or what’s going on in the news, or on television in general.

It’s not easy to make conversation with strangers, without it being superficial claptrap (or sandpit chitchat), or without getting too serious and making people think you’re too intense and that you need to be avoided like the plague.

Around the sandpit chitchat is expected.  Nobody imagines they’re going to be faced with a deep and meaningful when they’ve got bare feet, and when dialogue keeps being interrupted by a child just about to be clouted by a spade, or by the ice-cream van coming along.

I should just be contented to continue having my buckets of coffee with Triathlon, but she’s bound to find a job soon, and Siberia’s very busy. I’m not looking to escape from the house at every possible opportunity but I do need to build up my network.  We don’t have family here and I need to feel like I belong.  To know that there are people whom I can turn to, if I need to, and to be there for others, if they’re in a fix.

The sense of a community is sadly lacking here.  The docklands where we live were only reclaimed from the water ten years ago.  Then the zany architects decided to experiment with various slants on the box-theme and the builders turned the experiments into places of residence.  Our box was still under construction when we moved to the Netherlands, and it became a three-bedroomed house with a canal view within a couple of months. Building up a community, to gel the box-inhabitants together, takes a bit longer.

When I last saw Smiley at the play ground with her son, who’s now two, and out of the “screaming for absolutely no reason whatsoever” stage, she told me about a toddler group she goes to once in a while, that’s just around the corner.  She’s so lovely.  Even though we hadn’t got together again after the first disaster, she’d kept my telephone number and called me with the number of the group once we went our separate ways for dinner.

The idea of a toddler group is totally alien to me.  I’ve got the number and I keep meaning to ring and find out the details, like where it is, and how much it costs, and whether there are any places left, and what days it’s on.  I’m not making any headway because I feel really apprehensive about the whole thing. I’m going to be venturing right out of my comfort zone and everyone’s going to be Dutch.  It might be hideous.  I might be surrounded by the Dutch branch of the frumpy, lumpy jumper crowd!

However, as a grown up and a capable woman, and as phone calls no longer phase me, I pulled myself together, made the dreaded call and got the details. Triathlon’s coming too, as camaraderie is the only option on this occasion. She’s not relishing the prospect either, but at least we’ve got each other for mutual support.  I suppose if it’s that awful we’ll just pretend we’ve got to be somewhere else, and leave, together.

 

 

Chapter 16: Time Management in July

Multitasking is an art needing careful planning and constant consideration.  I pride myself in being a capable multitasker, although phone calls and other unpredictable factors tend to throw me off track sometimes.  (I can cope with a stewed cup of tea or blackened fried potatoes.  It was a little worrying when the shopping bags caught fire that one time, but aside of that one incident, having several things on the go at one time doesn’t pose too much of a risk.)

Cameron has been wound up in the past when I’ve jumped onto the bandwagon that maintains that men can’t multitask. After several years of deliberation, I’ve reached the conclusion that (most) men can in fact multitask, but just not with “Pink Jobs” in just the same way that (most) women are pretty much wholly unable to multitask with “Blue Jobs”.

A “Pink Job” is one that comes naturally to a woman.  It is within her comfort zone.  That’s not to say that men can’t perform Pink Jobs, by any wild stretch of the imagination.  It’s simply that a Pink Job is outside of his comfort zone, and therefore requires more thought and mental preparation to accomplish it.

Common Pink Jobs in our house are: washing clothes, hanging out washing, ironing clothes, washing up, cleaning the kitchen, food shopping, recycling, general housework, changing nappies, making the bed, changing the bed, cooking.  There are also jobs like remembering people’s birthdays – and sending them a card, replying to invitations, buying presents – and wrapping them, and noting down important dates pertaining to anything relevant to the Home in the diary.

The “Blue Job” comes perfectly naturally to a man, and Cameron is certainly in his element when he is accomplishing a whole range of them in the weekend – whenever possible taking him away from the family home and anything to do with it.

Common Blue Jobs in our house are: washing the car, tidying the garage, making the fire (when we have one), clearing the attic (when we have one), general bike and car maintenance, usage of power tools – as great a range as possible – power tool shopping, garden centre shopping, gardening, technology updates, booking flights and holidays, setting up and using internet banking, and researching technology gadgets on the Internet.

Blue and Pink jobs are obviously family specific, but the principles remain the same.  Daily household upkeep is pink, whereas maintenance is blue.

There are “Purple Jobs” of course: those that fall into either person’s comfort zone.  Taking the recycling materials to the tip would be a prime example, although collecting it to start with is very much Pink.

It appears to me that if all the parts of life that I’m dealing with are home-based, and when Cameron’s home most of the aspects of home life that he’s busy with are outside of the home, it would be astute of me to sort out our house, so that it’s not a constant battle spending time in it.

I’m not saying for one minute that Cameron is lazy.  Not in the least.  He’s constantly occupied.  Just not necessarily with anything that I find helpful (or that makes my life easier) or indeed anything that is essential to our lives at that particular moment in time.

Cameron is a forward planner and I’m almost exclusively concerned with the present.  We work well together and we need each other’s attributes, although I’d appreciate him doing a little more around the house, just like he’d appreciate my taking more control of our affairs, most specifically the financial ones.  His job is to macro-manage and mine to micro-manage.  It works. Generally.

I can air my views, but I can’t force him to do anything.  I don’t want to be “the nagging wife”.  I prefer to see myself as the one who intermittently reminds him of outstanding issues. All I can do is persist in my own self-development, in order to make our lives more harmonious and that means taking more control.

How Eleanor and Cameron ever got married is a mystery: it would be difficult to find to more different outlooks in a couple.  Eleanor despised arguments, whilst Cameron thrived on discussion.  He had always been strong and domineering, which Eleanor admired for the most part, but which also drove her to despair, frequently.  He was the archetypal Alpha Male.  Totally focussed, and a driving force – in everything bar the ways of the family.  Persuading a Silver-Back Gorilla to do something he did not consider a priority was a challenge.  Eleanor went about it in her own way, taking tiny steps forward where possible.  Patience was a virtue, and timing essential.

I have to become more disciplined with myself about how I spend my days.  It’s lovely to go out and see my friends, but at the moment I’m resorting to escapism.  I want to feel that I’m spending quality time with them, not just camping out at their place so that I don’t have to face my own.

If the mornings are Poppy’s optimum hours of the day, then that is the time we should be up and out, with the afternoons then being spent at home, as a general rule.  Poppy loves just being here, so I should afford her that luxury and get on with making our house work better for us.

The most logical way of getting around being “a housewife” is by putting systems in place in the house that mean I have to spend the least amount of time possible on housework. Then I’ll then be able to get out with Cameron at the weekend, on his “shopping trips”, and won’t have to stay at home to sort clutter.  We might even get around to doing something fun.

If I transfer all the clutter in the house to just one area, then I can sort out the other “clear” rooms and keep them looking good. I might even add some of those “finishing touches” that Cameron reads about in his home furnishing magazines.  Maybe if I’m happier in the house I may be more inclined to read them too.  Knowing how to deal with obsolete technology is more of a problem – read Blue Job.  Odd socks are definitely going to be binned.

If I can sort out the paperwork, I’ll also have more of an clue about what’s going on, instead of leaving it in Cameron’s very capable but busy hands.  I have to be able to use the Internet.  I am thirty years old, an ex-Business studies student.  I am too young to allow technology to pass me by,  (and I need to get a mobile phone, as a matter of urgency, as I’m in danger of being scorned by the twenty-first century.)

If my house is tidy I’m more likely to be in the frame of mind to want to spend time making what’s there look better.  Adding character through furnishings.  We have a couple of photographs of Poppy knocking around, but at the moment they’re nesting behind one of the piles of paperwork.

I could put up some more photo frames.  I enjoy seeing photos on display in other people’s houses. They’re a good way of re-inforcing the idea of a home being loved.  It would be good to make our place look more loved.  I wonder if I’m resisting making alterations to it because it’s not our own place.  I don’t have any affinity to it, because it’s a box, but it is our home, so I’ll have to make the most of it until we find a house that we want to buy.

If I want to make things look more attractive, I can start with Poppy’s bedroom furniture.  It’s drab to say the least.  When it was bought – for Cameron as a child – it was very chic, but it isn’t now.  I could ditch it and buy something new, but there’s nothing essentially wrong with it: it’s just too orange.

Golf and Garden wanted to have some Poppy-time, and who am I to argue if they want to take her off my hands?  I’m going to use the few days to beautify her very orange bedroom furniture, as the first of the many projects I wish to set about in order to get our house the way I want it.

***

The first thing I need to do is clear the room.  This is not difficult, as most of the contents have migrated to the living room.  She doesn’t play in her bedroom; she plays around me.  I brought her toys up into the living room, and she discarded them because she’d rather be doing what I’m doing.

I only keep most of her toys because they were presents and I don’t want to offend their donors.  So, rather than giving them to good homes, I choose – foolishly – to clutter my own house with superfluous items, which drive me mad.  In the name of diplomacy!

The next step was to decide which items of furniture were going to be tackled:

* The ugly orange wardrobe

* The ugly orange chest of drawers

* The ugly orange square wall shelving

* The linen box

Next:  Empty said items

Next:  Put sheets down to prevent spillage

Next: Apply multi surface primer, a top tip from the hundreds of home makeovers I’ve watched.  It was worth whiling away all those hours of viewing to not have to sand, and to prove my cynical husband wrong.

Of course I had to think hard about how I was going to tackle the project.  There were four pieces of furniture being painted, all needing primer, undercoat and 2 coats of gloss in four days.  Time management was essential.

Cameron came in from work every night to inspect progress, and was pleasantly surprised.  He’d thought it was a fairly odd project for me to take on, given that I had four days to myself, but I knew that I needed a project to get my teeth into, so that I could start tackling the rest of the house, and get myself out of the drudgery I’d become used to and resented.

It was really therapeutic to see the change from orange to white, knowing that I was in charge of progress and the speed of progress.

Whilst the overcoat was drying, I set about tackling the clutter issue.  Piles and piles of the stuff.  I emptied shopping bags of paperwork that had been there for months, since the last dinner party, or maybe the one before that, when we’d bundled it all away – anywhere – to get the house looking half decent.  The vast majority went into a bag to be shredded (a Purple Job) and then to be recycled.  The letters that needed actioning were dealt with, tricky phone calls and all.  The remainder went into the guest room/study to be dealt with gradually – but urgently.

Once the undercoat had dried the glossing could begin.  Four colours: pink, blue, green and yellow, and after two whole days, when we stood back and admired the work, I was thrilled with myself.  Cameron said it would have cost a fortune to buy which, whether it was true of not, was just what I needed to hear.  I’m not sure whether Poppy appreciated her new look, but at least she noticed it on her return, which was a start.

The few days I spent on my own were invaluable and allowed me to draw several conclusions about the way I live my life:

Firstly, I need to leave the house tidy, so I won’t be infuriated from the moment I step back in through the door.  I need to finish all the small jobs before starting a larger one, particularly if it involves creating mess.

Secondly, difficult phone calls are a thing of the past.  I can put the phone on loud speaker whilst I’m waiting for the person on the other end to pick up, and get on with something else in the meantime, so that I don’t spend time worrying about what I’m going to say.

Thirdly, I must stop paying lip service to issues. I have to stop saying I’ll do something later, especially if it involves sorting paperwork.  (It will just pile up.)

Fourthly, and most importantly, there is no need to be dull.

Chapter 15: Home Makeovers

I find the notion of someone inviting a TV crew in to publicise the lowly state of their house a little peculiar, although Cameron and I have learned a great deal from watching more than our fill of this type of show in the evenings.

We’re building up the Scott colour-palette in our three-storey box: Scott blue (luxurious, dark, and incidentally “in” – very usable in dark rooms, surprisingly, and an excellent background to Winnie the Pooh stickers); Scott yellow (a fresh and lively little number, which lent itself very well to our kitchen in England and now to our main bedroom), and Scott orange (warm and peachy, reminiscent of our holiday in Tuscany: perfect for the guest room).  Scott red was a bit of a risk on the back wall of our tiny walk-through ironing board of a kitchen, but it works, especially when offset against Cameron’s fetish for all things steel.

I know that I watch too much television. I need to transform myself from a passive lump who finds it entertaining to watch disasters others have made in their homes into a more active soul who puts systems in place that make our home easier and more attractive to live in.

The most pressing issue is to rid our house of clutter.  The reason for this is simple:  it winds me up and makes me morose.

How is it that two adults and a child who is not yet two can create the amount of clutter we’ve built up in our house?  The sources of our clutter are far too numerous to mention, but the main culprits are toys, magazines, post (most notably bills and horrible freebies), loose stationery, odd socks and obsolete technology.

Tackling clutter is not my forte.  I never set out to be a housewife.  If Cameron had wanted to marry someone who was a natural homemaker he made a grave mistake in choosing me.  I’m a career woman.

Eleanor had gone to College to study business, thinking that that was where her future lay, as her talent for learning languages might gain her a foothold on the international business ladder.  Her business brain was lamentably average at best, so she trundled reluctantly into teaching – her mother’s profession – the career that she had always battled against entering, and it turned out to be the perfect job for her.

As time progressed she realised that she loved her job and cherished watching the young people in her care growing up.  When Cameron had introduced the notion of moving to the Netherlands she was devastated.  They had always said they would like to live internationally, but when it came to the crunch, leaving her career and her students behind dealt Eleanor a crushing blow.

As a non-housewife, cleaning and tidying don’t come easily to me.  I don’t remember Mum’s house ever being dirty or overly untidy, but we did have a cleaner because she worked full-time.  Now I have a cleaner, because I can’t keep on top of the housework.

I don’t understand why not.  We have a lot of stairs that are constantly getting dirty, and I don’t vacuum whilst Poppy’s asleep, as I don’t want to waken her up, but then if I attempt whilst she’s awake she stands at the top of the stairs, pulling at the stair-gate, screaming until she goes purple.  She knows – in her one-year-old brain – that I’ll give in every time, which means that the cleaner vacuums my stairs, along with everything else it seems.

I’ve never been good at dusting, and if I ever do it, I become consumed by the piles of paperwork that don’t have a home that I have to move from shelf to shelf.  Then there’s the paperwork that Cameron is forever bringing home from work that I don’t know what to do with, and on top of that there’s the post.

My fear of the post bringing bad news, following a run of financial difficulties in the past, has resulted in my avoiding it all costs.  Even now that there’s no reason for my absurd phobia, I’m still unable to embrace the idea of emptying the letterbox.

This infuriates Cameron, especially when he’s been away on a business trip, as the post builds up until it starts seeping out of the top of the letterbox and I just don’t even register it.  He’s the one who has to read it and sort it on his return, when it should actually be my job.

I need to add “Empty Post” to my Tasks list.  Then we wouldn’t get all the final reminders and I’d be able to file things as soon as they’d been dealt with.  Hypothetically.

“Filing” is one of the items that features daily on my Tasks List.  Right at the very bottom, because it will never be done, until somebody writes off to “the people on the telly” and a designer turns up on our doorstep with a bin liner and a can of raspberry emulsion!

What do other people do with bills before and after they’ve been paid?  And bank statements?  We keep them for five years.  At least. We keep everything!

When I quiz others about how they keep their places so gorgeous, they say that they do have clutter but it’s all behind closed doors.  Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong.  I think that by having it on display I’m more likely to deal with it, whereas in fact because there’s so much of it I really have no idea where to start, so I leave it to build up further. We get more Final Reminders, Cameron gets cross and I get upset.  When we have guests, we bundle it into a plastic bag so that we have clear surfaces and after that, we never get around to sorting it, so the final reminders mount up.

I’ve tried the in-out tray system, but it only works if you don’t just put stuff on top of it so that everything gets mixed up rendering the whole idea useless. I’m in a mindless, increasingly depressing, vicious circle, and I know I’m going to have to change my ways.

One thing I enjoy abot Home Makeovers is the idea that half an hour is enough time to complete a mini-project. If I had a half hour to spare, I wouldn’t think of doing something particularly valuable with it.  I might iron some shirts, or have a cup of tea.

Having watched a multitude of designers at work for several years now, it’s gradually dawning on me that I have to totally change my attitude towards time and what I do with it.  I never appreciated my quality time until it was taken away from me when Poppy was born.

We didn’t utilise our time to pursue anything meaningful before Poppy.  We lived our lives badly under the guise that we were de-stressing.  At the pub.  We could have taken up some cultural or sporting activity (or actually used our gym membership), but we didn’t. Nowadays I put my lack of being able to do anything spontaneously down to having Poppy, whereas in reality I was never spontaneous, unless somebody was inviting me out for a drink.

I’d always considered myself a go-getter, a person of action, but this was never really the case.  At work, passing the time was never an issue.  I put my heart and soul into my job then, just like I do my best with Poppy now, because she’s my new “job”.  Outside of my “Poppy time”, just like outside of teaching, life was quite dull.

I don’t resent Poppy in any which way.  Life is fantastic with her in it.  She has led me to realise so much about myself.  Everything I do is for her in one way or another, be it working on myself, or working on our marriage or general wellbeing: she really is the centre of all that I do.

Now I need to restructure my days and rethink my priorities.  At the moment my morning involves:

- getting up and showered

- getting dressed into something that is going to make me feel like a woman, as opposed to a clapped out nobody in Fusion Mum.

- getting Poppy up, dressed and fed (and if I’m lucky I’ll post a couple of slices of toast into my own mouth whilst in supervisory role),

- washing the dishes from the night before (which has to change),

- hanging out the washing,

- packing Poppy’s bag (snack, nappies, more clothes)….and out we go.

This is the good part of the day. Poppy is at her best. We go to the swimming class, where I’m learning a reasonable smattering of Dutch songs as I drag her from left to right through the water and splash her intermittently.  Poppy can sometimes manage a whole half an hour before she screams the place down and I retreat from the pool apologetically.  She’s not enjoying it, realistically, so there’s no point pursuing it.  She’s got her “Teddy Bear Bronze” certificate, as proof that we stuck it out for several months, and that will have to do for now.

The American Women’s society story-time at the library every second Friday is a lovely activity, when Poppy stops clambering up and down the stairs and joins in.  It’s so much easier to get there now that we’ve got the bike.

Trips to the park on a sunny day are wonderful.  Lots of Mummy attention, and an ice cream at the end of our stay, and then home for Poppy’s lunch and nap.  It is precisely at this point that my pro-active quality time has to start, so I need to work out what can I get done in ninety minutes.

Currently I will dry the dishes that I washed before we left; make the bed; collect the dirty washing from the bedroom floor; take the rubbish out; have my lunch; watch the news and anything that follows it until Poppy wakes up and we head off out again – to a friend’s house or the shops.

I am constantly rushing around.  I want to give Poppy as much access to other children as I can.  She’ll never go to day care, and I want to have a lot of social contact before she starts school.  Hopefully she’s going to get into playschool when she’s two and a half, but that might well be too late.

In my heart of hearts, I know that what I’m writing here is total tripe, and that the reason that we’re rushing around is because I can’t stand being in the house.  Poppy would be perfectly contented to forego any contact with other eighteen-month olds.  She loves playing with Cameron, Mum, Golf and Garden, and other doting grown-ups, but quite frankly she would find it infinitely preferable to play with her grandparents’ deerhound than other kneehighs.

Why am I making out that she’s the one who needs the attention from her peers when really it’s me who craves it?  She doesn’t need artificial stimulation.  She’s happy to tag along with my life. I don’t want to be in the house because I’m bored, and I’m still not at ease with the fact that my job is bringing up Poppy and looking after our home.

Obviously I have to grow up and realise that nobody else is going to take charge of my life.  Cameron is far too busy.  (“Don’t bring me a problem.  Bring me a solution!”)

So here it is… I’ll start with my Tasks List (* not all of which gets done):

Shower, Make dinner, Get dressed, Pay bills*, Make bed, Washing, Clean kitchen, Ironing, Wash up, Fold up / Hang out washing, Shopping, Filing – tidy study*.  (Write.)

There really is no wonder that I’m so thoroughly bored.  Since the cookery course I’m trying really hard to make sure that there’s at least one meal challenge per week – on a Tuesday.  Of course there are birthday cards to be sent, presents to buy, but aside of that, all the house-based items are comprehensively mundane.

It’s glaringly obvious that the washing up should be completed on the day it was created, with natural progression into cleaning the kitchen.  For a stab at reasonable mental health I’m going to have to finish the day’s work before going to bed. I must become more disciplined with myself and force myself to stick to the rule of “no bed before all clear”, otherwise I’m constantly playing catch-up.

As I enjoy my sleep, and don’t want to have to be running around doing my stuff whilst Cameron watches the television, or researches stuff on the Internet, I’m going to have to make sure that the work is done before he gets home from work.  This is going to entail fewer trips out of the house, but I’ll be kept busy, and Poppy can help.  She’ll enjoy it – much more than swimming in any case.  She can empty the letterbox as one of her jobs, which will then force me to open and deal with the mail.

If I can take charge of the bills, we won’t get the final reminders, Cameron won’t get irritated, and I won’t need to fear bad news, as I’m pre-empting the need for threatening letters.  The bills can then be paid and filed and the clutter won’t build up.  That’s the theory.  We’ll have to see if it works.

I also need to take more control of the tricky challenges that confront us in the day-to-day running of things.  I’m all too capable of sweeping a predicament under Cameron’s carpet, as I’m not too keen on making difficult phone calls. That’s a Blue Job in our house, or at least it has been up until now.

Cameron doesn’t always have time or inclination to tackle it so the situation gets worse.  I am a grown-up.  I have to be able to speak to other people, about anything.  What’s the worst they can do? If I take a little more control I might stop feeling like The Little Woman Indoors, cowering behind the all-powerful being that is my husband.

I have to add a creative item to my Tasks List.  Even if it’s as simple as “Buy Flowers”, which we can buy for a pittance over here.  Cameron loves having them in the house.  I don’t think about it too much, but I should.  It’s fragrant, as long as we dispose of them before they go rancid, and it’s homely.

“Filing” is too great a task.  “Sort pile of paperwork” is better.  If I allocate myself a small amount to tackle then I’m more likely to be able to work through it.  I can do that whilst Poppy’s about, so it doesn’t eat into the all-important naptime hours.

She’s in her element toddling around after me.  She enjoys handing me pegs when I’m hanging out the washing,or not, if she’s distracted.  Sometimes she just likes to pull them apart, but I should learn to take advantage of her help whilst she’s happy to lend it.  I’m not sure I could forego my cleaning lady just yet, but I’ll try to work towards it.

Whatever the outcome, I need to get back some quality back into my time and then use it to the full.

 

 

Chapter 14: A Ladies’ Day in June

The “ripe old” age of thirty is allegedly the best year of a woman’s life.  It is by this age that the lack of self-confidence that manifested itself at the tender age of twelve and lasted for what seemed like an eternity has left us.  The age by which the era of disastrous hairstyles and makeup has been surpassed by one of acquired taste; when you know exactly where you’re heading in life and what your end goals are likely to be.

What better way, then, to celebrate my thirtieth birthday than by dressing up and heading off to the races; the end goals being glamour, adrenaline and champagne.  Royal Ascot Ladies Day (Thursday June 21^st, 2001).

I’d wanted to go for ages, but I knew it would have to be something really special to justify the trip, so when the tickets went on sale in January and we managed to get maximum allocation of ten Grand Stand tickets, I was ecstatic.  Wanting to go is one thing.  Actually going is something quite different.  Then there are the logistics.

Organising a day out for ten people, five months in advance, might well not be considered too problematic by some, but they would be wrong.

Accommodation wasn’t going to be a problem, with Golf and Garden’s house being so perfectly placed.  However the foolish assumption that they would welcome the chance to have Poppy to themselves for the day left us somewhat stumped when they announced that they would be in Alaska, of all places!  The nightmare commonly known as babysitting became the most pressing concern.

After much deliberation it was decided that Brother would be asked if he could come for the couple of days surrounding the event, staying in the house along with a small group of us. He was only too delighted to be of help.  So Poppy would be in “capable hands” for the day.  Well, she’d be in safe hands.  Whether she was dressed, fed, or changed was pretty much immaterial.  He’d do his best.

The guest list was next. We were limited to ten tickets and the mix of people had to be just right.  After much deliberation and a range of phonecalls, the guest list read thus: Cameron and I, Mr. & Mrs. North (whose engagement party gave Cameron and me our introduction to each other), Forensic and Ajax, College and Bike, and Jetset.  Steadfast had the final ticket, but we’d only know nearer the time whether she’d be able to join us.

Then came Foot and Mouth Disease, which the farming industry could have done without.  Uncle Kendal and Auntie Milnthorpe retired a few years ago, but there are still quite a few of our family labouring away in Cumbria, trying to make a living out of livestock.  The countryside was going to be closed down, and Royal Ascot was in danger of not going ahead.  It was a relief when the tickets arrived in April.

I thought at this stage that I’d dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s and that from this point on we could just sit back and wait for the Big Day.  Forensic and Ajax came to visit us with a few weeks to go. She wanted to try on one of my “wedding hats” and see what I’d be wearing. I’d had my outfit earmarked as “Perfect for Ascot” for as long as could remember.  Whilst Forensic and Ajax said they thought it was lovely, once they’d left, with a hat, Cameron expressed his doubts.

Although it wasn’t what I wanted to hear, he had a point that it smacked of the Dowdy Me I was trying to lose.  I was delighted that he wanted to take me out to get a new dress, but with only a few weeks to go we were cutting it a little fine. Luckily for me, Cameron’s brother came to visit and agreed to baby-sit his niece (“the archetypal contraceptive”), allowing Cameron and me to get me kitted out.

The Dutch don’t do Ascot, so we described what we were looking for as “high-class daywear”.  There are several ways of tackling this, and none of them were fitting the bill.  How do you tell an enthusiastic fashion assistant that a leather dress is just not going to work?

Four hours into our shopping spree, having traipsed the length and breadth of all our chosen streets, we came to the last shop and things looked bleak.  The shop assistant pulled out three dresses, none of them long or floaty in the least and by this time I was beginning to lose the will to shop.

The first dress was all but transparent.  Two flimsy bits of material laid on top of each other, just above the knee (which had been a no-go area for me since my teens), and was white with splodges of varying shades of brown all over. I would never have given it a second glance, had it not been thrust into my hands. I slumped off to the changing rooms and threw it on, resigned to the fact that it would look awful, but when I looked into the mirror, a Lady smiled back.

Cameron, ever-positive but utterly exhausted, shared my enthusiasm for the dress and his eyes glistened when he said: “Very Ascot.”  Once the shop assistant – looking very pleased to have been so helpful – had found a suitable jacket and dainty matching scarf we left, elated.

I was wrong to assume there could be no further obstacles in our way, as I had failed to pay heed to that unfortunate and cruel part of nature that dictates that the brain inside a man’s head works in a totally different way to that occupying a woman’s.

My priorities for our trip out were quite simple: organise a babysitter, organise the guest list, make sure people are aware of what is going on and when, make sure I have a beautiful outfit, enjoy a wonderful day out with our friends.

Cameron’s priorities were also quite simple: book the tickets; make sure Ellie is happy with what she is wearing; book a lunch table in Ascot; book a dinner table in London; design an Ascot race card as a lovely surprise for Ellie; turn up for the day out.

I can’t fault Cameron’s priorities.  He likes to do things in style, and to make sure that everyone is well catered for.  Something my darling husband does not like is pestering.  I pride myself in not being a persistent pesterer, as I have learnt from previous experience that if you want something doing, there are other, more subtle ways of going about it.  Timing is essential.

Our friends had wanted to know what Cameron and I would be wearing for the day. I’d described my outfit but said that I hadn’t a clue what he would wear. Probably his long-coat from our wedding.  He’s old enough and big enough to look after himself, and I’d assumed, foolishly, that he’d have got this aspect of the day sorted.

Ladies Day was on Thursday 21^st June.  We were leaving on the Wednesday afternoon.  I was taking a taxi with Poppy to the airport to meet Forensic and Ajax. If he was able to get away from work early enough, Cameron might be in the taxi with us.  Otherwise he’d meet us at the airport, and leave the car there.  (He had to be at work early in order to do a very important presentation to some big wigs about the project he was heading, and there was lots of other work that would need his attention).

On Tuesday 19^th June Cameron proudly handed me a copy of the race card that he had carefully put together as a lovely surprise and novel keepsake for the day out.  I expressed my delight and decided not to point out the couple of spelling mistakes that jumped off the page at me. It had taken him ages.

At 23.37 precisely, Cameron decided he should pack for the following day.  With very frequent business travel comes very effective packing.  The fact that he’d left it so late to start packing came as no surprise.

I had put all of his formal wear onto the bed to make it easier and quicker for him to decide what to take. When he announced nonchalantly that he’d wear his green suit, I was a little taken aback. Apparently he’d only worn it once, but that once had been to the wedding the previous weekend, where it had been smoky.  We’d also spent a good few hours with our fairly grubby daughter.  There had been alcohol.  He would not be wearing the green suit.

“I’ve got nothing to wear.” he said, taken aback.

“This does not surprise me.”  It didn’t surprise me, and I spoke in dulcet tones to hide my anger.

“I can’t go.  We might as well ring your brother and tell him not to come.  I’ll have to stay and baby sit.

“You can’t not go.”

“Well, tell me what I’m going to do.  I haven’t got anything to wear, it’s a simple as that.”

(It was quite obviously my fault he didn’t have anything to wear.)

Calmly we went through possible options, like whose suit he might borrow.  All five options were scoffed at.  (This is not my fault!)

“You don’t want to go, do you?”  I came straight out with it.  It had been my idea to go to Ascot and it had never occurred to me to ask him whether he fancied it.

“I do want to go, I just don’t have anything to go in.”

“How about buying another suit?”

“Ellie, suits need tailoring.  They’re not made to measure.  You can’t just walk into a shop and buy one there and then.”

“So, I’ll just stop coming up with suggestions, because it’s impossible for us to get a suit that’s acceptable, so you’re not going”.

I think he was genuinely hurt and shocked at the notion of not actually coming on his wife’s Thirtieth Birthday Bash.

“I’m going to have to go to bed.  It’s nearly half past twelve.  You need to get some sleep too.  You’ve got to be up early for your presentation.”

We went to bed in silence, and as neither of us could sleep we brainstormed – individually.  I was determined that Cameron would be coming on my day out.  I couldn’t imagine it without him.  We could always go together next year, but it wouldn’t be my Thirtieth Birthday Bash then.  There was also the embarrassment he’d face when having to explain his actions (or lack of them) to our friends.  There had to be a way around this.

“What time do we get into Luton?”  I asked.

“3.30.”
“Right, well we’ll pick up the hire car, and get over to John Lewis on the way to your parents’ place.  We can pick up a suit there.”

“It’ll need tailoring.  The trouser legs are always too long, so that they can be taken up to the right length.”

“I’ll do it myself if it means you’ll be able to come.” (I was desperate.)

“The jackets never fit on the shoulders.  They always have to be tucked.”  (He wasn’t convinced.)

There was another long silence and brain-cogs rotated, determined to find a solution.

“How would it be if I were able to get home from work for ten?”

“How would you like it to be?” I asked innocently, not knowing what could possibly be in his plans.

So, by hook or by crook, (and not overlooking the fact that Cameron was actually supposed to be inundated with meetings the following day, and that it seems that he can actually avail himself, if it suits him), my darling husband got himself sorted out with a suit in time for our departure.  With all obstacles overcome, the taxi came and took us all to the airport, with a quick stop-off to collect his new outfit.  Golf and Garden’s house was a sight for sore eyes, when we finally arrived.

Brother was up at the crack of dawn, in readiness for his briefing about child care. Having passed the nappy inspection – put on the correct way around and tightly enough – we were reasonably happy with leaving Poppy in his hands.  There was very little that could go wrong, and if it did he had the telephone number of one of Garden’s local friends. Everything was going to plan, and the forecast was for sunshine all day.

Outfits were donned, Jetset arrived, and we set off down to the station. Brother had been briefed not to allow Poppy anywhere near my outfit.  Today was to be a day of elegance, and toddler fluids were off my menu.  We shuffled carefully into the car and sped off at 9.05.  Fairly amazing, all things considered.

Once we’d avoided a near miss with a milk-tanker on the narrow lanes, and we’d got ourselves out of the ditch that we’d lodged ourselves into so as to avoid it, we arrived at College and Bike’s house at 9.25, and walked to the train station.

Our hats were a bit of a novelty at St. Albans, although there were plenty of suits, which looked like they were heading straight for Ascot.  London Bridge was home to a few more hats, and by the time the escalator delivered us into the main hall at Waterloo, there was a very impressive sea of colour and headwear.

We stood there waiting for the platform number to be announced, dumbstruck.  It really was an occasion.  Everybody in view was a picture.  Inevitably some more desirable than others.

It took quite a while for any evidence of platform details, and by this time there must have been at least five hundred people waiting to board.  Suddenly a large group of hats headed left, so we followed them, along with the rest of the revellers.

Crushed like sardines into an older-style British Rail carriage, hats gradually came off heads.  The atmosphere was extraordinary.  Lots of talking, laughing and tip reading, along with the inevitable mobile phone, belonging to a cretin of a businessman seated opposite College and Forensic, who was obviously too indispensable to leave the office for the day without it.

He spent almost the entire journey talking business, making decisions that only he could make, and only on that day.  I thought at one point that College was going to ram it down his windpipe, but she managed to show restraint, probably due to the contingent of Italian gentlemen who boarded at Vauxhall, a couple of stops down the line.

They strode in, as only Italian men can, and surrounded us.  As time passed I asked the Signor to my right, who was twice my age and an obvious seasoned race-goer, whether he had any top-tips for the day. When he started to speak, College and Forensic almost slid off their chairs, and by the end of his first piece of worthwhile-filly-monologue, we were suitably impressed with this start to the proceedings.

Steadfast met us at one o’clock, having travelled by train from Leeds.  The fact that she had made it was the icing on a very special cake.  I looked around our happy throng proudly. The gathering was to mark my birthday, but as far as I was concerned, this day out was to celebrate all of us having reached thirty, some longer ago than others.  The toast was raised to Ellie, aged thirty, one month and a day.

The bespoke race cards were handed out, and everyone thought they were an excellent idea, especially the space that was left for a celebrity signature.  Cameron shrugged it off as if it were nothing.

When we finally set off down to the racecourse, the atmosphere was electrifying. There was never a dull moment, between collecting winnings, placing bets, ordering the next bottle of champagne, and returning to our places just in time for the next race to begin.

Royal Rebel did me proud by romping in at 14-1.  Beekeeper, too, put in a starring performance to win.  Cameron won with Analyser, and Ecclesiastical was right behind, with my horse Wannabe Around arriving in third place in the final race, netting us a tidy profit for the day.

Finally, we made our way out to join the members of the bandstand and the other race goers in a merry rendition of “Rule Britannia”, among a range of all-time classics, before making our way into London to put Steadfast onto her train, and then heading out for dinner.

I can’t think of a better way to have celebrated what I hoped to be the best year of my life: a Grand Day Out with some very special friends, and a bucketful of style.

Chapter 13: Looking Good Programmes

An oil painting I am not, but it would be lovely if I knew how to make the best of what I’ve got.

I don’t think I’ve ever been any good at clothes shopping.  When I was little, Mum made my clothes, which I resented with a passion, mostly because I wanted a ra-ra skirt, which she wasn’t going to make.  Looking back she did a sterling job.  She had a bizarre taste in material, but then I was a seventies child.  We didn’t have much money and she was a single Mum on a teacher’s salary.

Once she’d progressed up the ranks and needed to dress the part, she sought retail therapy in designer shops, and I tagged along. Whilst perfectly suited to someone in her twenties, thirties, forties or beyond, these were slightly less ideal for me.  I became a power dressed teenager, with shoulder pads.  (I don’t think I’ve ever looked my age.)

I would love to be naturally feminine, in the way that it’s portrayed by the media: to be carefree, with my natural long curls bouncing with every step I take.  I’d have a vivacious, knee length skirt and a fitted spring cotton shirt in beautiful fresh colours, that perfectly complement my English rose skin.

But then I look in the mirror to be greeted by a be-freckled complexion, straight brown hair, and my daily look of what can be best described as Fusion Mum: the welding together of a pair of jeans and a fleece.

There doesn’t seem much point in spending much time on how I look when the only people who could admire any effort I put into my appearance are my friends (some also subscribing to the Fusion Mum look), the shopkeepers at the local shopping centre, and Poppy.

I need to wear comfortable clothes when I’m around Poppy, and I can’t afford to be too precious about them, with the threat of sticky fingers and toddler fluids looming over me.  When Cameron comes home at night, he’s just happy to be home, seemingly oblivious to my choice of clothes for the day.  (He doesn’t pass comment on the way I look anyway, unless we go out, when most of the time if he’s asked for his opinion it’s the right one.)

Knowing what to wear is a nightmare.  My wardrobe’s bland and uninspired.  I watch enough programmes that seek to transform someone’s image, but it never dawns on me that the programme might actually be aimed at me.  It might well be trying to encourage Eleanor Scott to be bold and try out the latest colours and fashions.

When I hear the word “fashion” my immediate thought is one of clothes that look ridiculous, but that are acceptable and trendy this season because everybody’s wearing them. Next season they’ll just look ridiculous, and everyone who cares will have discarded them and be updating their wardrobe, and that’s a waste of money.

Maybe I refuse to try something new because the more fashion conscious shops have got horrible mirrors that highlight cellulite from every angle. I don’t want to be reminded how globular I am when I’m trying to be positive and confident about what I’m putting on.  Worst of all are the open-plan changing rooms, which seem to be becoming the norm.

Eleanor had experienced some dismal shopping trips in the past.  On one such occasion, she had tried to squeeze herself into a pair of size 14 trousers, knowing full well that they would not fit after they had been through the wash.  To exacerbate her misery, a tall waif of a teenager had assumed position next to her, trying on the same trousers, in pink.  The waif then ordered the size eight, as those ones were “falling off” her, at which point Eleanor lost her balance, absentmindedly, in a futile attempt to do up the buttons.  Since then, open-plan was strictly off limits.

I shouldn’t complain.  I could have worked on my figure, but I enjoy eating and ever since I was little I’ve had a genuine aversion to exercise.  This may stem from being thrown over the gym horse or off the 3-metre diving board at an early age.  Or from being inherently lazy.

So, up until recently, when my body underwent a major transformation, I’ve been working on the premise that if I’m not going to change my physique, the remaining option is to stick to shops where I know that I have the average shopper’s waist-size, and where the management has had the good sense to offer dimly lit individual changing rooms.  It doesn’t leave much scope, but as my general dress sense is tapered trousers with a bottom-hiding jumper, preferably in beige or black, it fits the bill.

(I’m convinced that if you’ve been fat you’re always going to think of yourself as “a big person”, however much weight you lose. I always used to think I was podgy when I was a teenager, and when I look back at photos I realise I had a lovely figure.  If I’d have appreciated it more instead of constantly dieting – which only made me fatter – I might have never ballooned to the size I was at College.)

After a year of university, outside her mother’s close scrutiny, Eleanor’s weight rocketed to thirteen stones.  Being a size 18 stripped her of self-confidence.  To compensate for the excess weight Eleanor wore black, opting for the guise of “trendy student”.  She thought the baggy black look would hide the bulges.  Any pleasure she had previously had for clothes shopping vanished.

One crash diet brought most of the weight off in time.  Her mother had challenged her to lose the pounds in exchange for money for clothes that she needed for work, as part of her studies. The power-dress look was resumed for daytime, minus shoulder-pads.

On meeting Cameron, at twenty-three, she was a contented ten stones five.  She had the knack of remembering which weight went with which age.   Although there was still a way to go, her confidence was coming back.

Once Poppy was on the way, Eleanor abstained from alcohol – pretty much – helping her realise the figure she had longed for fairly shortly after the birth.

The trouble with diets is that they’re too restrictive. I’ve always had a very unhealthy attitude towards food.  Instead of allowing myself to eat anything I want, and really savour it, but not go mad, I banned the Bad Foods from my environment.  I’d crave them until the point where I’d give in, buy them and then devour them, before searching around for something else, gorging myself and then feeling wretched.  The weight would come on and the vicious circle would continue to spiral, until the stage where I was be unable to look at myself in the mirror.

Now that I’ve lost the pounds, post-Poppy, I need to learn how to shop, except that the Law of Sod states that now that I’m fairly open to rekindling this zest, I’ve now been blighted with a buggy and accompanying female toddler, whose idea of shopping comes with freebie pieces of sausage and currant buns.  When Style suggested a shopping trip, together with her buggy and male accompaniment, I thought it was an ideal opportunity, not to be missed.

Style is a professional shopper. Working in the Merchandising department of a sportswear company brings with it the inherent need to dress to impress.  Not a trace of Fusion Mum.  Ever.  She made being pregnant look elegant, by opting for the layered look in natural shades, as opposed to the elasticated summer trousers or the traditional blue and white striped dungarees that I went for.

Following the birth of her son, Style returned to work after her maternity leave.  This might also have some bearing on why she finds it so important to look good.  I thought I’d better make an effort if I was going to be seen out next to her, so I donned my customary black leather boots that complete all my trouser outfits, my favourite, grey checked, trousers, a waist-length red wine jumper and a tailored, thick linen-mix jacket, of the same colour, which I adore.

Style went for a long sleeved hooded white top with a black padded bomber jacket, drawstring cotton trousers and fashionably heeled boots. She looked fantastic.  Maybe it’s her five feet and six inches that enhance her stylish appearance, as opposed to the two and a half inches which accompany my five feet.   It may also be that she sets aside a portion of her monthly salary for clothes, whereas I buy clothes because my old ones have lost all semblance of shape, or because I’m cold, or hot.

(Of course I don’t have a monthly salary, which is another recurring sticking point.  I’m reliant on Cameron’s salary and, with that in mind, I’m reluctant to buy anything more than the essentials – food, bills, Poppy stuff, alcohol -which is ridiculous.

I really do need to redress, as a matter of urgency, my inherent guilt about spending money on myself.  Cameron and I made the decision together that I was going to sacrifice my career – certainly in the short term – to bring up our daughter.  As a result, his income became our income, which means that I’ve got just as much right to spend it on me as he does on him.)

Style had suggested our little spree, so I decided to watch how she shopped, in a bid to learn from an expert. We ventured into the uncharted territory that is Brand Name shops – with the dodgy changing rooms and horrible mirrors.

As I perused the rails, it struck me that my style has tended towards the “timeless classic”.  It suits me.  It’s always suited me. I was brought up on it. I’m happiest when parading as the “casually smart” dresser.  The fact that there was nothing on display to match my requirements led me to believe that “timeless classic” doesn’t rate highly amongst my discerning peers.

I’m an occasion-dresser.  I used to love going out for dinner in London and making a real effort to look good.  In the Netherlands normal life for normal people doesn’t require elegant eveningwear.  Hip is very much the rage over here, and Hip doesn’t feature in my vocabulary.

When I pointed out a pair of trousers to Style that I thought would look really good on her, her immediate response was that they’d look great on me too.  My retort that they were “a bit too funky” was rebuked as she thrust them into my arms and pointed me in the direction of the changing rooms, that were neither open-plan nor fitted with cellulite exposing mirrors.

The trousers were wonderful, and very fashionable, not what I would have chosen for myself, at all. They would have been three quarter length on Style but they were full-length on me.  I bought them. The fact that they were beige brought token comfort. (You can never have too many mid-wardrobe items, apparently.)

Our quest continued.  Style found another lovely hooded top that I would never have dreamt of wearing, following the occasion when Mother told me that clothes like that made me look stocky.  From then on, I chose Timeless Classics, which made me look old instead.

After a further purchase of a top to go with the new trousers, Poppy’s patience started to wane, so the priority switched to lunch.  It was nice whilst it lasted.  Poor Poppy.  She wasn’t used to department stores.

Our retail adventure left me quite unsettled.  At the tender age of twenty-nine I was dressing in clothes well in advance of my years.  What was more startling was that I had a fixed idea of what was “my style” and I was quite averse to changing this inflexible image I’d sculptured for myself.  After much pondering, I reached the following conclusions:

* Power dressing is a bygone era.

* I need to find the colours that suit me and then put them together well.  No more black:  it drains me and makes me look dead.

* I’m fed up of feeling dowdy in the way I dress.  I’ve realised that Poppy might not necessarily appreciate it if I make the effort to good during the day, but I will. I’ll feel infinitely happier with myself, and not like someone whose function in life has been fulfilled – by providing offspring – and is now rendered insignificant and no longer needs to make the effort.

* Fusion Mum is being outlawed, except when we go to soft-play areas, where it’s essential.

* When Poppy is eating, I’ll wear an apron.  Sticky fingers will be dealt with at source.

* I’m going to add several garments to my wardrobe every season.  As it’s unlikely that I’ll get much chance to try them on in the changing room, I’ll bring them home and return to the shop(s) any that I’m not totally enamoured by.

This year is packed with opportunities for new clothes, not least my thirtieth birthday.  I’m not dreading it: I’m really looking forward to it. The final year of my twenties hasn’t been steeped in happiness, so I’m going to put my heart and soul into making sure that the first year of my thirties compensates for this major blip in my life, and then some.

The weight’s off.  Now I need to add some style to my life.