go your own way

Dear Young Person,

You will hear older humans tell you that life is short, to not wish time away, to learn from experience and you may smile and nod politely, you may secretly wonder what they know of youth. 

And you may be right because 'youth' evolves with each passing generation; the rites of passage for the in-crowds morph with ever increasing demands to be in the right clothes, like the right music, share the right images.  We, the elders, may roll our collective eye heavenwards, kiss our teeth and shake our heads at that which passes for stress, when the knowledge of paying bills and face the daily grind has yet to be experienced; but we empathise, sympathise and should not trivialise your current strife.

I urge you to look around you; look up to see the buildings that that have spanned decades and although remodelled, still survive - like us; look forwards and see the joy, sadness, plight and successes of people you pass in the street - you might find a friend, a lover, a business partner, an inspiration in real life; look left and right because, yes, life really is too short and sometimes it gets taken away from us when we're not looking. 

Touch lives. In some way. In some positive way. Take a risk and say hello to the person who seems different to you, who seems to be just like you. Be safe, of course, but discover the life of a someone who treads a different path to you. Religion, politics, age, music, fashion, education, confidence levels, abilities, interests - you know what you like, but maybe you don't yet know what you could like.  It's a two-way street and you have so much to teach other people too.

Learn to cook. It's always great to receive manna from the gods on delivery bikes. But when you can conjure up a bowl of deliciousness from the paltry left overs in the pantry then a winner you be. Follow a recipe, don't follow a recipe, get a big pan and chuck in some edible stuff and party on with the right spices and herbs. Perfect a dessert you can make with your eyes shut. And then get a big spoon and enjoy. On your own or with friends. It's your kitchen, you choose.

Be clean. In all areas. Smell nice. 

Listen. Hear. Listen. To your friends. To your enemies. To your elders. To the youngers, because, hopefully, you will age one day. Learn how to interpret subtext in someone's voice and fight your fights face-to-face. Allow music to swallow you whole and swim in its melodious belly. Find the songs that you can cry to, dance to, rage to, love to - they're out there, trust me. Listen to the words of those who have come before you so their lessons do not go unlearned. Listen to yourself. Trust yourself.

You are in charge now, young person. We are here with helping hands but this is your journey. 

Go be you and do what you do.

This post is in response to a #post40bloggers #writingprompt no120: Dear Young Person

the fear

Fear. Dry gasps in the dead of night. Butterflies rioting in your stomach on the way to that meeting. Tiptoeing around weighty discussions to avoid the inevitable. Wishing a fateful day could be deleted from your calendar. Not doing something. Not doing anything. Closing one door before closing all the doors.

We all think of fear as the emotion that makes us hide behind a cushion when we watch the idiot in the scary film climb the creaky stairs in the creaky house without turning the lights on. But what happens when fear can trickles into the everyday? 

Before I step on to a plane I have imagined our fireball descent into a Lost-type landscape; in slow motion so I get time to kiss my family, tell them how much I love them and hold all of their hands. This leads to hubby experiencing fear-by-pinching as I wobble onto an aircraft gripping his hand so tight, I leave nail marks in his hand. I have had the science of it all explained, I have been told that air travel is safer than public transport but let me ask you when was the last time you saw a bus falling out of the sky? Exactly. Hunk of metal with people and bags and whatnot in the sky. Nope doesn't compute. 

Fear.

I had a conversation with a good friend, recently, about the possibility of parallel lives - was there another me writing a library's worth of fiction, hob-nobbing with my favourite authors-now-friends? Despite taking the step to start writing, every time I hit send or publish there is a tidal wave of fear about putting myself out there. What if I offend, what if it's ignored. what if it's rubbish? Am I the writing equivalent of the X-factor rejects who snarl that they'll be a star one day when everyone is wondering why their best mate or mum didn't tell the glaring truth about their singing prowess? Sometimes I don't even start a new idea because the negative voices have set up their own gospel choir next to my computer.

Fear.

You know when you return to your desk after a meeting with your managerial superior and you shake your head in disbelief and think I could do that job with my eyes shut. But then, the right job in the right place at the time with the wind in the right direction just doesn't arrive, does it? Putting one foot in front of the other or indeed clicking to apply for that job never seemed so hard. Maybe someone will discover the hidden truth that you can't actually do the job, any job...just go home, already. It's that negative choir again.

Fear.

The words spill out with quips and jokes spliced in, to decorate my conversation. Do I laugh too loud, too much? I've been sat in a cabin for nigh on two years with my cats for company until the family come home. Can I remember how to talk to people? Am I still 'with it'? The fact that I've just said 'with it' proves how much I'm so without it. Is this dress professional enough, flattering enough? Why am I sweating? I know, it's 35 degrees outside but maybe I should have worn a trouser suit. There's too much oil in the front of hair but not enough at the back. Should I worn it out full Afro today or should I have tied it back? Is my face right?

Fear.

I want to be less afraid.

May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears.

Nelson Mandela

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers writing prompt No59: I want to be less...

brand new day

Rejection. Whatever the cause, it sits by your bedside waiting for eyes to open, full of a new day's sparkle. And then...blam...oh yeah, here I am ready to remind you that you is a failure, baby.

There I am putting my best foot forward and nope. nope. nope. Doors closing and apologies spilled over into my week like a melancholy waterfall.

So, of course, I went straight into 'sorry for me' mode. Gah, how rubbish can one person be. Here goes... I'd been killing it on the writing submission front by hitting two or three stories a week and of course there was the interview.  But how very quickly my hopeful heart sank when my stories and poems didn't make the grade and the job simply passed me by. Everything I offered was getting to the final hurdle only to be sprawled across the finish line watching the backs of winners.

My inspiration died and dried up all my writing. And it finally seemed like my teaching life was done for good this time.

Then off the back of one of those 'feedback' calls where you get to hear all of your faults, even though you'd realised them the minute you were driving home from the interview, things started to look a little more blue sky-ish.

Fast-forward and not only am I writing again, the sun's out and I am an employed teacher again. Go me, right?

Sometimes those doors need to close in order for you to find an alternative entrance. Challenges lie ahead but my head's up for the first time in a while, so bring it, bring it, bring it. 

It's going to be strange going back to the working grind after so long at home. I've had the privilege of structuring my own days, exploring my own dreams and spending more time with the girls and whilst that's not going to disappear completely, I am going to be a bit weirded out having those Sunday night blues again. Or then again, maybe I won't.

One thing I won't miss is the stink attitude from some people who cut me the side-eye when asking 'are you working yet?' as though I'm a fully paid up member of  The Farage Fan Club.  Unlike the lovely, lovely people who have asked about the progress of my writing - thank you to those people, I am still putting pen to paper and the dream lives on.

I am doing the running man in my garden right now. On my own. In front of my cats. They don't care.

young hearts run free

Those are my legs! 1980s neon swagger.

It's Sports Day season again. Across school fields everywhere, children are wearing their team colours with pride as they hop, skip and jump into sacks carrying eggs; teachers with clipboarded results forget about the marking piling up on their desk to fret about whether they can get through the staff relay without falling in the home straight; and primary school parents pretend to not care about the parents race and just happened to have their neon swooshed trainers in their handbag.

I was a sport lover in my younger days. And although it's more of the armchair variety these days, I still love sport and am a huge believer in the good it can do.

Sport got me through school corridor racism. I was good at it. The whispers and mean stares subsided when they saw me on the track and on the field. I got picked first for teams, I represented my school, my county and my country in athletics. And when I regale my daughters about my sporting prowess whilst rummaging around in the loft for my dusty medal collection, I regret giving up my talent every time.

Sport enabled me to appreciate the benefits of hard work, way before I realised that revision was a necessary evil; it showed me how to cope with the highs and lows that go hand in hand with sport and life; it widened my peer group so when things were difficult at school I had my team mates at training with a shared experience of frosty cross country mornings and nerves on the starting line; and it took me around the country and gave me a working knowledge of what was where (do you know I once got asked in class where in Wales was Scotland??).

But it's so very easy to look back and get all misty eyed about my teenage wins. I have to be honest and remember the evenings where I didn't want to go training and the day I feigned injury, missed out on an athletic event only for my coach Dad to return and find me dancing to the opening credits of the Pink Panther in the living room. 

Now I can look back and sympathise with the sorrow, frustration and probably the anger that he must have felt when I told him I was giving it all up, aged 17. With a promising athletic career ahead of me, I imagine he probably wanted to drop kick me out of a window. all those nights training with me through the four seasons and the years of trekking me up and down the motorways of Britain. And what for? No eldest daughter on an Olympic podium. No dedicated sportsperson of the year trophy to my coaching Dad.

Except...the love of sport remains strong. The sporadic forays onto treadmills get harder as the knees get creakier. I'll splash about whilst the offspring do a million graceful laps around the pool. I'll encourage my eldest around the Race For Life 5K only to witness her sprint finish leaving me for dust.  And if it wasn't for channelling my Mum's love of the exercise DVD, I would be a professional couch potato.

Now it's me ferrying children to pitches and pools at the weekend. Now it's me commenting on the natural athletic posture all three of them have. Now it's me celebrating hanging the medals and certificates that make it home. Every time my Dad hears me blah on about my kids' sporting achievements, it must seem like groundhog day, apart from the fact that he could never boast about winning the parent's race. That three separate Mum's race wins by the way. Yep still got it.

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers writing prompt no87: You and Sport

me, myself and i

The writing prompt...

I want to be more...

Oh dear, I thought, where do I begin. I want to be more of everything, anything, something.

Fingers on the keyboard I start to enlist the words of Skee-Lo : I wish I was a little bit taller, I wish I was a baller, I wish I had girl who looked good, I would call her...

I've got distracted. Start again.

I want to be more organized, more successful, more educated.

Nope I'm putting a downer on myself and actually I'm working on those things so you know - half a tick.

Back to the drawing board.

I want to be more creative, more brave, more smiley, more of a friend. 

Mmmm this isn't healthy and I'm negating the lovely people in my life who tell me I am all of those things. 

I want to be a more exciting and inspirational mother, I want to be a more patient wife, I want to be a more caring sister and daughter, I want to be more, more, more...

I'm reaching for the thesaurus to find more adjectives and adverbs to indicate how much I need to improve myself.

And then I stop typing to really have a think.

It took me 'til my forties to start really listening to people around me, to hear their guidance, to accept their help. It took me five years after that to realize that I cannot always be the me that people want me to be; I can only be the me that I can be. 

This doesn't stop me wanting to be more of a risk taker and become the adventurous hippy, jump into a bright red camper-van and drive my family around the world type earth mother I thought I was going to be.

But for now. I want to be more me.

Let's see how that goes for now eh?

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers #writingprompt no58: I want to be more...

for all we know

Is there ever a right time to say 'I told you so'?

Guaranteed to plant a seed of teenage rage when spoken from the mouths of our parents, do we forget the weight of these four little words as we get older? 

Having long since passed the forty barrier, I am presented with regular opportunities to set up my stall and hold my ' I knew this would happen' banner aloft.

I'm not saying I'm perfect. I'm not saying I haven't made mistakes (Lord knows I've made enough mistakes to record a Blues album). And yet, whilst age doesn't always bring wisdom, it certainly brings experience.  So surely I'm allowed a little bit of #post-forty gloating? 

I, usually, attempt to disguise this as concern and commiseration.

Example 1: 

"Oh so your teacher did mean for you to explain how the character reacted rather than retell the whole story."

(subtext) Do you remember when I told you to do that but you ignored me because even though you've just started high school and I've been teaching for 20 years, clearly you know better?

Example 2:

"Oh no, really, she cried for hours whilst *insert partner's name* went out to get formula. I know, breastfeeding is hard but yes, you did give it a go and as long as she's fed eventually, right?"

(subtext) Remember that time I told you that breastfeeding can be great but isn't for everyone so, just in case, chuck a tin of formula in the back of your cupboard so it's there when your boobs and baby aren't co-operating? Having been through it three times I find that with ninety nine breastfeeding issues, using formula ain't one.

Example 3:

"Ok, so you know when I told you to make sure you start the bedtime routine an hour before lights out and leave the DVD for tomorrow, was to save you from the nightmare moment when the girls turn on you and then each other like gremlins after midnight"

(subtext) Read above

Gah, I sound so self-righteously smug, don't I? But look, surely after all this time schlepping around Planet My Life, I've learnt some stuff on the way and, occasionally, I want to save people the trouble of making the same mistakes I did.

Because I love hearing other people's advice and experiences; especially other parents and other women. What's better than sharing a being a mum / wife / woman  dilemma with a good friend? Why take the unknown high road when, sometimes, the path with the flashing signs and clearly marked dangers can make life that little bit easier? 

After listening to the trials, tribulations and triumphs of others, I usually end up with a bag of solutions and leave thinking that it's not just me who's bumbling precariously through my every day. We're all at it!

So surely, we can all crack an 'I told you so' every now and then?

Point of note - beware of overuse!

With the offspring - choose your moment carefully as the mistimed 'ITYS' may result in much sulking and grunts in place of speech.

With the newbie mother or sibling - dress it up like your child's first ever World Book Day at school because the naked 'ITYS' will be akin to sticking your tongue out and going nah nah nah nah naaaa. And no-one likes that person.

With the live-in significant other - treat it like foundation: cover all necessary areas then apply a little make-up.  Failing that - a well placed eyebrow lift can also effective

With the mother-in-law - leave it, it's just not worth it.

shout, shout, let it all out

Back in my early teaching days, if we were celebrating someone's birthday with the usual slab of cake in the staffroom we would give that someone carte blanche to have a rant and a rave. This was the birthday rant. About anything and to anyone, but it could only last on your birthday.

Needless to say no-one ever took up the mantle seriously but we would all have a 'giggle' at who we'd choose to unleash our birthday rant to. Usually that kid who took it upon themselves to make your Monday period 1 lesson a living hell or the suit in the office that had forgotten what a classroom looked like but insisted on telling you what you were doing wrong.

No, we all took the higher ground. Unless the birthday celebrations went on too late and got a little too messy that night. Suddenly, everyone would be claiming their birthday rant!

But doesn't age give you that right to, how shall I put it, give people a piece of your mind? I'm spending some time considering this because I still cringe at the times when, upon discovering the price of an untagged item at the till, my mum had no qualms about complaining "How much? That's ridiculous, put it back Nicola" and I'd have to skulk away with burning cheeks back along the queuing aisle. Why couldn't she just pay it and return it later? I'd think with my no-responsibility-no-damn-clue-attitude.

However, it was her money, her choice, her right to raise her voice wasn't it? Maybe. And I do find myself irked more and more about poor customer service, the behaviour of people in the street or in their cars (don't get me started on kids without seatbelts) and yes, things that are ridiculously priced.

So perhaps Mum was right to voice her consumer distaste.  Maybe we do get to a point in our lives where we think Nope I'm gong to have to say something about this. Whether it's paying a joke for a plain white t-shirt or when the shop owner in the village corner shop doesn't look you in the eye or thank you for your custom but is happy to take your money. 

I don't think ranting is in my nature but I can certainly string together a strong word or two.  And maybe I'll wait to re-enact the whole How much? scenario to embarrass my own three  daughters another time ...my day will come.

Until then, I will continue to save my tirades for the TV...I'm good at that.

last dance

Two thousand, zero, zero, party over, oops, out of time. Tonight we gonna party like it's 1999.

That's the song on repeat in my head every time I get to go out.  Which isn't often. I mean the real go out, not the going out to the shops to fill up my cupboards out, I mean out out. Handbag, phone, keys, purse, nail varnish, lippy (and inhaler) out.

These nights are few and far between. And I'm beginning to understand why.

My knowledge of where to have a good night has disappeared.

Now I'm not looking for the nights of the past where I'd be stepping out when everyone else is heading home; freezing my ass off because queuing up for the cloakroom wastes valuable dancing time; leaving someone mid-conversation because the DJ is playing a 'Tune' - cue one hand up in the air.

No that's not me anymore. But not through want of trying. It's because I simply don't know where to find a decent venue to groove, rave or mash it up on the dancefloor, anymore.  There are bars and clubs aplenty in this city but none offering a night with the music that'll make me get off my coveted bar stool.  When I've tried a 70s/80s / soul night before, the best tracks are played pre 7.30 to a few bar huggers and then ditched for chart noise when the young 'uns arrive. Time to queue up to collect my coat.

I refuse to believe that there isn't a disco night out there that conjures up the spirit of Studio 54 or a funk night to raise the ghosts of soul groovers or... I know, I know a ska night - where you skank 'til you can't skank no more.

Don't get me wrong, I'm partial to a bit of the stuff my girls listen to but if I get the chance to be out dancing, I need to be among my crowd; my tribe; my people who wanna get on the good foot.

I long for a club where you enter like the Soul Train dance line. Or failing that, I am invited a Blues house party, that my parents used to talk about, where you'd feel the bass of the music in the walls and in your chest. I've considered holding one myself but doubt my neighbours here at Twickers Towers would approve.

I'm determined so I'll keep looking and be content with that one 'tune' on a night out that I know all the words and dance moves to.  Or just save my shapes for the kitchen where I hear the resident DJ spins tunes to make you cut a rug.*  

*I was referring to me...with my own playlists..in my kitchen...alone.

the way we were

The older I get, the more I throw a rose-coloured spectacled glance back to my childhood. The 3G are always having a shared chuckle when I regale them of 'the good old days'. 

"Do you mean in the olden days?" they ask behind youth and cheek.

Well, maybe they are, since they are also the days before the internet, mobile phones, electric cars and a gazillion TV channels. But these are also the days from whence tradition comes.

When I initially considered a tradition I'd like to see carried on I contemplated my childhood Christmas - the day of the Long Road To Opening Presents. Christmas in my house would actually start with the soaking of Christmas Cake Fruits in March before the baking of said fruits at the crack of a December dawn.  The kitchen would swell with the baking of Christmas Eve bread, including the special plaited bread (!) and a bun with our initials on. No amount of protest would move the Christmas morning any faster as the ritual of opening presents did not begin until we had finished every scrap of saltfish and bakes, fried plantain and cocoa tea and then washed every speckle of every plate. It would seriously feel like Christmas Day had disappeared before even the first shred of wrapping paper came off.

And whilst I try and keep as much of those traditions as I can with my own family, it gets a little harder when you are also part of someone else's family therefore sharing in someone else's family traditions. Throw in a little cultural diversity and things can get a little busy. We cope by amalgamating and creating new rituals which can sometimes result in customs getting lost or feelings being hurt.

So I thought of a tradition transcending all the branches of my family tree which, by its very nature, will grow and blossom with each generation and it cannot be remain the same or cast in stone.

I bring you the family 'do'.

Sitting free of seatbelts in our orange Vauxhall Viva, I would excitedly watch the 1980s London - in all its greyness - cascade around me until the our arrival at one of three West London estates would thrust my parents back into the warmth of who they once were and us into this strange yet pleasurable temporary existence.  Enveloped in the beat of Lovers Rock, any attempt to conceal my lanky presence in the kitchen would fail miserably as West Indian fingers, fresh from cooking pig trotter sous, would pinch my cheeks forcing me to extrapolate myself and disappear into the melee of cousins.  The rumble and explosion of  West Indian laughs above tales of 'he and she' or the thumps of dominoes on the tiniest table ever made linger in my veins and the strains of the reggae forever remain.

My girls may not be submerged into the sounds and smells of my yesterday but  they have experienced what will be their versions of  family do's across the country; from the rolling hills of the North East to Midland dales to coastal towns to Caribbean villages to city dwellings and one thing is constant; the welcome.

Other constants follow swiftly: the hugs, the food, the laughter. And still more: the new recruits (babies or lovers), the music, the little ones getting taller, the older ones getting greyer. We exchange seats at the table as our generation mourns the loss of those ahead and welcome those who follow behind.

There was a time in my teens when it seemed family dos didn't happen or maybe they did and we just weren't there. The splinters from this time have healed in some branches, not so in others, so I am thankful of the dos that remain and those that we are welcomed to join. And I relish those moments when aging fingers pinch the cheeks of my girls making them scurry for the safety of cousins across the country.

This post is in response to a Post40Bloggers: Writing Prompt No.103 : a tradition you would like to see carried on 

busy doing nothing

I'm a procrastinator.

There. I said it. I admit it.

Why get that one important, it's been sitting there for ever needing sorting, thing out when I can do all those not-really-necessary-but-will-fill-that-gap-of-time-when-i-should-be-doing-something-else thing.

You know, like taking the day to paint a shed when I should be booking my car into the garage to investigate that clanging noise. This is because I hate making phone calls. To strangers. I can chat all day to people I know well.

Or hanging a shelf when the words of my novel are still floating in my head rather than lying seductively on a page. I've never hung a shelf before but lo and behold, there's a great big wonky pink one next to my desk complete with sliding books that were quite happily languishing on the floor.

What's it all about then? All this procrastination? Laziness? Boredom? Confidence? Fear?

Fear! Yes let's look at that one. The absolute fear of getting it wrong, of being rejected, of ...cue cliffhanger pause...failure.

Procrastination enables me to get some inane task all bright, shiny and correct (bar the shelf clearly but you know I tried, right?) whilst leaving the seriously challenging ones for another time slot. This is quite a dangerous trait to develop whilst working alone at home all day although interestingly, not one I recognised when I was in my old day job.

The difference? There were others who relied on me. I would struggle the day long so as not to be tardy, ill prepared or lacking when I was in teacher mode...or mum mode, to be honest.

The supportive words of wonderful friends soon become frustrated imperatives as I, once again, doubt my experience and ability.

And there it is. What I'm avoiding is being the me I want to be.

This post is inspired by Post40Bloggers writing prompt no31: I'm avoiding...

yesterday once more

I picture myself uncurling my toes ever so slowly out of the heavy biker boots I have been wearing since leaving England's shore. The thick, grey clouds of home are long behind me and in their stead are light wisps of white cotton spiralling across an expanse of blueness. Silence and peace and calm wrap themselves around me dampening any surge of anxiety; my mind stirs into being having slumbered for days previously.

On dry land, sand cushioning my steps momentarily soothing until the burn of the heat prickles my soles, I would search for shade and look out to the retreating vessel that has left me here to sink into my past. I find...


a bumpy journey in the back of my parent's car, lying down stretched out on the back seat with my eyes tightly shut. Remember lying in the back seat without seat-belts? Tracing each turned corner memorising the journey home. Knowing that if I kept really still on that final turn, that the engine would stop, two car doors would slam and whilst my mum would carry my baby sister, hopefully my dad would carry me up the stairs to bed; leaving me to slump in his arms before he placed me under cold bed-sheets and then I would jiggle myself warm once my bedroom door had closed, so he wouldn't know I'd really been awake.


I find...

a rainy London day, not unusual, walking beside a cousin who, in my childhood, held an older sister role. We had lost touch as family's do, drifting through their own lives before the invent of facebook. But somehow we have re-connected, filled in the years once the surprise of our adult faces has passed, shared the highs and lows that has made us who we are. Not much time passes in our re-discovery before we make the choice to walk together, as survivors, on a march through the middle of London. Through the healing laughter and plentiful tears we make vows that the pain will stop with our voices being heard and our role is to now protect us and our future us.


I find...

me dancing. Not one day in particular. Although I see my student union; a smoky, sweaty Convent Garden nightclub; a high street in West London; an ancestral cellar on my Northumberland wedding day; in my kitchen to the bemused faces of my children. I am dancing with abandon, in bliss, to any tune that can be turned up loud.


I find...

a classroom covered in poems, stories, reflections, advice, notices, cartoons, posters. And there's me talking, writing, pointing, laughing, telling someone off, asking for quiet. Always asking for quiet. To listen to me. Because I know what I'm talking about. In most cases I wouldn't always say this was true but in a classroom, yes I did, I do know what I'm talking about and they... all of those children that have sat in seats in my classrooms, should have been listening. My classrooms were a haven of learning for them and me.


I find...

three moments in one. Summed up as a weariness that saw me shuffling for weeks, then a shared panic that saw me being lovingly bundled in a car and deposited into emergency entrances, then the most terrifying moments where I locked frightened eyes with excited, calm ones being suddenly replaced by the most beautiful moments I will ever have in my entire life. The moment of motherhood.


Like the end of an old cinema reel that flickers and fades to blank, these are my memory images that I would wish to replay to my heart's content.

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writingprompt93 : being shipped to an island with only 5 memories

i am the one and only (things i have learnt about holiday-me part 2)

Things I have learnt about holiday-me: part 2: I used to think it was just in middle England that I felt my colour but not so, dear readers, not so

I will not bore you with the trials and tribulations of my flying fear, it has been perused far too many times before.  I am witheringly aware that the dimensions of my fear are such that I played no part in the organising of this particular holiday; a control I struggle to forsake.  I didn’t acknowledge the holiday ergo the flight did not exist. To which end I only retained the information of who (good friends we normally share tents with), what (a villa near the beach apparently), when (half term) and why (said friends and GeordieLad had enough of the tents in June).  I left where (I knew it was in Spain but that was all) and how (I knew we weren’t driving that was enough for me and my fear).

So I said I wasn’t going to write about the fear and look, a whole paragraph has passed on it.  Curse you flying tin contraption.

My childhood was not made of European holidays.  We did two trips to visit my grandparents in the Caribbean – ten years apart – and apart from that it was self-catering cottages in various counties across England’s green and pleasant land.  They were good fun and we were well aware that mum and dad had saved ridiculously hard for a week in a British coastal town.

Once past the motorway madness, country lane discombobulation, paused travelling for mum to have her cream tea in a quaint pub, we arrived at the jigsaw puzzle country house ready for adventure into forests and seaside towns unknown.  Hazy summer days on busy beaches would skim over us like smooth pebbles bouncing on a peaceful shore.

Then you notice the double-takes, the looks, a child may stare for just that little bit too long.

And there it is.  Glance left and right to the nether regions of the coastal line and we were the brownest bodies on the beach, by a country mile. I don’t know if it ever bothered mum and dad; if it did they never showed it or talked about it within their children’s earshot.  I’m sure they did notice and chose to plough on enjoying their holiday, I’m sure they saw a lot more – this was the 80’s after all – but we never stopped our adventures through the counties of England.

A life in the capital has led me to forget my status in the 4% of ethnic minorities, I have become accustomed to a city where – in the words of Depeche Mode – people are people.  But once out of London, be it a county outside the sounds of the M25 or a popular beach on the Costa del Sunny or in a busy hypermarket, I see the question mark glances.  I feel it and like a cat’s arched back raising its hair on end, I turn on my guard. 

Once I was told it’s my paranoia.  By a white person.  I would that it were.

But when writing this, I am in a different country with family and friends.  A blue sky with a pulsating sun in its belly wakes us up every morning.  I sit and write by a pool with the echoes of a Spanish gardener singing across the road.  And I am learning to walk (or sunbathe) with the air of someone who doesn’t give a hoot. 

Look upon my afro, my brown face and despair.

(read: things i have learnt about holiday-me part1)

owner of a lonely heart

I'm sure we have all felt lonely at some point whether it was as a child waiting to make friends in a new school playground or the climb up management ladders that often leave silences when you walk the staffroom or the first few nights at home after the end of a relationship.

The Loneliness series across the BBC was a moving eye opener .Society will often presume the lonely are usually the old; unmarried or widowed. But the programmes presented various sections of our communities that get bitten by the lonely bug at some point in their lives.

There were the long married couples that had made it 'til death did indeed part them but what struck me about them was the honesty and the resilience. Then there were the new arrivals in new town/city/country and the new mums settling into their routine - silent until the baby cries. Everyone had a tale to tell and I was often in tears, especially hearing the 100 year old Caribbean lady telling of how she was alone day after day with only the telly for company (apart from the carer who came to wash and feed her).

I was pleased to see that the programme makers dealt with a range of lonely people; of every age, gender, race, class. Lonely can strike at any time and anywhere. 

So in addition to the lonely situations mentioned above I think there are other types of  loneliness that you can feel when you are physically alone - a Valentine's Day (if it matters to you) when you are recently broken up or a Mother's Day when you're estranged from your kids or spending nights alone when a partner is constantly working late. Some people are comfortable in their own company and living alone is a pleasure but for others this may be tantamount to misery.

And then there is the loneliness you can feel when you are surrounded by people. You know when you feel you just don't fit in or you fell you are being ostracised or bullied. This is not just a playground situation either. Or the loneliness you may feel when you feel trapped, maybe in a job or friendship or relationship.

So the programme got me thinking about how I've come across loneliness in my own life. Strangely, even though my weekdays are spent writing for hours on end on my own (bookended by the GeordieLad and the 3G in their work/school day hustle and bustle), I don't feel particularly lonely. The transition from a full time teacher in busy secondary comps to solo creator had its bumps but I suppose knowing I usually have a mate on maternity leave round some corner or other, or that the hours do fly when you're having fun I aim not to waste time until the school run.  And as someone who hates being the new girl I still wouldn't put moving schools or starting new jobs as lonely.

I worked out that my loneliness time was actually during the busiest time of my life. As a full time working mum of three small children, head of a pivotal department incorporating 15 staff, doing both nursery and school runs, filling the schools hols with oodles of activities to alleviate the working mum guilt, I barely had time to breathe because then I had planning and marking to do. I was surrounded by people all the time except for a 5 minute car journey between work and the nursery. . And yet I felt so incredibly lonely because I would work through lunch breaks, speed off at the school and nursery gates, avoid the hellos at kids events, work in the early hours of nearly every day that I created a massive gap between me and the people who cared.

There is a form of loneliness that comes with the internal negative voice that tells you that you are not good enough. This would be shouting loud and proud during my working days yet I would smile, laugh, make jokes, be assertive, be creative, be supportive but looking back I wasn't making proper time for me or anyone else. I didn't have the ... what we call... headspace. So then I became lonely amidst the company.

And now, meshed into hours of silence except for the scratching of pencil on paper I find I am not nearly as lonely as I thought I would be. I have found myself talking to more people because I answer texts and phone calls and emails and invites like never before. I make time to visit people and renew or strengthen friendships that I had always put off for another day (not everyone, mind, I'm working on it!).

weight of my mistakes

My morning ritual starts with a cacophony of groans followed by a facial search. The groans may fluctuate depending on the exercise that has been partaken the night before and the facial search... well let's just say that MiddleS asked if I was able to grow a beard like Santa's . Sigh.

MiddleS is great at that; letting me know my foibles and flaws. Luckily I adore her so she gets away with it - for now anyway. But I'll admit some of the aspects of me or my mothering that she likes to comment get me thinking and sometimes re-evaluating.

I'm now used to her preamble starting with 'When I'm a mummy I'm going to let my children do..." and this is followed with a range of allowances that she is currently deprived of; such as being allowed to have her ears pierced, wearing crop tops, having a mobile phone, the list is endless. I know there will come a time when we'll have to start negotiations of Cold War proportions because there are very few boundaries that I haven't crossed in my own youth. I can hardly belittle or bad mouth mistakes of my yesterday simply because I don't want my kids to repeat them. We all know that if you keep telling the young 'no'it just makes the 'yes' seem more exciting.

AWOLMum always told me to never start plucking my eyebrows whilst she tweezered her own.  So, like, that message got through! But I get it now. Hiding my tweezers is easy though (plus I always intend to make that threading appointment) but as for my piercings and tattoos - not so discreet. Many of my piercings are long gone and my tattoos are usually hidden from view but this all got me thinking about how I communicate that certain actions or choices I may have made in the past are now huge regrets of mine. AWOLMum had me when she was very young but I don't recall her ever telling me when I should or shouldn't have kids - the focus in our home was getting an education. However she was horrified when I kept 'putting holes in my body' and shaved all my hair off at uni but I did it anyway, and then some. There was some of my own sadness and insecurity that had me piercing, painting and pretending I wasn't me back there in my 20s and 30s.

When the girls ask me about my tattoos I say that they hurt really badly and I wish I didn't have them any more. When they ask about my piercings I say that they hurt and it costs lots of money to keep buying earrings when you lose them. When they ask about my historical hair disasters I say that the damage to my hair can never be undone. See a pattern here? Who knows? Maybe they'll develop an aversion for all things not natural to the body and I won't have to worry at all. Or maybe these are just rites of youthful passage that they will go through and look back on with a cringe in the same way I do.

Until then I'll tweezer in secret and pass on the message about how lovely they are as they are and hope that something sticks. Hopefully they won't have to wait until their 40s to realise it.

what i am

Today someone asked if I minded my age being public. Regularly students are shocked when I volunteer my age instead of allowing them to guess (usually ranging from 23 to 56 - go figure!). I hasten to add that I am not compliment fishing, I just don't see the point in being embarrassed, coy or hiding your age. It's what it is. I'm 43. 1972 was a brilliant year for births, obviously. Being a child of the 70s was great - we were allowed outside 'til it got dark and three TV channels were more than enough. Experiencing teendom in the 80s meant fab music and BratPack films. I was at uni during the Britpop 90s and raved all the way through to my first job, but was also eager enough to keep up with technology as the millennium dawned. Seriously, who could ask for more? And now that the GeordieLad finally caught up with me on the goodship 40 this weekend, it's even better!

Bizarrely when I was a youth-type person I dreamt about being around in the 1960s because the fashion, the music, the Afros, the feminist writing was so mind-blowing. Until I read a couple of history books and realised the sixties was maybe not the best place for a black woman - social-politics wise - compared with the here and now. It's ironic that I roll my eyes at kids trusssed up in re-vamped eighties fashion in the same way I thought I looked cool in sixties gear.

Don't get me wrong I occasionally wish I could turn the clock back to right a few wrongs or take a different path to a better life destination. And I do wish I had appreciated my curves pre-kids, coz Lord knows those children came bearing more curves for me and they're both here to stay. Kids and Curves.

Overall though. Post40 me is a better me. Not perfect. Still improving. Always learning. Feeling loved.  

So no, I certainly don't mind being asked my age, being teased about my age, sharing my age in public. It is what it is. More importantly, I'm looking forward to 44.

changes

Okay I'm going to admit it. I'm jealous. Yes the green eyed monster is definitely dwelling within me most of the time. And for why or what? 

Those people who jump careers. There I've said it. The ones I read about who have fled their high-flying banking jobs for freedom on a farm, making butter or some-such activity. Or the mother who managed to write that novel whilst breastfeeding a newborn.

My tone may sound mocking but, no, I'm merely jealous of their drive and confidence. I guess I'm a little in awe of people like this; who take a leap of faith and risk to follow a dream or explore a talent.

But I often wonder what the back-story is in these cases? Does everyone really have a nest egg ready to hatch on a rainy day? What happened on the day when someone gets home from the daily grind and says 'That's it. I've had enough'? Are partners and offspring involved in the decision?

Having watched seventeen years worth of 16 and 18 year olds leave an institution to seek pearls in far flung oysters, I am struck with the support and guidance that they receive before making crucial decisions . I remember being bamboozled by Radio One's Which Way Now? fledgling campaign and daunted by the deluge of leaflets AWOLmum brought back from a careers evening (which bizarrely school pupils were not invited to). And that was pretty much it to set me on my life's path.

Now in my forties I find the career advice I require is still inadequate. Am I expected to be settled in my job or self-reliant at career progression just because I have been in the workforce for twenty odd years? The marketplace is changing and whilst I have reached middle management in my career choice I now find that I am stagnating because the opportunities are not forthcoming due to financial / political constraints in the education sector. In addition to my age and pay grade working against me, what chance does my CV stand alongside younger, less expensive, recently trained employees? I am no longer naive enough to believe that experience can withstand those parameters - believe me I have tried. 

So I am considering moving out of my comfort zone to pursue new directions but where to begin? Googling 'What job can an ex-teacher do?' often ends up with more questions than answers. And giving everything up to retrain is not always a viable option with a family to support.

Have you jumped careers? Where is the best place to go for guidance?