Twas Two Days Before Christmas...

Last Christmas, a parody round robin. This year, some silly verse.

Twas two days before Christmas,

And all through the house,

The Doves were a-prepping,

Turkey, puddings and sprouts.

The rooms were all buzzing,

As the relatives arrived,

All of them cursing,

The long busy drive.

In rolled the cases,

In rolled the sacks,

Out came the slippers,

The chatter and snacks.

Everyone shouting,

Keen to be heard,

All kings of the cooking,

As they rolled, chopped and stirred.

Granny was stuffing,

The turkey for eight,

Her sleeves were rolled upwards,

Her hands in a state.

The windows were steamy,

The heating full blast,

The voices, some strained,

Were content with their tasks.

The children were choosing,

The frozen bird’s name,

They settled on Terence,

In the seasonal game.

Daddy was outside,

Stringing the lights,

‘Better than the neighbours,''

‘They’ve only used white.’

The inflatable Santa,

Once 6 ft but sagging,

Waved from the front lawn,

His arms slightly dragging.

While Mummy at the front door,

Rolling her eyes,

Cast an unimpressed glance,

At his masking taped thighs.

The street’s tasteful twinkling,

All families inside,

Yet our lights were blazing,

Like a Disneyland ride.

Indoors was Grandpa,

In his usual position,

Racing Uncle Andy,

(The Scalextric was tradition).

Auntie watches sipping snowball,

Wearing pink fluffy boots,

 ‘I’ve won!’ shouts Grandpa,

 ‘3-0 now,’ he hoots.

Mummy calls us for dinner,

In her red festive pinny,

‘Salmon’s on the table,’

She shouts, ‘you great ninny.’

As the family then gather,

As the table is laid,

The stress all dies down,

The peace is all made.

The Doves begin Christmas,

With a smile and a snicker,

Merry Christmas to all,

And to all a good bicker!

A stitch in time

So, I’ve started knitting. Did I ever tell you my Granny has won prizes for her knitting? Perhaps I’ll do the same one day. Follow in her footsteps and produce a masterpiece so beautiful, so intricate, that it’s worthy not only of a Waterstones book voucher or a box of Malteasers but perhaps of its own cabinet at the V&A. For the record, I have no idea exactly what she won, but let’s face it, it’s unlikely that my creations will turn heads. Since starting work at Woman’s Weekly, I’ve made two cats, a pig and a steadily-growing strip of bunting. I’m proud of them all for varying reasons, the main one being this: I am far from a born crafter. Don’t believe me? I think I need to set the scene a little more.

Returning home from primary school with doodles of teachers and tissue paper collages, I was frequently told by my parents that I was the most artistic member of our immediate family. Given that my younger sister, now aged 21, still draws pigs the way I taught her aged 11, this is hardly surprising (sorry Althea...). So as a result of such misleading encouragement, I grew up with a somewhat inflated view of my artistic abilities. Every time I presented relatives with a hand-drawn thank you card, there were coos of gratitude. Every time I attempted a still life vase of flowers, my dubious watercolour was dutifully put on the fridge. Every time I used the miniature paintbox from a Christmas cracker to produce reindeer that looked like dogs or stick-man portraits of family members, they were received with beaming smiles. I’d also like to point out that this third event happened only last year.

So it will come as no surprise that secondary school was something of a rude awakening. I mean, it didn’t start off too badly. Regardless of the attainment grade (we won’t go there), I always received ‘A’ for effort and my parents displayed my full-sized paper-mache chicken with pride on the kitchen shelf. However, as the years marched on, the criticism became harsher. I say harsher, when perhaps I should say more realistic. My year eight ‘African jewellery’ that consisted of a single bead threaded onto some manky ribbon was met with raised eyebrows by a rather formidable teacher, whilst the sketch of my left hand holding a pencil merited a comment which has since become legendary among my friends: ‘C. It looked better last week before you painted it’. And the time I got an AA for my innovative sewing machine skills when I simply tie-dyed a Tesco t-shirt? I put that purely down to a dippy Textiles teacher who, when she wasn’t floating around in her loose-fitting kaftans, spent most of her time hiding in the materials cupboard.

But knitting, well, that’s a different skill entirely. Like many little girls, my granny taught me to make a scarf for my teddy bear, but I very quickly grew tired of the pastime, moving on after the thirteenth dropped stitch to bigger, more exciting things like turning the living room into a dog rescue centre. When the knitting craze swept through secondary school, I watched friends and peers with balls of wool in their trademark Jane Norman bags, yet brushed off any encouragement to have a go, preferring to busy myself playing Neopets in the library or writing the next school assembly.

And then, Woman’s Weekly changed my life. A bold statement, I hear you cry, but it’s not entirely inaccurate. Of course, I adored my job, but when the weekly makes and beautiful knitting patterns were displayed in conference, I couldn’t help feeling mildly unworthy. Why couldn’t I make novelty fruit and veg or turn my hand to a knitted Usain Bolt? Clearly, my fingers just weren’t quite fast enough.

When I was first invited to the Friday knitting club, I was skeptical to say the least. Well, not so much skeptical as embarrassed. Despite my granny’s teachings, I knew I’d have to start from scratch, but luckily for me (and with some very patient tuition!) I picked it up again much more quickly than I’d first anticipated. It wasn’t long until I was knitting on the train, in front of the TV, even on one occasion in the theatre, although when the house lights went down, I struggled significantly with my purl row. Safe to say, I was hooked. An addiction had unravelled.

As I sit with my ninth piece of bunting half-finished on my lap, I reflect on the days of sticky art tables and dyed orange fingers (the top marks Tesco project wasn’t without risk), I realise that this is perhaps the closest thing to crafty I’ve ever been in my life. Stuffed animals, bunting... What’s next for this intrepid knitting enthusiast? The other day, I found myself excited about a knitted cactus! And as I chat patterns with my granny and contemplate whether or not I’m capable of making myself a jumper without mismatching arm lengths and unintentional holes passed off as deliberate design decisions, I can’t help thinking one thing, and one thing only: I’ve been well and truly Woman’s Weekly-fied!

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner...?

Perhaps my daily commute to the Big Smoke is why my absence from this blog has been so uncharacteristically prolonged. But then again, perhaps not. I like to leave you guessing.

There is, however, a distinct element of truth to say that ‘Londoners’, if I can call them that when the vast majority appear to live at Bromley South, scarcely seem to have the hours to breathe. There’s no time to pause, no time to engage in any kind of meaningful dialogue with meandering tourists save the odd point and directional nod, no time to languish over lunches as they check their watches in the queue at Prêt à Manger, and certainly no time to be scrutinised for my own observational purposes. Pity, really, as these people are such a rare breed of human being. Their character and diversity astounds me every day.

Casting all that aside, I’m going to give it a go anyway. And why not, indeed? Those folk from Pompey who sit on trains for hours at a time to earn the gloried name of City Workers, those eager young graduates with a standard 2.1 and a dive of a flat in Clapham, those bigshot Suits who take the Waterloo And City line just to prove a point...they’re all classed as Londoners nowadays. Heck, I’m one of them. I spend two hours a day commuting from a rural Kentish village. I pass the evenings in ‘quirky’ pubs and pop-up restaurants checking the National Rail app on my phone. I still live with my parents. The fact that I aim to move to Zone 2 or 3 within a few months is neither here nor there. I, my friends, am a Londoner with the best of them.

The question is, which category do I fit in to? I’m a ‘yo-pro’ of sorts, granted (for those of you who don’t know, that’s ‘young professional’, where have you been?), but as a trainee journalist I’m not quite at the dizzying heights of a 25-30k grad scheme, nor do I wear, nor indeed own, a trouser suit. The very thought of such a garment makes me feel queasy. I’ve got nothing in particular against Clapham as a location, but I like to think I’m at least a little different to the ranks of barely pubescent graduates on Boris bikes who navigate the traffic in their hi-vis waistcoats each morning, Starbucks card in wallet, trainers at the bottom of suits and a roll up towel in their briefcases; cardboard cut-outs of a London business ideal.

Does that make me a ‘hipster’? Well, I do like East London. What I don’t like are sunglasses in winter and mismatching socks on show over brogues. I don’t care if they were sold as a set at your local vintage flea market, go out and regulate the colour scheme of your footwear like everyone else.

So where else do I belong then? North is for students, and South is mostly Made In Chelsea. Then there are the people who claim they live in ‘South-East London’, when actually they mean Bexley. If we’re going down that route I may aswell claim that Maidstone is London. Why on earth the Oyster card only works up to St Mary Cray, I’ll never understand, darling. It surely can’t be because I live in Kent? Oh, no. Perish the thought.

I suppose, then, that I’m just your bog-standard commuter for now. Those that come from a non-descript suburb and brave the wartime conditions of First Capital Connect trains on a daily basis in order to achieve that idealistic but often completely unsatisfying town-country balance. In some ways, these people are the worst. They want the best of both worlds, yet are the first to complain when their meticulous routine goes wrong. ‘Electricity Faults’, ‘Tree On The Line’ and ‘Excess Moisture On Rail Tracks’ are all regular crises. ‘But it’s so lovely,’ they cry when confronted. ‘I can spend my weekends by the sea.’ 

Buy a beach-hut down Margate then, love, and don’t moan about the Tube. 

Notes from my eight year old self

I was eight years old when I wrote my ‘World Wildlife’ diary. It was the year 2000 and I hadn’t yet discovered the afro comb. My hair was triangular, at times almost at right-angles with my chin and with a butterfly clip in each side. Teenage angst had not yet arrived, but my childhood imagination was rife, and, in the spirit of creativity, I’d meticulously captioned each and every one of the weekly animal photographs in the diary with all the wit and rigour of an occasionally amusing cartoon artist fallen on hard times.

Before we go any further, I should add that I’ve kept a diary from a very young age. Form, technique and indeed design have all varied from year to year. I’ve had Harry Potter, Forever Friends, a partially-completed five year ring-binder with a key I kept in my ‘loose buttons’ drawer...but World Wildlife trumps them all. It’s a veritable treasure trove of emotion, full of drama, intrigue and romance. Oh, and teachers. A whole lot of teachers.

Allow me to take you back to January 2000, where the rollercoaster begins. It’s the first day back at school, an exciting yet daunting prospect for any little girl; the next thrilling step of her academic journey. I think I captured it perfectly:

January 5^th

Today was boring. I went back to school. The only interesting thing that happened was a music man came to school and I got my owl which is 10 merits.

January 6^th

Today I had an even worse day than yesterday. It was usual Maths and English and to top it all off Miss Roots was ill. I had to have Miss Whale instead. It’s funny how I keep having fishes for teachers!

January 18^th

Today was the worst day of my life. I had lots of arguments and I have to wear a skirt tomorrow.

Can I just pause at this juncture to emphasise that I was, in all respects, a girl’s girl. I had no brothers, many Barbies and a trunk of dressing up clothes. But A SKIRT? Surely not?! How could my mother be so cruel?

Beside my hatred of skirts (and tights incidentally, but that’s another story), another theme that crops up rather frequently is the ongoing saga of my love life. For an eight year old, it was surprisingly tumultuous.

February 14^th

I decided to send a Valentine’s Card to Thomas Grindley. He forgot to give me one though!! I’m sure it was an accident.

At least I stayed positive in the face of rejection.

April 7^th

Today was the school disco. There were lots of songs I knew and it was fun. My boyfriend Thomas bought me a drink and I did the same. It was a cool night!

Let’s be under no illusions here. No, my primary school did not serve Jaeger bombs to minors. ‘Buying drinks’ undoubtedly meant powdered squash and sickly sweet cherryade that stains the upturned corners of your mouth, giving the impression of a manic clown. Still, at least there was no need for lipstick.

From there, the relationship progressed even further. But I was still always one to have a firm grip of reality.

December 15^th

Today was the school disco. Thomas and I danced to Titanic ‘Live Far’. It was VERY romantic. I found out I am level 5 for spelling- COOL!

I believe the exact lyrics I was looking for at the time were ‘Near, Far’. Still, I’ve spelt each word impeccably. I deserve a sticker.

And the episodic dramas did not stop with playground romance. Oh, no. Just you wait until you hear about the trauma of the hair braid. To give this anecdote a bit of much-needed context; I’d been on holiday to Majorca, I’d had a hair braid put in and I was in love with it. Now do sit back, relax and enjoy what should probably be televised as a three-part Channel 4 documentary.

September 6^th

Today I went to school. Mrs Thornewell my new teacher told me to cut my braid out. I did not want to. Mummy will clip my hair over it.

September 7^th

Today I went to Brownies. I actually had quite a good time*. Mrs Thornewell spotted my braid but I’ve come up with an excuse. I won’t tell you in case she reads it.

September 8^th

Today I had a nice day. Mrs Thornewell did not see my braid. I did good work and it’s Friday so I can unclip my braid now.

* Note the hint of surprise here. But when I tell you that our Brownie group consisted of constant separation from my best friend, Natasha (so we were mildly talkative, big deal...I’m not bitter at all), weekly inspections to make sure we weren’t biting our nails and a rainy camp when we were divided into Cooking, Hoovering and Toilet Cleaning Group, I’m sure you’ll begin to sympathise. No wonder I didn’t like Guides.

Thus, The Tale Of The Braid reaches its happy and triumphant conclusion. The moral of the story: it’s the little rebellions that make all the difference. Either that or Mrs Thornewell was too busy dealing with Luke Sales’ attempt to karate chop a table in half to reprimand my choice of hair accessory.

Despite the odd isolated incident, I was, on the whole, a natural teacher’s pet. But where I became a bit more scathing was the subject of my classmates:

November 13^th

Today I had a rehearsal of the dance I’m in for assembly. It’s the Snow Dance. Natasha is the Snow Queen. I am a person who throws confetti.

Is it me, or is there an undertone of jealousy here? In fact, it reminds me of the time I was a flower not Red Riding Hood, or the Inkeeper’s Wife- a fictitious role in a Nativity invented specifically for a class of 30 children.

But Natasha was, as my diary frequently proclaimed, my Best Friend Forever (if you’re reading this, Tasha, LUV YAZ), so of course I was willing to forgive her when the teachers chose to ignore my clear thespian prowess. After all, I was Violet Beauregard in Charlie And The Chocolate Factory (I told Mrs Thornewell that I could ‘talk common’ for the role if necessary) and formidable housekeeper Mrs Danvers in our year 6 production of The Rocky Monster Show (believe me, no-one else could scream ‘Rebecca’ with quite as much panache...) so I too had my fair share of the limelight.

Of my other classmates however, it’s fair to say I took no prisoners when it came to criticism:

November 9^th

Today I went to Simone’s party. All I can say is that it was a complete and utter waste of time and I don’t know why I bothered going there. Sophie Woodman even cried!

Poor Simone. She was a very nice girl who’d presumably had a normal child’s birthday bash; jelly, ice cream and musical bumps. Not that I remember anything about it, of course. It was clearly far too dull to recall. But if Sophie cried, then it must have been bad. That girl was tough to the extreme.

Speaking of birthdays, another frequent source of excitement was presents. Christmas, birthday, surprises...they were all listed with huge and precise attention to detail, to the point where they often took up an entire six line entry:

November 25^th

Today I went to the East Malling Fete. I went early with Daddy to set it up and Althea had a ballet exam. I met a girl called Alice and we played together. I got a file-a-fax, some goo, two soft toy ducks, a purse and a yo-yo. I got Althea a soft toy Dumbo. Then I won some sweets and a tin of salmon.

All in all, this sounds like a pretty average Saturday shopping trip. But it’s the tin of salmon that makes it.

A particularly striking example of presents received relates to my dad’s return from his Middle Eastern business travels. Trust me when I say, it’s a real gem.

April 14^th

Daddy came back from Saudi Arabia today, bringing me a silver bracelet and Mummy some earrings. He also brought an alarm clock that does the Arabian* call to prayer.

* I probably meant ‘Muslim’. Other than that, this is, unbelievably, an entirely true account. Said alarm clock resembled a garish green mosque, flecked with ‘gold’ that began to chip off after several uses as an exotic holiday home for my menagerie of animal figurines. Well, the Sylvanian Families got bored of their barge sometimes, okay?

As the year 2000 drew to a close, I’d recounted highs, lows and voiced the thoughts of more animal pictures than David Attenborough. But as my parting gesture, I think I’ll leave you with this. The visual image it conjures up is truly spectacular.

September 24^th

Today I went to church. There was a new vicar and he ate breakfast at our house. It was weird. Then it was the Harvest Festival lunch. I ate too much and felt sick but I wasn’t.

Tickets Please!

‘Hi, good morning, thank you, lovely, hi, good morning, yes, wonderful, lovely, splendid, fabulous, morning, lovely, thank you, morning...’ These are the kind of ticket collectors I like on my morning commute.

‘Railcard? Okay. Bye.’ These are the kind of ticket collectors I do not.

And yet, there are dangers to both types. Both possess an equal amount of power. Both are likely to query even the most logical of ticket-buying demands. And, of course, as we know, with great power comes...the ability to put you in a bad mood at any time of the day.

Allow me to explain. I get on the train every day at East Malling, a tiny village station for those of you unfamiliar with each and every corner of The Garden Of England’s gardens. What I’d love to do is buy my morning coffee, perhaps greet the seller who knows me by name with a friendly nod and order ‘my usual’, whilst the steamy scent of frothed milk and caffeine oozes from the little wooden coffee hut, awakening my senses and preparing me for the day ahead. I might even buy a newspaper, which I’d peruse from the platform in a cosy heated waiting room, chatting to fellow passengers about the lessening price of rail fares and the comfort of the new memory-foam train seats. Of course, it goes without saying that I will have already purchased my ticket at this point, smiling broadly at a flat-capped Southeastern worker with a round jolly stomach who’d return my grin with unswerving gusto and a cheery wave. If he was in a really good mood, he might even give me a discount. The train would glide into the station each day precisely 30 seconds early, and I’d recline in one of the plentiful seats. The ticket collector would skip from carriage to carriage, reassuring passengers of that day’s service reliability and complimenting their choice in outfits. No-one would moan. No-one would snore. All around would be sighs of contentment.

As I’m sure you’ve now guessed, this is but mere fantasy. The ‘waiting room’ at East Malling station in fact consists of cold wooden benches slung under a dripping bike shed of a roof. The place has been decorated with a garish shade of blue in some chirpy rail worker’s attempt to cheer it up a bit, but judging by the commuters’ faces, this bright idea has had next to no effect. Instead, one tends to feels like a last-minute extra cast in a low-budget version of Bear In The Big Blue House, where the Bear’s hooked on energy drinks and the House bears a remarkable likeness to the grottiest of public toilets. Even the smell is there. Indeed, the only drink I’m likely to find at East Malling station is a discarded can of Red Bull or half-empty bottle of White Lightening.

Tickets? No, of course not. After all, why install a ticket machine when you can instead confuse barrier guards across London by providing Permits To Travel that only get printed if you lodge your 5p coin into the slot at a very specific angle? Oh, and let’s add to the fun every three days by rigging said machine to flash a ‘No Service’ light- that’ll test their negotiation skills when disbelief reigns at the other end of the journey.  

‘What do you mean it’s not working? It was working perfectly well yesterday. That’s one penalty fare with added embarrassment- oh, and do you have your Feeling Like A Cheat card on you, please Madam?’ 

But even before you get to these Barrier Warriors, you have to face the ticket men. I say men, as in my experience, a noticeably high proportion of the women tend to resemble the opposite sex. It must be in the job description. Now, these fellas are a force to be reckoned with. Buy your ticket on the train and you’ll be treated to one of four reactions:

1)      The Reluctant Accepter: ‘No ticket machine at your station, you say? Ah, well I’ll do it for you this time, but try and buy it in advance in future.’

2)      The Teenager: ‘Yeah, alright, whatever.’

3)       The Doubter: ‘Did you really get on there though? How do I know?’

4)      The Jobsworth: ‘A likely story. I’m going to have to fine you.’

Number 1 is not a bad find. Yes, you’ll feel like a crook for the five minutes it takes to purchase your ticket, but beyond that, it’s pretty much plain sailing. You’ll nod fervently and enter your card details, knowing full well you’ll never heed the advice because he’ll only say the same thing again next time and after all, which self-respecting commuter has the time to bother with advance purchasing at home when there’s sleep to be had and onesies to be worn?

Number 2 is your best bet by far. The Teenager has only just started his long and less-than-fulfilling career on the rail network. Tall, pockmarked and with a noticeably jack-the-lad accent, he’s not really in it for the Train Fare Banter, only the money to buy his next packet of fags. Besides, he would be something of a hypocrite to fine the hardworking commuter, particularly when his own fare-dodging days are only just behind him.

You can probably have some fun with Number 3. Not just a Doubter, he tends to also be something of a Philosopher, questioning everything he is told and everything he hears. ‘But why should I believe you? Why do you think I’m saying this?’ My advice would be to bring up the Meaning Of Life. If you’re really lucky, you may even get him to question himself. Once that happens, you’re on the home straight ticket-wise.

Number 4, otherwise known as The Jobsworth, is the one nobody wants to come across. This lad has been part of the network from the beginning of Time Itself. He’s seen Big Changes, and is a stickler for rules and regulations. He knows the lies, he knows the loopholes; he knows exactly which stations have what. Trust me, nothing will get past him. The trouble is, he’s not very easily convinced. Permit To Travel Machine not working? Okay, prove it. You can’t? Fine. Then it’s Penalty Fare Time. End Of Story. There’s not much that can be done about The Jobsworth. You could try incessant blubbing or feigning a faint, but it may only antagonise him further. He’s heard all the excuses before, and he’s not falling for any of them, especially if they’re true.

I’m sitting on the train today, wondering which one I’m going to get. It’s a veritable treasure trove of possibility out there, and I have to be prepared. As my knees knock against a fat man’s rucksack, I rehearse the reasoning process in my head. I do hope no-one reads this over my shoulder. But all in all, I’m feeling pretty ready for it. If nothing else, these ticket collectors are certainly increasing my debating ability. I’ll be in parliament before you know it. I even took a photograph of the Out Of Service Permit machine this morning in the vain hope that it’d pacify The Jobsworth. But I doubt it, if I’m honest. He’ll probably just accuse me of photoshopping.