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. 

How not to write a round robin....

Festive greetings to you all, dear readers, and many thanks for clicking my way. I'm pleased to announce that much like Take That or a similarly successful chart-topping comeback, after a lengthy absence from the blogging world, I've finally decided to make my return. Credit must be given to the ingenious Tom Fyans for the witty blog name. 

As The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year is well and truly upon us, so the round robins come flying in. The fuzzy scanned-in images of various Darling Children on their Gap Yahs, the latest family charity endeavours, the local village's yuletide toilet plans...I read them all avidly, as I'm sure we all do. 

And so, in the spirit of things, I've created my own round-up. True, embellished, or entirely fictitious...I'll leave that up to you.

I'll try to post as regularly as possible, or whenever something vaguely interesting occurs in my life. But in the meantime, eat, drink and be merry!

Ella xx

The Dove Family in 2013

Sara

Aside from opening the door to the window cleaner in her onesie, Sara has had a very successful year. Once again, she has been a key member of the East Malling PCC, and championed the ‘keep our new chairs clean’ campaign through the largely preventative measure of discouraging them from wandering down the church aisles with biscuits and juice. She has won her weekly badminton matches with a Wimbledon-like gusto, and the West Malling Community Choir continues to flourish from her involvement. Indeed, they have been invited to such prestigious events as the annual Christmas Lights Switch On, which this year was attended by an X Factor auditionee and a former Waterloo Road star. Juggling her roles as teacher and mother is a challenge she relishes, and with the Lord watching over her life and her laundry, she has every hope for a happy and successful 2014.

Richard

Richard has considerably less hair than he did last year. His weight loss has proved an equally successful venture, and he is pleased to announce that he has dropped from ‘morbidly’ to ‘borderline’ obese, an achievement that his friends and family look upon with great admiration. For his birthday, he received a pair of Spongebob Squarepants lounge pants, and his greenhouse is coming on a treat. He fears the winter weather somewhat, but has every faith that it will not affect his plums. In 2014, Richad aims to eat less brie and enter his massive courgettes into a charity competition. He also plans to cycle to Croatia armed with nothing but a screwdriver and a packet of Fruit Pastilles.

Althea

Althea has graced the West-End stage twice this year and will do so again in March as part of a diverse all-star cast in UCL’s production of ‘Hair’ at the Bloomsbury Theatre. Do contact her for tickets. Meanwhile, she continues to be an all-round university success, working and playing on the streets of London in her quest to become a Speech and Language Therapist. Since completing her Gold Duke of Edinburgh Award in 2011 and trekking across the Atlas Mountains, Althea has developed a real sense of adventure. She has travelled Europe, embarked on her first skiing trip and regularly displays outstanding confidence when navigating London with her personalised student oyster card. In 2014, Althea will continue in her university endeavours, simultaneously revising anatomy, choreographing five ballet dances and providing night-time counselling for the destitute. She also plans to take full advantage of her local Waitrose self-service coffee machine.

Ella

Ella rounds off 2013 with a high 2.1 in her BA French and English at Southampton (1.4% away from a First!!), employment prospects and work published in both a national women’s consumer magazine and the East Malling Parish News. She has also written a novel. Ella is currently searching for an agent, and has been in negotiations with Bloomsbury and Harper Collins having sent an email to both. At work, she has joined the choir. When she’s not rehearsing for a concert, Ella spends her lunch hour networking, editing and teaching French to those less capable than herself. In 2014, she will once again appear on the St James The Great reading rota, an exciting prospect that she is very much looking forward to.

Merry Christmas and a very happy 2014 to you all.

The Dove Family xxx