Single Mother on the Verge: The Teenage Years

Food for thought

2011-10-20T21:17:00.002+01:00

An oily bird

This evening I was sitting at the dinner table with Jack, I was in my pyjamas being ill, and our friend Dillon was over eating our beef stew. Dillon's going through a few difficulties at the moment and so I thought I'd make him feel better by talking about mine.

'It's not about you,' he screeched. 'It's about me.'

His worries are severe health problems, mine are minor social inconveniences.

'What you don't realise,' I said, 'is that I turn 34 this year, and the last time I had a boyfriend I was 31. That's just...'

'Well, that's not exactly true is it?' said Dillon, raising his eyebrows at me.

'It sort of is,' I said. 'I was at that event last week...'

(It was an award ceremony in Sweden. I have a new job that propels me into a completely different world to the one I inhabit. I ate pheasant, sipped just a tiny bit of Chablis – as I'm living sans alcohol – and watched the King and Queen of Sweden loaf down the stairs, twenty minutes late for dinner.)

'...and I was sitting next to two really old men, and even they weren't interested in me. And there I was thinking: widen the scope: young, old, half-animal-half-human, anything will do.'

'Your problem,' said Dillon. 'Is that you've stopped drinking.'

'So you'd date a minotaur?' asked Jack.

'I suppose so,' I replied.

'Or an upside down merman with a tail for a head, and a head for feet?'

'Yes, I don't see why not. Anyway,' I continued, looking at Dillon. 'It turns out even the coffin dodgers aren't interested in me because there was this 50-year-old woman across the way and they wanted her.'

'My friend's granddad is getting married to a 30-year-old,' said Jack. 'And he's 74.'

'Why didn't you introduce me to him?'

'Even she's younger than you,' he said. 'Look Mum, you've got to think of it like the BP oil crisis. Once BP had loads of money and loads of oil, and people were offering them more on the table, and they were like "no, we have loads of money and oil" and then all the oil poured into the sea, disappeared and they had none, and now no one will give them more oil or money – or it's like when apple's stocks and shares plummeted in the 80s... well, that's what you're going through now.'

'So, I'm like an oil slick?'

'Yes, you're like BP. You had loads of offers, and now they've disappeared into the sea.'

The One in Which I'm an Evil Mother-f...

2011-06-28T10:37:00.004+01:00

I absolutely mean this, I am trying so hard to be the best mum in the freaking universe but I'm faced with the challenge of a (definitely wonderful if you're reading this my darling son, Jack) 12 year-old, and I've raised him to HAVE a VOICE and an OPINION.

Oh, why did I do that? Why?

By the time Jack is fifteen, he'll be like Germaine Greer but with actual balls.

Yes, there are times when I look to the heavens and I pray:

Dear Lord,
(I'm going back to religion on a purely selfish basis; I'm simply asking for things I want. Like more patience.)

So I was in the car driving Jack back from his guitar lesson, before dropping him off at yet another sleepover.

'We'll have to collect some drinks and snacks. You can't turn up empty-handed.'

'There's only seven of us staying over.'

'Exactly, seven is a lot.'

Seven growing, hungry, rugby lads; how do you even begin to feed them? I think I'd just throw them out into the garden, snarling, starving, and hunting down the neighbourhood cats for dinner.

'Can we get some lager?'

'Er, no.'

'OK. Bitter then?'

'Er no! I thought we'd had this conversation: no alcohol until you are eighteen and you agreed? We are against alcohol.'

Asleep, in my PJs, again.

'Yes, I was against alcohol. But that was until I discovered the real world.'

'I'm not getting you alcohol. That's it. I don't agree with underage drinking.'

I base this on real life experience because I've been hungover for twenty years, and well, look at the state of me.

We swiftly moved from this to that day's' events:

'So, how was school?'

'It was brilliant. Really good thanks. Jake in sixth form went to the shops, bought a copy of the Star and we all saw him gawping at Page Three. I said to him, Jake! So he took out *Page Three, folded it and walked around with it in his pocket the rest of the day.'

(*proper horrified)

Dear Lord,

I pleaded out loud, as we drove through Stockport, and past McDonald's.

I really need you to help me with this...

'God, won't help you now,' laughed Jack. 'You've got a teenage boy.'

I groaned. Theoretically, in number only, Jack's not a teenager yet. However, he is growing a moustache and sports size nine feet. As Jack pointed out, some of his teachers are still struggling to grow a moustache. (I'll move onto my plans for Immac-ing at a later date).

'So Mum,' continued Jack. 'If you had three wishes, what would they be?'

'To get everything I ever wanted.' I realise this is a dangerous thing to ask for; because it would be a nightmare. In the short term, I want Channel 4 to commission my sitcom.

Then Jack launched into a massive in scope, long, and complicated speech about what he would do with his three wishes: in the meantime, I drove down a one way street the WRONG way, was verbally abused by an old man, and the car chuffed and clattered like it was going to explode.

Dear Lord,

I prayed again...

If you can't help me be a good mum, at least point the way to a petrol station...

The other day, we played tennis and I whooped Jack's ass.

Jack said: 'I couldn't concentrate because you keep loading me with all your stress about work and things-to-get-done-now!'

'Don't give me that,' I batted back. 'All families have things to do, and I've told you there's nothing to worry about.'

'Well, if it's not your stress you're loading onto me, then I bet you've got PMT.'

Grrrrrrrrr.......

Um, he's probably right.

Healthy Distance

2011-06-25T23:12:00.005+01:00

Jack has had a very busy day.

As he is getting older, (a few months until thirteen) his days become busier... and... well... to be honest mine just become quieter.

My stomach sinks as I write this, perhaps because I'm watching Sleepless in Seattle, a film about being alone whilst I too am alone. I swear to God, I am trying to have a life full of the whip, bang, zip but it's a Saturday night and well, here I am, writing at my laptop. So much for whip, bang, zip.

I can't just drop everything and go out. I can't make plans to go out just because I want to drink, there are other things to do like collect Jack from school, feed him, drop him off at a friend's and then collect him at nine (he used to be in bed at 6.30pm, once). Life's changing, and I'm still trying to figure out how to change with it.

Jack is involved in theatre at school; he loves it. He reminds me so much of how I used to be; always spinning in a globe of excitement because there were so many things to do. So much to see. And maybe when he was younger I could be everywhere and anywhere at once - because I was younger and less whacked - but also because it was so simple. He'd scurry off to my mother's with his little Spiderman case and I'd be... I don't know... in a bar. In another city. Working. Playing. Being busy. Having fun... meeting boys and doing stuff. Earning money. Making a living. Holding out for a dream. Being me.

I was so, alive. Yet, for the past few years, I've been existing.

And Jack, back then, well perhaps he was asleep, or perhaps he was thinking; "Why is she having all the fun?"

Now I know what it's like to be waiting in for him to come home; as he waits for me to finish whatever I'm doing and have time for him.

I think what's needed is some healthy distance.

He's OK. He can do healthy distance.

Me, I'm all, agh. Help.

Sex in your eyes = Love and Money?

2011-06-14T09:48:00.007+01:00

I can't see the woods... there's no trees!

I had a long chat with a chum yesterday afternoon. And for her, like me, it's all a bit ickly-pickly right now; what with WORK being hard to come by for much of the nation. And besides that we're both completely single; I suggested she get a boyfriend and move him in straight away to help pay the bills. But it's a bit chicken and egg: how to get a boyfriend when you haven't got a job...

And for me: how to get a boyfriend when you've been sleeping in the boxroom next to the toilet for almost a year.

I think we need to have 'sex in our eyes' and look game on, rather than, Oh fuck, game over.

As she rightly said, 'You never used to have problems.'

Well yes, that's because I had sex in my eyes back THEN. If only this whole thing could be worn like contact lenses, then I could say: "Excuse me for one moment, I think the sex has fallen out of my eyes. I'll just pop the sex back in my eyes. Ah, now I can see.

You know when the sex has fallen out your eyes: Men don't walk past you on the street, they stride past you without even a tiny glance.

Hm less talk of no sex, more talk about no work and no money.

She's not the only bright star that is suffering; summer is not a good time for academics; the universities don't like to pay their bright young associate lecturers, and so many are left trying to find work in places like McDonald's over summer. It's even hard to find work in McDonald's; it's cheaper to hire a 16 year-old than a 30 something with a PhD and a social conscience to boot.

Perhaps a girl should forward plan, hunt for a boyfriend when she is in employment; but then I find that when I'm working, I focus all my energy on work. And I'm always working -- paid or unpaid. Don't give me any of this, 'we don't need men business'. It's true, we don't.

Well, er, for a few things we do. I once read that women who have regular orgasms are more successful.

Anyway, I don't think I've got the hang of all this "how to manage your life business." The older I get, the more complicated it seems. Bringing in the washing in heels, and catching the bus into town for a night out, just don't go hand-in-hand for me. I always fall arse over tit.

At a women's networking event the other week, I asked a financial whizz: 'How do freelance women, who are managing creative careers, buy houses?' She replied: 'They get married.'

Ah, right.

Um... hang on a minute: I'm just going to do a quick ~~Mori~~ Maria survey. I'm going to quickly think of ten people: right, I've thought of them, and these are people (as might befit Royals) in my 'inner circle', who are in a situation:

1. a. struggling to find work; recent graduate
2. b. manager, approximately 20 years with one company - voluntary redundancy
3. c. super-great person, having hours and wage cut by 40%
4. d. enthusiastic and brilliant community worker; working all sorts of unfamilyfriendly hours for an agency
5. e. man under 60, recovering from cancer, considering selling home, as no work to be found; wedding jewellery sold
6. f. father of two, job switch, lesser pay
7. g. clever scientist mum looking for new job
8. h. clever art historian looking for job
9. i. person with a job, low pay
10 j. person with a job, contract coming to an end.

So, that's a bit bonkers.

The question might be:

Right now, how does anyone buy anything at all?

Under 16 and Pregnant

2011-06-08T08:22:00.007+01:00

On the way to rowing club last night, I called in to visit a neighbour. As I entered the house, she was whispering with her teenage son in the kitchen.

"Don't tell her," he said.

They hung around the kitchen looking guilty. I wondered if it was because she was serving him a dinner of spare ribs without a side salad. A few weeks ago when I visited, he'd been eating spare ribs then too -- and I insisted that he eat salad or I would drag him to my house for lettuce soup.

BBQ spare ribs is his favourite meal: he's fourteen and he now has 5000 spare ribs inside him; enough to build a clone army from left over bones.

Her other boy, aged six, wandered to the freezer and began to rummage through the icepops.

"I know what it is," he laughed.

I looked at the older boy's dinner and thought, gosh I'm not that much of a food fascist -- eat the hot BBQ spare ribs before they go cold! Stop hiding your dinner!

The neighbour leaned over to the little one's ears, "Go on then," she said.

I saw her stifle a laugh; she mouthed to me, "He just said, 'the things that girls and boys do when they get close to one another.'"

Of course I was baffled. What's that? Fight?

"I'm going to tell her,' said my neighbour, 'She's the only one standing in the kitchen who doesn't know."

Then she mouthed in an exaggerated Les Dawson fashion that a girl at her son's school is pregnant. Seven months pregnant. It's thought she's been hiding it all this time.

"Ah," I said.

"You don't seem surprised," she said.

Maybe it's because I'm researching and writing on teenagers and sex, but, well, it's not that unusual is it?

Unfortunately, some young girls get caught out and they need help; hiding it under a jumper is no help at all.

This is why for Jack's sex education, we read the book 'Let's Talk About Sex" (AGH I screamed inside. LET'S NOT) and then some months after that we watched the film Juno and discussed personal responsibility At Great Length.

"These things happen," I said. Then I turned to her son. "Right," I continued. "Don't go making your mum a granny." I gave him the raised eyebrows. "And you do know, don't you, that you should be able to get free condoms from the school nurse! And, if a girl needs emergency contraception the school nurse should give it to her..."

"What's that? Medication?"

"Yes, a pill...the morning after pill," I called loudly across the kitchen. "If needs be, the nurse can even take the child off the school premises so that she can collect a prescription. And you needn't worry about school telling the parents because it's confidential."

"I've seen a door with school nurse on it," he said. "But I don't know if she is in there..."

I tell Jack not to have sex until he's over sixteen, as well as telling him the health stuff. Jack goes to an all boys school. And it's well known by all the boys that the school nurse hands out free condoms, because apparently some of the older boys have a stash that they've (optimistically) been collecting for years.

"Do you have lessons on contraception at school?" I shouted across the kitchen to her son. "Hm, it's a Catholic school isn't it...?"

Her Teenboy groaned, "See Mum, this is why I said don't tell HER...."

The Cupboard is Bare

2011-05-31T09:55:00.007+01:00

Jack opened the fridge door at the weekend and swung unhappily from side to side. Then he opened and closed the drawers at the bottom of the fridge.

Working so fast in the kitchen, I blur.

"There's nothing in here," he moaned. "We haven't got any food."
"I think you'll find we have got food."
"Nothing we can actually eat."

I joined him at the fridge door.

"Stop swinging," I said. "And look, there's your favourite yoghurt; Yeo Valley organic strawberry, and there's half a tub of cream cheese, some satsumas, some spring onion, milk, butter, a bit of asparagus, a couple of potatoes, and an onion, and over there... some apples in the fruit bowl."

I opened the freezer door, "And we've got some pork chops, a chicken, chicken livers, a huge leg of lamb, and some broccoli, some chives, lemon thyme, and mince meat."

Then I opened the cupboards, "A few tins of beans, loads of lentils, passata, rice, tuna, hot chocolate, pasta, flour..."

"Yes, but nothing I can actually eat. We haven't had crisps for months."

"These are all meals," I said, "you'll see."

I'm finding it really difficult to fill the fridge and keep it stocked. Food is simply too expensive, and I'm sure the nation is groaning under the pressure just like me. I don't think I've ever found things this difficult before, and trust me, it's been bad.

Also, I'm kind of 'between jobs', and as I'm self-employed, Jobseekers Allowance is not really worth investigating. I'd be better off trying to pick up extra work elsewhere (trouble is 'elsewheres' are being closed down). I did step foot in the Jobcentre, I asked for advice and the lady said all they do is hand out benefits. My eyes pleaded with her, 'oh help me' I nearly screamed, it was only 9.10am, the chairs in the waiting area for benefits were filling up, behind me a queue was forming and it trailed outside the door and onto the path.

"I wish I could help," she said sympathetically. I had to try very hard to stop myself from crying. A man elbowed his way to the desk, pushing me to the side. "I'm talking to this woman," snapped the lady, "wait your turn."

I sent my CV off to an agency, it was for a position much junior than anything I've done before, but the money wasn't bad, and it was close so I could cycle there. The recruitment agent called me up. "How old are you," she asked. "Thirty-three," I said, "but I'm sure you're not supposed to ask my age."

"You could definitely do this job," she said. "You've had a lot of experience, and you're well qualified, but how would you feel working under someone else --- the woman you'd be working under, she's not going anywhere."

"I'd be happy to," I said. "I don't mind."

Anyway, that was that. I wasn't suitable for the job, because I'd be able to do it.

In my attempt to keep afloat, I've investigated the Sainsbury's feed your family for £50 planner, and I think it's a load of shite. If you ate that much 'basics' wholemeal bread, you'd be crying into the toilet, and then sticking your head in it. Also, shopping from week to week like that could be expensive. And there's no fun in that menu, and no wine.

I'm running my own feed your family on sawdust experiment. But as ours is a family of two, I need to feed us on £25 a week, just for the sake of healthy competition. And that will include washing powder, shampoo etc. I absolutely don't believe in buying everything from a basics range either. Poor people need to eat well too.

So: two weeks ago I spent £70 in Sainsbury's. This week I spent £30 in Aldi. I have friends over for lunch on Wednesday, and then dinner Wednesday evening. This means I can't buy any more food until June 13th.

So, what did I cook yesterday out of our non-existent food? A freaking enormous homemade lasagna, that's what, whilst Jack cleaned out his bedroom with his Grandad.

"Food tastes nicer when you have a tidy bedroom," he mused as we hung out in his room. "I really enjoyed that lasagna.'

So we won't starve if we stay clean and tidy.

And, thank God, I have plenty of stock cubes.

Q2: Should I Start a Blog?

2011-05-27T09:27:00.008+01:00

Not this reader's ex-husband

Dear Maria,

I first spotted you when compiling a column / possible future blog about being a single mum, bought and read your book and was impressed --- then I lost heart with the idea a bit, then was completely knackered but carried it on on the quiet, and now have a healthy log of work to offer someone, somewhere!

When most people think of a single mum, it is of what you have written about; but there are a great many women like me who become single after marriages fall apart: me in my forties and many, many in their thirties, and I think there is room for a voice at that end of the spectrum.

I would still dearly like a magazine / newspaper column but haven't really had the courage or the wherewithall or confidence or space to do much about it until now, and there was your very kind and generous invitation! Too good to pass up, I feel.

My children are young, 2 and nearly 6 and I am ancient; so I was thinking of calling my possible blog something to do with middle-aged (single) mum but haven't got down to the nitty gritty yet. I am presently wading through 'Blogging for Dummies' which is a bit daunting, but I am getting there.

I would also love an Agent, so enclose Column 1 that was originally written for a wider audience and would have to be edited to be more blog like, but I was thinking of being honest about my intentions and perhaps introducing the columns as they stand.

Very best wishes.

Thank you for your time and effort.

Anon

Dear Anon,

Metaphor for life No. 134:
Sort your shit out and then start decorating.

It was great to receive your email and I really enjoyed the samples you sent to me. Brilliant that you bought, read, and enjoyed my book. Thanks!

I think you are absolutely right, there are lots of women who find they are single mothers in their forties, and also lots of women who wonder what it might be like to take the plunge to leave their husbands. So you definitely have something there, especially if you don't mind writing the truth about what you feel and have experienced.

I suppose this is the big one; would you be happy to write this book, blog, column, and stand in the playground chatting to other mums knowing that they have a back catalogue of history on you, and you don't on them? Would you be happy to go on a date with someone who researched you and read your book first? These things aren't very cool, and you can find yourself stuck with things to say if you've already said most of it online (I speak from my own experience --- and I'd bet my dodgy little toe that this is the same for other blog to bookers too.)

Feeling comfortable with this (paranoid) feeling is harder than you might think; and I wonder if lots of bloggers wrestle with the very show and tell nature of what they write?

Health warning over, I'll give you the advice you want to hear. I'd say writing a blog is a good route to trying to secure a book deal or a column. I say this because it has worked for many people, including me. However, there is a difference between blogging what happens each day, and blogging what is actually a story, with a hook, and a quest element. So before you begin, think about your story. Where does it begin, where might it end, what are you going to explore, and how are you going to do it? You need a beginning, a muddle, and an end.

What are your motivations? I began blogging because it was a creative exercise that interested me; it wasn't just about writing a diary online. I wanted to learn and understand how a story could be told online. I'd completed an MA in novel writing, played with short fiction, read at events, gone to events, written crappy plays and so on.

So, I think that if you want the blog to have a life outside of the blogosphere you should approach it from a writerly angle and a story angle, i.e. the main thing you want to do is to tell this story, and the blog is only a part of that.

You could, of course, not set up a blog and simply approach agents with your material and see what happens.

I take no professional responsibility whatsoever for the following, but I reckon you should:

Try your idea out, give it an existence other than on your computer and see what happens. Once you create something, and it has movement, it begins take on a life of its own: like water down a rockface, it will find its way, or simply dry up.

You could:

Contact a few newspapers, magazines, etc, and try to get an article on this idea commissioned.
Read your columns out at an event.
Organise a discussion group around the theme (a teaparty for charity or something)
Talk about the issue on local radio.
Join a writers group.
Set up a blog, website, podcast, Vlog etc,

In many ways, all of the above can be strengthened by having an online presence. It's useful to have something to show.

It seems to me from your email that you are feeling cautious. Convince yourself that the absolute worst that can happen is that someone will say no; yes, your ego will take a bashing, you will sit on the sofa and chew your hair, you might drink too much wine, but 'No' is only a word... if you hit a 'No' then you need to be canny, and like water over a rockface, avoid the lumpy bits, and find another way around.

Write on!

Maria xx

I will answer questions for cash: if you donate to cancer research here RACE FOR LIFE...

How to Write the Perfect Synopsis

2011-05-19T11:31:00.006+01:00

Cash for Questions raising money for Cancer Research

I you have a question, donate here, Race for Life and I'll find an answer for it

Please don't eat me Ms Publisher

What makes the perfect synopsis?

Asked by Peter Humphries

1. How much of the plot should you give away in a synopsis? Should you give everything? Won't that damage the agent's 'pure' reading of the novel, especially if there's a sting in the tail?

2. Do agents want a purely 'nuts & bolts' account of your novel, or is the writer expected to embellish for effect, as they might when selling it to potential readers?

3. Should writers highlight the ways in which their novel might be marketed, or leave this to the agent?

From the horse's mouth: for purposes of this conversation, I am the horse.

How to write a good synopsis seems to plague writers. It’s a part of the job that makes even the most able writer quiver: "How can I get the story of that beautiful long novel I’ve written into just a few paragraphs?"

Well, I’m not an agent, so I can’t say exactly what an agent might be looking for – and so I asked my agent, Jon Elek (see his answers below). My advice is a bit more airy-fairy; I know that the end goal is for your synopsis to woo the agent or editor, and so, being a romantic, I’ll talk about that.

I reckon that half the time an agent only knows what he/she is looking for when it lands on their lap.

When I got my first agent following a chatty email, ( despite reading “do not send an email" on the agency's submissions page), he jumped at the chance because he wanted a writer like me; and I wanted an agent like him. I told him that. He told me that. Simple. Then when I went for a different agent, I also knew what I was looking for, and so did he. I was more mature, and was on the look out for something with commitment.

This writer/agent union is vague. If I were to pose a similar question to: "How can I woo an agent with my synopsis?" it would be: “How do butterflies have sex?”

So I reckon this union just happens: it’s a bit like attraction, which is why your synopsis is so important.

Your big love is your book, you want to ignite the passion in someone else, and the only true way of doing this is by submitting something that is honestly representative of you. If they like you, brilliant. If they don't, someone else will.

Occasionally, I’ve pretended to be someone else (like…erm… a bit of a smart arse… posh and clever…intelligent) and it hasn’t worked. When I am true to myself, it does.

Also, there are heaps of books on What You Should Do:

RULE 1. Read the submission guidelines.

RULE 2 Kiss ass.

But, well, I think the only rule you can follow (aside from not submitting on purple paper in vomit) is “What do you think is the best way of representing your book?”

I do believe that only you will instinctively know the course of action to take for your book: seriously you do, don’t you? Pay attention to that little voice in your heart, be a little bit fearless, and do it. (Says the woman who takes three weeks to make a phonecall.)

Other things I’ve learned so far, and can be filed under common sense:

Think of the synopsis not as the great selling tool to get the best agent in the world, to get the biggest book deal ever known to mankind, and become the biggest bestseller known to mankind. It’s too much pressure.

See the synopsis as a conversation between you and a potential agent or editor: you love your book, and this is your chance to make them love it too. By this point you should have done your research, and so you’ll know the kind of book your recipient (agent/editor) champions. Don’t look at his/her list and think: ‘You can’t sell chillies to Chileans.’ (ask this man if he does), and don't send your historical fiction to a science fiction fanatic because you think he/she could do with a change.

I wonder if writers are a bit scared of agents (I know I used to be), but they are just people, doing a job, like you. They aren’t Greek gods about to strike you down. They're pretty nice, and will take you for dinner when you are starving and want to get pissed. It’s quite like matchmaking, you’ll find the perfect match, but only if you know what you are looking for.

So, the secret is to know... what, why and how you want Agent Zeus to represent your book.

Starving writer will be yours for ample portions

And now, the actual real answers to What Makes the Perfect Synopsis

by Jon Elek (literary agent at AP Watt)

1. Keep it brief and simple. You want to be tantalized in the way that, say, good jacket copy is tantalizing. If it has a sting in the tail, don’t reveal it.

2. I wouldn’t want to speak on behalf of anyone but myself, but no, I don’t want a ‘nuts and bolts’ account of anyone’s submission. You end up glazing over when you’re reading about what’s happening to characters you don’t know and don’t, as a result, care for, in some overlong (i.e. anything over than 250 words) synopsis of a novel.

3. Comparisons can be useful but use them sparingly. If you are up to speed on publishing language, then use it, I guess. But only if you really know what you’re talking about. Oh, and try not to talk about the themes of your book – talk about the story.

Questions on writing to be published

2011-05-18T10:33:00.000+01:00

So I have a few questions:

Number One: sending a synopsis to an agent.
Number Two: starting a blog as a means to getting published

And I shall work on these, and post them up very, very soon.

Any more questions, fly them over.

Maria x

Dear Reader: Cancer Research

2011-05-12T15:57:00.000+01:00

A truly great, very missed, mum

Dear Readers, (cash for questions, see below)

I know you are fabulous. You're so fabulous. And you're probably a mum. Or you may indeed have a mum. You may even be a dad.

Last year a friend of mine died quite suddenly. Ah, she was a beautiful woman, very gentle, and a truly good friend. She was also mum to two children; Katie (then 11), and William just four, now five.

She went so, so quickly, there was no treatment, as such. She fell ill, worsened rapidly, and then she was gone.

Whenever I think of this special mum, I cry... yes, even now, as I write this, I cry.

Her daughter is now twelve, her mum loved running (Katie, I suspect, does not love running as much!) and so Katie, to raise money to help other families, will complete a charity run this summer.

She wants to reach her target and is almost there.

I want you to help her, donating even a little will make such a big difference.

Click here on RACE FOR LIFE

See this as CASH for Questions. Donate and in exchange:

You can ask me whatever you like:

How to get your blog published
How to attract an agent
Should you pursue a creative writing MA?
Anything about my once interesting love life
Anything about my book, story, even my Bra size.

Anything at all... maybe not my weight? Oh, go on then!

You can email me, (link at the side of this page) or ask a question here.

*Another daughter, this time a much bigger girl (my age), lost her mum to cancer last week. Again, it was rapid. I always thought cancer took you slowly, but sometimes it steals in and whips you away within the bat of an eye.

Below is a message from Katie's donation page, written by the Supergirl herself.

I've decided to do this with some of my friends and their mums in memory of my special mum who sadly passed away in August 2010.She died of cancer which was undiagnosed which meant we had little time to say goodbye.

She was a wonderful mum to me and my younger brother William, stepmum to Michael and loving partner to David. She enjoyed spending time with her children and always made us feel special. She always made a big effort with birthdays and special occasions.

She is really missed by us all everyday.

We want to raise as money as possible for Cancer Reseach in memory of mum and to help beat cancer.

Oh yes, vote for me here: don't be shy

2011-05-03T09:30:00.003+01:00

Top 25 Blogs on Single Parenting

To be honest I'm a little bit crap at keeping this blog updated, but someone likes me somewhere. That's a relief.

More top quality content heading your way soon, with headline grabbing topics such as:

"I camped in the back garden"

and

"Why I really took up rowing."

Maria x

What not to wear

2011-04-14T15:37:00.004+01:00

One of the most pressing things about being mum to TeenBoy is that I don't have a lot to do (except Hoover). My mind flashes back now to the glory days spent tying shoelaces, sticking cardboard boxes together, playing with Lego, collecting leaves from the floor. Now when I take him to the park and point out enormous leaves, or pretty flowers, he looks at me as though I'm deranged. Like last Tuesday when we went to some private gardens near our house:

'Ooo look at those.'

'Yes,' he said. 'They are flowers.'

'Very nice ones though aren't they?'

'Yes,' he said. 'And I'm a teenage boy and you are pointing out daffodils to me.'

So we walked around the flower gardens, not looking at flowers but instead TeenBoy throwing a rugby ball at me, and me screaming 'Don't throw it so hard.'

It wasn't a relaxing stroll I can tell you, it was an onslaught.

Then TeenBoy had a formal dinner at school. I know, I know. My first formal dinner was aged 24 and a half. The formal dinner presented more problems: he's growing so fast that I can't keep up with the clothes shopping. I pulled out his suit jacket, the trousers certainly wouldn't fit, but still... worth a go.

'Wear this jacket.'

'It's too small.'

'Just try it with jeans.'

'No.'

'Go on.'

'If I must... see -- small.'

'Actually, it looks very cool.' He rolled his eyes at me and wandered off, mum-knowingwhat's-cool-nah. 'No one wears their jackets big. Look at Jarvis Cocker. You look just like Jarvis Cocker.'

'And what is he? A sex toy?' (gasp horror that he actually said those words to me).

'Jarvis Cocker is really cool.' Once again TeenBoy was not impressed with my repartee. 'He was in an amazing band called Pulp.'

'And when was that Mum?'

'They were big in... erm... about 1994?'

'So 17 years ago? You are comparing this to something a man wore 17 years ago.'

Hm...tricky one that.

Dress review

2011-04-12T12:11:00.003+01:00

Single Mother on the Verge's photostream on Flickr.

I put a dress to the test. See the review of the Shabby Apple dress here.

It's a Mum's World

2011-02-02T23:51:00.000Z

From this ...

A winning game of rugby

To this...

"Mum. Please can you have it washed and aired for the morning?"
(I'm a slave to the machine. Fun is but a distant memory)

in 32 minutes...

(If you're wondering I use that pink bottle of Surf, purely because I like the way the girl does rolly pollies in the adverts. And the music. And the colours. Etc. This is not an advertisement.)

Cameron the Child Catcher

2011-01-19T14:29:00.000Z

David Cameron Whips More Children

There's an article in the Daily Mirror that caught my eye (OK, I admit I bought it because I wanted to read about Katie Price).

Anyhows:

Born Broke: Grant cuts puts babies at risk

Cameron needs to save money and the nation is in debt, but what I don't grasp is his long-term plan for a better society? Children are our future society. Perhaps, I just 'don't get it'. Maybe I'm a bit 'Stoopid'. I'm open to suggestions.

Does Daffy Dave want to break everyone except him and all the non-SamCams-DavCams-and-DreggyCleggies?

When he takes money away from families is he actually saying: "I don't believe in the real value that average and low income families contribute to society?" and "Let them eat cake?"

Real value contributions as in 'simply being people', and not in terms of wealth and money, but their actual value as caring human-beans entitled to health, and happiness, and security like their high-earning counterparts?

When he asks the nation to think about stalling on having children they can't afford, whilst adding to his own brood, is he saying: "I want to populate the nation with people like me and mine?"

What is the message he wants to send out?

I want to know what his wife, Samantha, thinks about the cuts and taxes that will impact average and low income families.

Imagine, Samantha Cameron, if you were trying to get your baby to sleep in a small house, it's cold because you can't afford the heating, the electricity has run out because you've used up the last of the emergency credit. Tomorrow, you'll be borrowing money from your child's piggy bank again to buy some bread. And your husband David Cameron is out God-only-knows where, and you fear that when David gets home he might just want to knock you and your swollen belly to the ground. You want to leave, but it's getting harder all the time.

Samantha Cameron is a wife, mother and woman - if she had any sense she wouldn't be servicing David for a while, he should be on a sex drought. Their time would be better spent sitting in bed reading To Kill a Mocking Bird, then trying to imagine what it'd be like to walk around in someone else's shoes for a while: tiring, sore and difficult.

On Report

2011-01-18T16:59:00.006Z

The boy is back from school. He maintains a very nonchalant approach to education; he just does it and doesn't stress. I want him to work hard, work hard, but he won't join me in my working class neuroses, he just you know, gets on with it, feet up, ACDC on the iPod, chewing on a pen. His hair gets longer by the day, and he's no way near as insecure as me. When I grow up, maybe I want to be like him.

He said he had a glance at his report: 100% attendance, 7 A*s and 10 As, he's on the school council, and the rugby team, he's in the classroom very early most days, occasionally he gets into trouble. It's an academically challenging school and he got in by merit, but if he heads off the rails they'll sure as hell kick him out.

I'm not writing this because I want to say how shit hot we are: we're not. My sitting room kind of looks like a bedsit - I'm surrounded by detritus such as nail polish, mugs, soup bowls, a heater, novels, trashy magazines, and clothes on the radiator. I'm actually sitting on my dressing gown as I write this, my shoes are askew and I'm like an old woman with her whole life on a tray by her bed -- except it's not all on a tray by my bed, but on the rug on the floor by my feet.

I just want to say to the stupid fecking Lib-conning-Tory-baaaa-stards who seem to be making daily life that little bit harder for single mothers/fathers/low income parents with each gobshite policy; shove that in your pipe and smoke it you bunch of 'two parents are better than one' 'anti-handout' reprobates. There's nothing wrong with giving struggling families or individuals a helping hand because eventually - just like our babies - we learn to feed ourselves. Take away the spoon and you'll have to feed us, and our kids, forever.

Teen Wolf

2010-12-14T21:16:00.002Z

Teen Wolf 3 MTV

For a while I was worried about what my role as mother would be now that Jack isn't so much of a little boy. He's at high school, and on Saturdays he'd often grumble when I offered to take him to the park, and he stopped crawling into my bed for cuddles, he began to have lie-ins. Or occupy himself with something else like TV or his DS.

Of course, I wanted to continue to do the same old playful stuff with him, but those suggestions now seem babyish. I fretted that this was the beginning of a decline, and soon I'd be losing him to his wolfish teens; that adolescence would come along and howl at me, and gnash his teeth, and they'd both stomp off into the distance for the next decade.

So far, we seem to be doing OK. I've recently discovered that we can do new things together - like go to concerts; we went to see Gorillaz, which we both loved. And then we went to a book launch. Which we both loved. And then we went to see a Greek tragedy, The Bacchae, which we both loved, and more recently to a Hallé family concert, which was almost too young for him, but he really loved it. He might soon be ready for a grown up Hallé concert. Instead of saying 'no I'm too busy,' I'll try to join in with him watching Scrubs, or Friends, or playing 'angry birds' on my IPhone. I also try - but fail - to get into games consoles. I'm learning about rugby too, because everything at the moment is about rugby.

All this isn't miles away from spending quality time with your children when they are babies; like teaching them to eat, or playing with toys in the bath, or Lego, or Play Doh. Only, it seems frivolous to waste away hours on enjoyable and youthful activities. Yet, it's not. Jack will talk and talk to me. If there is trouble, he picks up the phone and calls me. When he is happy he picks up the phone and calls me. I don't ever want him to feel like he can't; as long as we can keep talking he'll be OK.

Laying down the road now in time for when he is almost a grown-up is so very important to me; it's prevention rather than cure. It will be too late when he is fourteen and towers a foot above me to start laying down the law. When he wants to duck off to his room too often, I remind him that we spend time together as a family. When I need to work, he's welcome to hang out on the sofa and do something else as I tap tap away. If I work late, he often sits there with me.

Right now, he's gone to bed. I'll pop upstairs to wish him goodnight as he reads to himself. He isn't too old for a goodnight kiss; though I suppose I should knock first - rather than burst through the door.

Normal service will resume

2010-11-30T20:41:00.003Z

A Room with a View

Hello peeps,

Been absent as I was away for a week in my favourite place ever minus email, phone, Internet. Anything and everything actually.

It was the annual writing week in the Lakes with the girls, Nancy, Emmeline and Sybil.

Sybil didn't take me climbing over 5 mountains for a change as she was laid up with a cold - and so I tucked into leftovers instead.

I'm now a bit heavier and laid up with a cold.

Sniff. Sniff. Sniffle.

In the meantime here is a picture taken from the window midway up the staircase of our secret Cumbrian hideout.

Adventures were had, food was eaten, less wine than usual was drunk, and stories were written. I'm now editing my novel which is a fine feeling to have.

Drama came in the form of:

A daylight robbery

An 84 year-old retired man came to our rescue down a dark, wet, scary road.

A farmer got us (me) very drunk (were you other ladies very drunk?)

We ate curry with retired Oxford man and wife

The girls ate cheese, I did not.

The steak was good.

We collected sticks for the fire.

There were flies in my bed, mice in the walls, and a big fat moon looking down over us.

Ah, rural bliss.

The Art of Conversation

2010-11-08T17:43:00.003Z

Last night as Jack was sitting at the kitchen table I thought I'd enlighten him with the reason for my current lack of spark:

'As I lay in bed this morning,' I began. 'It occurred to me why I'm so tired.'

'Why?'

'Well since I finished full time work which was... hmm about mid-September... I have written 2/3rds of my novel. In that time ... which is what... about 8 weeks (I just counted) I've written over 50,000 words and I've almost finished the novel! Two weeks, I reckon, til I finish the first draft....And I've been working part-time, and written an outline for a comedy, and working on a sample storyline for....'

He rolled his eyes at me.

I am truly excited by this prospect, given when I was working I wrote 30,000 words in about what....ten months... and barely remember what they say.

'It'll probably take me about 3 months to redraft and rewrite, but still, I'm very excited.'

He groaned.

'Look,' I said. 'I don't have a boss to talk to about this, I don't have a boyfriend, I just have you --- and the girls --- and I need to talk to someone about it, as well as them.'

'And you don't want to turn out like Nana.'

'What does she do? Oh yeah.' I looked at the cage on the worktop where Hannah lives.

'Nana talks to the hamster.'

'Now that would be mad.'

'Promise me,' said Jack. 'That if you ever do get a boyfriend you'll be more interesting than this, because if you have conversations like this with a boyfriend, he will get up and leave.'

An education

2010-11-03T19:26:00.005Z

The other day I had the pleasure of minding my 7 year-old nephew because it was a teacher training day (why did this not happen during the standard holidays?).

My nephew "A" came up with some real gems that made me think: especially as he doesn't call me Maria, he calls me My-rear.

Like: 'Aunty My-rear, your food is better than my mums.'

Excellent. One point to me.

And:

'Aunty My-rear, where is your husband?' A was getting ready for bed and pointed around the room as though to conjure my hitherto unseen husband from somewhere.

'I haven't got one.'

"A" bent over and laughed like a Cbeebies character: 'But you have ---- eh.' He pointed towards Jack. ---- you have 'im. So you are married.'

'I've never been married.'

"A" looked very confused: 'But My-rear how could you have him?' "A" began to tot up the process on his fingers as though counting stages. 'So you have a baby and then you get married?'

'Not exactly. Well people will tell you that's what happens but in truth about half of the population don't get married and then have a baby. Like your mum, she only got married to your dad last summer. And....'

Hm.... what would my sister think of what followed, you know with her being so Catholic an' all....

'Well marriage is an institution that was imposed many years ago,' I say nodding my head for effect. 'This was because back then women didn't have equal rights. And women needing to get married also had something to do with property, and how women needed marriage because they couldn't work and provide for their children.... but it's a bit different now because women can provide for their children without being married.'

'So you've never been married Aunty My-rear ?'
'Nope.'
'But you were actually married in London.'
'No I wasn't.'
"A" found this quite hilarious. 'You were Aunty My-rear.'

Maybe he saw a man hanging around me and I didn't. Perhaps I just looked married or something because London aged me.

'Nope I wasn't.'
'Yes you were married in London.'
'She wasn't.' said Jack to a truculent "A". 'It's a difficult one to explain.'

*

The next day I was applying my make-up in the mirror: foundation, mascara, lipgloss... a rub of rouge --- and apparently also Polyfiller.

'Aunty My-rear,' "A" said as I whacked on more blusher under his watchful eye. 'You need a lot of repairing.'

*

Later, fully repaired, we visited a history museum. I tried to explain to "A" Darwin's theory of evolution and how, in some way, he evolved from a dinosaur.

'No I didn't,' he said, taking in an enormous dinosaur bone, and looking very annoyed with me.

'You did, and birds are quite like dinosaurs in that they have a similar bone structure, so you're also related to a bird. And you're also sort of like a fish.'

'Shhh,' said my sister. 'You can't tell him that.'

'What?'

'Well he can't go into school saying that can he....'

'I'm confused.'

'We're all supposed to have come from God aren't we -- so A can't go into school saying he came from a dinosaur.'

Sister Josephine began tut-tut-tutting and walking off.

I drooled over a glass case enraptured by my favourite section in the museum: the wonderful world of jewel beetles and dung beetles.

'Come here,' I called to Jack. 'These beetles are incredible, so beautiful, look at the colours. And the different sizes.'

'She's always like this about beetles,' said Jack. 'Don't respond to her. Run.'

'And look, here's a stick insect....'

Big Sister Runs From Little Sister in Museum Shocker

One Day

2010-10-28T12:47:00.005+01:00

Last night I stayed up through the hours finishing David Nicholls' novel One Day. It was a perfect stormy night for reading and the endless rain and dribble of water outside in the roily dark encouraged me not to sleep but to read, read, read.

And it got me to thinking about unrequited love. Of course it did. Just at the part when the story made me weep. I stared out of the window across the shed roof to the vegetable patch I have done nothing with and I thought, 'Oh no - am I Emma Morley/Mayhew?'

She is northern, and difficult, yet ... o o o dear.

I closed the book. 'Unrequited love stinks,' I thought. I felt very sad for Emma Morley/Mayhew.
And Dexter, I suppose I fell for him too.

The Two Marias

2010-10-24T09:59:00.003+01:00

Image from
coronationstreet.wikia.com

On Friday night Nancy, Emmeline and I sat on my bed watching Coronation Street and eating dinner off our laps. Maria Connor (Samia Smith, see picture) was flirting with yet another rotter and this one happens to be violent. If you don't follow Coronation Street -- Maria has dated murderers, the murdered, and Tyrone.

"OH MARIA," I yelled at the television screen. "YOU HAVE SUCH BAD TASTE IN MEN."

Sybil, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, looked up and said: "Are you talking to Maria on the television, or about yourself?"

Ah, that made me chuckle. Both?

What they talk about when they talk about money

2010-10-22T09:55:00.008+01:00

I went to teach yesterday afternoon; ah poetry. T'was a lovely afternoon. Keats. Sweet. On the way there I listened to Radio 4: the debate was about cuts, cuts, cuts, and it was being talked about in that oh, I'm so intelligent I can't help but stammer - 'BBC Radio 4' tone that makes half the population switch off; when actually at the present time they should all be very much switched on, and forgetting about X Factor, or Fearne Cotton on Radio 1 largin' it at Bristol University; though I did station hop a little bit. Boom, boom, boom.

Hm, the report cut into me and I found myself sniffling and crying; this type of behaviour drives Jack around the bend; for real lived life I keep my reserves up, but over stuff like the news I'm an emotional mess.

I am worried; genuinely very worried for the genuine poor. Of course, in the short term I, hardly rich, hardly OK at all, may find myself a little bit flucked; arts council/media/culture cuts, childcare/tax credit cuts, etc. But probably not flucked in the long term, and not in the same way: I already have a university education, I've paid off my student loan, and the most important years of my life will soon give way to 'settling down'. I should probably go out less, and garden a bit more, and work a bit harder, and forget about financial pains. But what about the others; what about the yoofs who -- because of never ending fee increases -- can't afford to go to university? What about the elderly, and the young, who are going to have to live and die through this government?

When Jack returns from his grandparents this evening, I will sit him down and talk about what 'the cuts' mean for us. No more thoughtless spending for the next six months, until we have a definite sense of what is going to happen. I'm working on a recipe for autumn pie made out of tree roots, wet soil and Oxo cubes. If everyone else behaves like this, we'll find ourselves in a double-dip for sure.

I cried because:

the utility companies are walking away with truck loads of cash. e.g BT made £1billion profits in the 12months to April 2010

our leading politicians are sitting on pissing huge trust funds. e.g. our Boy'o George Osborne is thought to have a personal fortune of around £FOUR MILLION. He has no idea how important even just £60 a month is to some people. He probably earns that amount in interest when he takes a shower.

Mr O will yet again blame it all on Gordon Brown but the Tory-Libs should take sole responsibility for what they are doing right now, and not behave like preschoolers: 'It wasn't me Miss, it was him.'

And wouldn't it make more sense to look above for the money, not down?

The supermarkets take take take: Sainsbury's 2010-2011 profits are forecast at £655 million. And from the Guardian, Oct 5th, 2010: "Leahy was speaking as Tesco posted a 12% increase in half-year profits to £1.6bn. Total revenue climbed 7% to almost £30bn – or £165m a day. The chief executive of Britain's biggest retailer, said that while economic recovery was "slow and steady" at home, the group had seen a "sharp" bounce in its international business."

No wonder we're having a slow and steady recovery at home... 'The Banks' take too: e.g. "Barclays, Britain's third-largest bank, has reported blockbuster profits of £11.6bn for 2009." and "HSBC make £7billion profits in six months."

But if profits are going up, why aren't prices coming right down?

There's been more talk of benefits and the poor but for the working class, lower working class, working middle class, it is going to be just as bad. The cuts that will be seen in the public sector will have massive repercussions on average families, many of whom work in the public sector providing a service. My sister for example, has worked at a day care centre for years. She has just been given 12 weeks notice. And what about the people, many with disabilities, who use this service? Do they become isolated at home?

When public sector jobs go, many will find they are heading unemployed households, and in turn they won't be spending at the shops... will those working in shops eventually be laid off? Yet despite the threat of unemployment, the Tory-Libs are stirring up a culture of deriding people on benefits. So maybe what they talk about when they talk about money is not just about economics, but also about the social engineering of our country.

Little rays

2010-10-21T08:52:00.001+01:00

We looked around the International Anthony Burgess Foundation and then made our way through the back streets of Manchester, past the BBC. Such a beautiful day, yet so few people around.

Nancy had said to me: 'So what do you do when you are with him? Play it cool?'
'No, I don't play it cool. I play it cantankerous.'
She laughed. 'I can see how that works.'

I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets as we passed the University gardens, then made our way through traffic, up the escalator, and into Piccadilly train station.

Standing beneath the departure board I thought, 'I could just throw myself on the floor, grab onto Toga's trouser leg and wail. I could lie on my back on the concourse amongst the throngs of people, look up, and scream.'

'Platform 5,' I said. 'You've got seven minutes.'
'Have you got a pound I could borrow for a bottle of water?'
I rummaged through old tissues and ragged receipts, 'Here.'

We walked down the platform together, a familiar dread was trying to work its way back to me.

'It's a long way to my train, you're going to have to walk all the way back,' he smiled.

We stopped by carriage E. I hooked my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. Don't cry in his ear, I thought. That would be really silly.

'Safe journey,' I said. Then I waved him goodbye, and hurried off to meet Zelda for coffee.

Head, shoulders, knees and toes

2010-10-20T10:41:00.002+01:00

~~Avoid Forget Want Toga~~

We breakfasted at Cornerhouse. Beneath the table our knees touched as we flicked through the newspapers. I wasn't reading, as such, but trying not to say something I'd regret.

The night before we had met up with Nancy and her friends at a bar in Chorlton to celebrate her birthday. That morning my head was woozy, but not hungover.

Nancy said, 'He'd be lucky to have you,' and she lightly touched my wrist. It was late and we were heading in the direction of another bar. 'He's just what I thought he'd be, and absolutely not what I thought he'd be at the same time.' Toga walked ahead of us, chatting to Nancy's French boyfriend. 'It's hard to explain it,' she said, 'but he's both of those things.'

I watched Toga walk; his stride, his long back, his funny thick hair.

'I think it's because I can absolutely see you two together,' she said. 'And I didn't expect that.' She thought a bit more. 'Because you are equal, he'd be lucky to have you.'
'Hm.'

I know what she means; sometimes a friend's 'one big love' can be a let down when you meet him in real life. And you sit there looking at the odd couple thinking, "that'll never work."And, "If only she wasn't so deluded... this is going to end in tears." But Toga and I have been friends and unfriends for a long time now. Mostly unfriends of late. But, oh I don't know. Maybe we are friends again.

I gently tugged her coat sleeve, 'Don't,' I said. Toga and her French boyfriend were waiting for us outside the bar. 'Please don't say anymore."

Toga held open the door and we stepped into the music and warm smells of wine and beer. Then upstairs we danced on a makeshift dancefloor.

Yes. Time to go back.

2010-10-19T14:54:00.008+01:00

I found myself on the old estate where we used to live. My stomach sank as I drove past the terraces. 'But they are just houses,' I said to myself. 'It wasn't that bad.'

It was a grey day and I suppose my memories weren't helped by the rain. I watched a woman come out of her house and walk across the communal gardens. She looked at me, but didn't smile. Of course, had I not moved to London, we would have been next-door neighbours.

And the houses are not too bad. They've been polished up with a grant and been all modernised. Compared to some estates, like a few in North Manchester, this place is a stroll in the park. I'm being sensitive.

I collected my post and spoke to another neighbour, she told me about the mother I'd worried over so much before. Since I'd left she'd had two more babies in the space of just over two years.

'So she has six now?' I asked.
'No, two adopted out and two in care,' said the woman. Then I headed off to the local shops where I dropped in at the chemist.

I stood at the counter and a girl about as high as my hip piped up to the assistant:

'Do you have pregnancy tests?'
'Yes,' said the assistant, grinning at the little girl who couldn't have been much more than seven years-old. I looked at the assistant, she continued to smile.
'How much is your cheapest one?'
'£5.10,' said the assistant.
'Thanks,' said the little girl, skipping through the door. 'It's not for me,' she giggled, 'it's for me mum.'

The little girl waited by the shop window, she kicked her feet against the path. Outside the community learning centre a young mum and her daughters hung around some lads perched on BMX's, one lad had a pitbull at his side.

Little girls shouldn't be sent in search of pregnancy tests for their mums, I thought. Or maybe I'm getting prudish with age. Maybe the family has been waiting for a baby for years, and the little girl is simply excited.

I waited on the seats for my prescription to be prepared, through the window the sky was gloomier than before. More kids came to hang around the shops, dressed in only greys and blacks, kicking their shoes into the dirt and sucking on lollipops: boredom, frustration, tracksuits, nothing to do.

I watched them and felt nervous, not wanting to be judgemental but judging them all the same. This, I thought, is why my stomach sinks each time I drive my car around that bend, and why I didn't want this place to be called home.

Then Jack texted me: 'Hi Mom. in Dover!'

Bad Birthday Girl

2010-10-14T08:03:00.009+01:00

Dear Dillon, ~~Best friend~~, now hater of the Roberts.

I am so very, very sorry I forgot to say Happy Birthday on your Birthday. The thing is, you're not on Facebook, and everyone knows that Facebook is a public diary, and even then I don't check it much.

You should blow your Birthday trumpet loudly, and text 'It's my birthday tomorrow and you better get me a present' especially with someone like me. I even forgot my own mother's birthday once and she was pretty cross too...

This is probably because I can never be arsed with my own birthday; i.e pretty much everyone forgets it or shoves it to the side as of lesser importance, because it falls before New Year and just after Christmas. It has even been the case that I receive birthday presents in Christmas paper. You, however, would have received a birthday present wrapped in newspaper, or a brown paper bag, as I'm too tight to buy wrapping paper. But then this is about you ---

It might be worth adding here, that as you were really busy the other week... you forgot to attend Jack's birthday party. I think that might make us equal.

Perhaps it would help if I remind you of all the positive influences I've had on your life:

* the job in the sticks I told you to take because you wanted a change, and more money - but then they treated you so bad you were traumatised. That was me.
* the time I took you for dinner, my treat, but then it was too expensive so made you go half (in Hale) That was me.
* my first day at work, when you were my boss, where I took a shower because it saved using the electricity and hot water at home... that was me. Yes I could hear you all tittering in the kitchen as you made brews "her first day and she takes a shower - no one ever uses that shower". That was me.

Ah I knew there'd be something worthwhile here: the beer I handed you at weekend, then proceeded to drink your half. That was me.

Well, OK, I'm not the best best friend a boy could ask for, but, well, at least I give you loads of ammunition to throw at me? And that's worth something.

I'll make it up to you, in a completely-non-sexual-way, because that's what friends do... like. OH I've posted your profile on Sugarmummy.com
I thought that'd be a nice present for you...?

Much regret and I am truly horrended I forgot (*other excuse, have been run off feet getting Jack's things ready for trip to France * and am working a lot * and have memory problem * and had an insane amount of kids' birthdays this week to attend to --- not that you are less important than any of that, actually you are more important, you were filed in 'do not forget' and then I lost the key to the cabinet).

I'm crap, I know I am. And Jack's just called to say he's forgotten his rugby kit, and I must drop it off, and I'm off on a 40 mile round trip to teach Spanish... then to a school event, then another... I'm weeping now....
Sorry.

Maria xx

A stuck record

2010-10-11T07:41:00.000+01:00

By 6.30am this morning Jack was showered, fully dressed in his uniform, and had eaten his breakfast. I know he's enjoying school - but he doesn't start until 9am. I'm finding it hard to drag myself out of bed to match his enthusiasm.

At the weekend I went to the Raddisson for afternoon tea for a friend's birthday, and then to a pie and quiz night at Jack's school.

On Sunday I took part in one of these debate shows on BBC 1 about single parenting. I feel I have to clarify something here; my impression was that I'd be interviewed in my context as a writer of issues affecting single parents, not as 'Maria Roberts, single mother, found herself pregnant at 20'. And then referred to as a 'sweet single mother'; and obviously distinct from all those other single mothers we hear about; the unsweet trouble-causing ones.

There's then a lot of talk from me about how hard I found living on benefits and making ends meet - which is true. But that was actually in reference to the idea that women have kids to claim benefits; my argument being that this isn't the sole reason women have kids. Bringing up kids on benefits is hardly a lucrative business (unless it seems, you have ten kids and rake in £100k per year) and it's very hard to live off benefits. In my experience - and knowing a few other single mums - claiming benefits is mostly a temporary measure to use between jobs. Women I know, even those who fell pregnant young, then went on to have professional careers. One mum is a manager at the NHS, another runs her own film company.

I was on benefits in the real sense for quite a short period of time - probably less than six months. In my opinion benefits in the real sense is 'income support' because this is claiming without working. I only claimed this after working three jobs, and studying at the University of Manchester for 3 years, including an intensive period abroad. When I graduated in the June, I was knackered. Jack was about to start primary school in the September, and I was due to start an MA. It seemed sensible to take time out to prepare for that. Once my MA began, I moved into freelance journalism working as an Arts reviewer and family editor. I wrote a column. I began working in publishing. I started a blog. I got a bookdeal. I wrote plays. I took on more work. I sorted myself out probably with as much speed as someone without kids. I paid off my student loan within the requisite five years. I began to pay more in taxes.

I say this because I feel like the short film was me playacting the single mother role; yes in hindsight I can relate to how single mothers struggle, but it would be false to say this is our situation now.

Yes, I still panic about paying bills. But - I have education and experience to ensure I find work. I've never been out of work. Or chosen not to work. I'm also very, very aware that our situation is now miles away from what it was 12 years ago...8 years ago... even 2 years ago.

I'd say that what made the biggest difference to our lives was education, being in work, and continuing with my own continuing professional development by attending courses, reading, workshops and so forth.

So whilst I believe in the welfare state, and that it should not be squeezed so that it makes life on benefits painful, I also believe it is there to help people out.

You wouldn't want to live a life on benefits. Seriously. It's not a whole'lorra' fun.

Another country

2010-10-08T09:29:00.009+01:00

We were up early this morning. Jack is taking part in a charity run and so he went to school dressed in my clothes. He wore a printed dress, bright socks and trainers. Now I know what I'd look like if I lost some weight, and had a haircut. I was trying to tidy the place up because someone from the BBC is coming over from Belfast to film me for Sunday Morning Live. One of the subjects up for debate is 'Are kids better off in a traditional family?'

It's so long since I've been in one that the notion of a traditional family is quite alien; does anyone have a traditional family: is the definition of a 'traditional family' ready to change. Maybe today, a traditional family is where one parent lives elsewhere and raises some other man's family, whilst a different man contributes to raising yours? i.e step families.

In my experience families are rambling, and growing, but most of all supportive. Good families are the best families. It doesn't matter how many people the family is comprised of - it doesn't matter how those people came to be there - or their sexuality. What matters is that they want to care, and they do. Quit talking about 'traditional families.' Can we simply talk about 'families?'.

All this banter is one step away from segregation, separatism, and prejudice.

So, I was eating my Aldi porridge, on an Asda smartprice spoon, in a borrowed cereal bowl, listening to the Today programme on Radio 4, whilst my son gathered up his things to head off to school.

A few things baffled me, like when one of the geezers: I missed out on the 'who is who' part of the show: blessed us with a spot of middle-class-male discreet laughter/scoffing. Possibly Humphrys.

The chuckle acted as parentheses to the line (forgive me for paraphrasing) 'women who get pregnant to get a council house' or 'teenage girls who get pregnant to get a council house'.

Are they mad? Much of the council housing stock was sold off years ago... there are so few council houses now that if you were getting pregnant in order to receive a house, you'd have to start forward planning about the same time you are picking your GCSE options, and as we all know, such girls are too stupid to forward plan. Talk about modern issues with modern reference points and indicators; and don't illustrate your points with hammy phrases from the 80s.

I bought my council house (solely because I was sick of being unable to carry out improvements, cold, horrid, etc.), and when I wanted to sell it back, the council didn't want it. They should have taken it back because I didn't want it and know full well that other families might. Instead I'll one day sell it on at a profit so that I can escape elsewhere.

Cameron said in his speech: 'This is your country - it's time to step up and own it."

What makes him think that we don't? I, and I am sure I am not alone, want to be a good citizen. I want to contribute to society. As I raise my son, at the forefront of my mind is that he will contribute to the world in a meaningful way.

'I'm thinking of joining the politics society,' he said this morning. He's been elected onto the school council and fancies something more serious.

Please do join the politics society, I thought. Feel compelled to fight for what you believe in. "This is your country," I should have said to him. "Make the time to step up and own it."

I'm too preoccupied with handling all the minutiae.

The Big Society

2010-10-06T20:39:00.007+01:00

Living under a Conservative-Liberal government is starting to feel a little confusing. The messages that come out of Cameron's mouth are so different to what I've heard before. He thinks he's making sense but when I run his words through the 'translate political mumbo-jumbo' application in my head, it makes no sense to me at all.

He says he wants to build a country based "not by what we consume but by what we contribute". Some people find it harder to contribute than others.

He warns benefit claimants to take heed because they are on his list of baddies: "Fairness means giving people what they deserve... And what people deserve depends on how they behave. If you cannot really work, we will look after you. But if you can work, but refuse to work, we will not let you live off the hard work of others... That's the sign of a civilised society, and it's what I believe. But you can't measure fairness just by how much money we spend on welfare, as though the poor are products with a price tag, the more we spend on them the more we value them-"

It doesn't sound to me like he understands these people. He talks about 'them' and down to 'them'. He thinks poverty is what people choose. He uses the word products. He thinks a wonderful middle-class existence is something everyone can choose, but he's wrong. And what's so great about being middle-class anyway? Cameron is right, people should work. What he doesn't quite get is how the challenges of work, respect, hope, strength and ambition ripple through every aspect of life when you are poor. Crappy education, crappy schooling, crappy environments, and people who talk to you like crap, make it difficult to rise above your surroundings. No one wakes up in the morning and thinks: "I want to be the shit of society." His words imply that this is what 'they' - i.e. the non-Daves and the non-Samanthas - are; scavengers and social detritus.

He also said: "Fairness means supporting people out of poverty, not trapping them in dependency."

These are wise words. But being fair also means not casting those different to him and his cronies as 'OTHER'. He speaks of this section of society as though they do not care for their own lives, and need to be told what to do. He sets them apart. He creates a divide. He is pointing the finger. And cracking the whip. "Look at them," he urges, "they are sucking us dry. Long may he with the biggest stone judge and then throw."

Cameron needs to realise that he is not the saviour of the new world. What would be more useful is for Cameron to meet these people, ask what they need, spend time understanding their lives, find a solution to suit them.

Perhaps he should ask them: "What can I do for you? What do you need? How can we make society better for you?'

Snobbery and disdain, I really hope these two words don't become part of the big society.

Being chicken

2010-10-05T08:24:00.019+01:00

I often panic about our situation - and go slightly mad thinking our lives are about to crash: panic because I'm 32 and hurtling towards 33 (which for some reason seems like '666' in my head) and I'm more single now than I've ever been: like, really single.

Like - if you've read my book - you'd get what I mean. I've never been this single. The last time I was this preoccupied with having to snog someone at a point in the uncertain future, I was 14 and gearing up for my first kiss - I'm also really happy how our lives turned out. I've stopped wanting to be someone else, and I'm perfectly pleased that I'm able to leisurely chat to my son, make him a boiled egg, and kiss him as he walks out the door to school. Rather than chasing the butt end of a career. I'm freelance again, which means I'm working from home. This morning I will begin tutoring a university student, and I'm also teaching Spanish to little kids, and then soon I'm going to be contributing travel articles to a women's fashion mag.

I'm not bothered so much by what we don't have; i.e no fancy television, a car that isn't a bit tragic, no house phone, no expensive clothes for me, no husband, no more kids and no dog. I'm just grateful I've been able to be around so much as Jack's been growing up. Now when I look back, I think: "Geeeez, you were lucky." The tough years, the nightmare neighbours, the tears. You were lucky because he knew you'd always be there - standing at the cooker preparing a dynamic meal, when all he wanted was turkey dinosaurs and chips.

This morning I said, 'Don't eat chicken at school today, I'm cooking some for tea.'
Jack said: 'What's on it?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well you never cook just plain chicken, it's always got herbs or something going on."
'I spend a lot of time choosing recipes.'
'You need some new recipes books. You keep feeding me vegetables, and beans and lentils.'
'You're right. I need some meat ones.'
'Can't we have a celebration day? And get a Domino's pizza?'
'Well when it's a celebratory day, yes. As it is, it's just a Tuesday.'
'And what else is with it, jasmine rice? pasta? potatoes?' he eyed me suspiciously.
'Basmati rice,' I lied, knowing full well I'd be making quinoa.

When Jack is older, with a family of his own, he'll look back (I'm certain) and be glad I didn't bring him up on takeaway meals. You should have seen his face when I cuddled up to this packet of mung beans. He grimaced. 'Good for your liver,' I told him.

Oh how I missed being able to shop at Unicorn, I never found a shop like it in London. Except Fresh and Wild which I visited with Toga. It really wasn't the same. As I shuffled around Unicorn, I was reminded of my former life with vegan Rhodri.

When we arrived home and I put the shopping away, Jack opened the kitchen cupboards. 'It's like opening a door to the past,' he sighed.

One evening, before we left London, Agent J and I met by Borough Market. It was closed but the afterwork crowd was busy chattering and drinking and leaning on old barrels. We crouched on the curb taking sips from deep glasses of white wine. Then some geezer began pestering my agent for money and it was a pain to get him to go away. The man that is, not my agent. Agent J and I talked about my next book, and about a book he was working on with an author. We weren't able to go for dinner after all because he needed to call an editor in America, as interest was building on this author's book.

'How are you feeling about moving back?' he asked.
'Sad, I'll miss London. Glad to go back and have more time to work on my writing again.'

Agent J's been waiting a year now... I'm almost at the point of saying, "I've finished it." About 6 weeks to go I reckon...

The next book seems to be moving along happily at the moment. I've passed the halfway mark. When we lived in London and I worked full time, I never thought that would happen. Working full time and writing and being a single mum; it ain't possible. Not for me. And I ate crap, I got fat, I became a chubby robot. I didn't cook a single mung bean in two years.

'And how's romance?' Hm, Agent J might not have said the words romance. He might have said, the men. Or love life. The wine had fuzzed my head at that point.
'Well, I'm not involved with any of them. I've moved on.'

Toga and I talk. Well we text. And then we fight. Last time we spoke I told him his head was very far up his own f*&£$%^ arse and I never wanted to see him again. I probably will. Platonically. Morton is around in a few weeks and we're going to the theatre. Platonically. Rhodri is unlikely to speak to me ever again. Not platonically.

The thing is I moved so far past it all, that I'm bored. I might have to try Internet dating. OH MY GOD. I might have to try Internet dating...

Big Booby

2010-10-04T18:03:00.018+01:00

I went to visit my father on Sunday morning to drop off a present for my stepmother. It had been her 47th birthday a few days earlier and we hadn't been able to visit because we don't live nearby anymore. Big sister Josephine, with her big heart, completely got the birthday wrong. She went out and bought all manner of 'over 50' paraphernalia, and as she was setting up the cake in the kitchen with '5 0' candles my dad said, 'But she's not 50, Josephine.'

To which my sister replied, 'I think you'll find she is.' Only as she walked with the cake into the living room, the wonky '5' now fallen on its arse, did she sheepishly note the looks on the other guests' faces - and that not a single 50 card was in sight.

I was, in keeping with tradition, a few days late with my presence:

'Hold your hands out,' I said. 'It's a rather unusual present, but I hope you'll like it.'
'Well it would be; it's from an unusual girl,' said my dad.

I handed my stepmother the bulging brown paper bag, 'It smells like that stuff,' she said.
'I think she got you some of that marjiranan stuff,' said Jack.
'Marjoram,' I said. 'Not marijuana.'

So for stepmother Eleanor's birthday I gave her lots of bags of dried herbs: basil, parsley, coriander, and other stuff from Unicorn. A pretty impressively-healthy, organic, vegan grocery in Manchester. Eleanor's wanted a dried herb collection for a while, and so I thought I'd get together a cook's starter kit. Now instead of looking at recipe books and thinking, "nope, haven't got that." She can think, "Ah-ha! That I can do." She was impressed. Actually, one day about 14 years ago, she said she'd never tried a different type of herb, and to her horror, I showed her some of that; then she was quite unimpressed; so Jack wasn't insanely wrong. What can I say, people randomly say stuff and I take it far too literally. Now I'm a grown-up, I'm more preoccupied with what to do with Chinese five spice.

I also bought her a bag of turmeric, my favourite spice ever. So versatile. And I picked up a bag of thyme. In my head I said to myself, "We all need more thyme." And smiled at the pun. And then very discreetly, I shed a little tear. I thought of our mummy friend who died very suddenly over summer. In my thoughts I said to her, if I could have given you a bag of time, I would have done. If we could really bag time and hand it out to people who needed a little extra that would have been helpful.

After the gift giving was over, Eleanor showed me the gift that her 17 year-old son had made for her: it was a "moan box", made in the shape of a postbox. It was to keep my father quiet for a week. Instead of ranting out loud, he had to write his disgruntles on a slip of paper and pop it in the box. In the "moan box", my dad had deposited a grumble a day. Hm, it was pretty packed, perhaps more than one grumble a day.

The moan box was sealed, so Eleanor tore it open and instructed me to read out the grumbles one by one:
'Why do you eat the bread from the centre of the loaf?'
'Why is litter in the living room?'
'I cleaned up dishes in kitchen again. No one else did. Left to me again.'
'Empty cake packet in the cupboard. Bin not far away.'

'These are good moans, Dad,' I said. 'They sound just like mine, don't they Jack?'

'We don't want a moan box,' he mumbled.

The last moan we pulled out was my favourite, 'Returned from work to find TV on, lights on, and pretty wife in bed sleeping. Terrible waste of money and resources.

'Dad, are you talking about the electricity, the TV, or the wife?' I laughed, because Eleanor had been off work sick for over week, with a terrible headache.

(Photo from freephoto.com)

A pain in the neck

2010-10-01T15:43:00.019+01:00

So this morning I was in Costa Coffee working on my new book -- * quick aside,* the other day I was in the Portico with Emily and Nancy, writing whilst partaking of coffee and biscuits from a silver tray; an actor I'd met at university was lunching there too... and other creative types were flicking through big newspapers -- a far cry from Costa. In Costa a great big gang of mums and dads were squashing toddlers behind tables and supping coffee and chatting very loudly: talk about the chattering classes. These were the SHOUTY classes all gathered in one place for a bloody deafening ding-dong.

Now, I'm not against children in public places - because I have one - but cramming loads of kids into a coffee shop for hours on end on a rainy day seems a little bit cruel to me. The little darlings were really, really bored. Wouldn't it be nicer for everyone to go swimming together? Or to a ball pool? Or for a muddy walk? Kids were crying, the windows were steaming up, parents were going pink...

That wasn't where I was heading with this post.... I was sitting there tapping away, singing along in my head to Frère Jacques with the lyrics, soggy semolina, soggy semolina, I feel sick, I feel sick, toilet quick....when I thought, "I've had enough of this feeling crap business, I'm going to the doctors..." I don't have a doctor... I haven't registered... so I drove to the hospital to go to 'a walk in clinic', because I was feeling pretty crappy and thought I might collapse, or vanish, or something equally dramatic.

After a 30 minute wait flicking through drug awareness leaflets, and thinking about becoming a drug addict or/and an alcoholic, I was called in...

'Can you tell me what's wrong?' asked the nurse.
'I feel really really ill. And I have done for ages.'

This is true, my sore throat often makes an appearance, and then knocks me flat.

'My throat is sore, and my armpits ache, and I feel sick, and I have a headache.... and when I drink alcohol I throw up. I can't handle my alcohol.'

I think the last symptom was inspired by the alcohol awareness leaflet I was reading. I also felt the need to confess.

'Did you have a drink last night?' she asked.
'Yes.'

I wanted to add, but only half a can of Stella! I wasn't quite sure what she'd think of me drinking Stella.

'Have you lost weight?'
'I've put on weight.'
'How are your periods?'
'Used to be bad. Alright now.'
'Do you think you might be pregnant?'
'I know I'm not,' I laughed.
'Have you got lumps in your breasts...'
'They are quite lumpy anyway, it'd be hard to tell.'
'Do you mind if I feel for them?'
'Not at all, go ahead.'

The only person who has felt my breasts for a while is me, so this was a truly novel experience. Quite medical. If my breasts were puddings, they'd be peach jellies with apple chunks thrown in...

Small thought: why are periods, pregnancies and breasts always top agendas in everything? Do men have to show their testicles, ejaculate, and then talk about it when they have a sore throat? I genuinely would like to know.

'Yes, you're right, they are very lumpy. But nothing I think to worry about, just tissue.'

Another small thought: have I put on weight because my breasts have got lumpier? Perhaps it is the breast lumps that weigh a lot, and not the fat on my back?

Then the nurse took my temperature: normal... even though I felt feverish.

'Have you had a drink?'
'Yes. Five.'
'You've had a drink In the last ten minutes?'
'Yes. Five.'
'In the last ten minutes?'
'Yes I've had five glasses of water in the last ten minutes.'

I don't think she believed me.

Then she took my blood pressure... 'very good'.... oxygen... also 'very good'.... heart rate....'a very healthy heart rate.' Despite the fact I felt like I was on my last legs.

'I think,' she said. 'This is simply a virus that will pass. It will probably last 7-10 days, rest, drink a lot of water, take paracetamol every four hours, find a doctor --- do you know how to do that ---- [yes] and register .Then you should have blood tests to see if your periods have affected your haema-whatcha-ma-globe-bins and that's what's causing the sore throat.'

'OK,' I said 'thanks. But it's getting on my nerves not feeling well.'
She pulled a sympathy face and leaned back onto the cubicle wall, then studied me like I was a bit odd. 'I know,' she said. 'Maybe your periods affected your immune system.'

I stomped back to the car thinking, POPPYCOCK, like I can actually rest for 10 days. I need to do the shopping, cook dinner, find work - as in get a job of some sort -, and get Jack's rugby kit ready for 7.45am tomorrow for an away game in Liverpool.

Bedridden

2010-09-30T18:39:00.002+01:00

I have barely left my room all day. Except to make tea and toast. A blooming bug has knocked me down. We're on an 'at-the-end-of-the-shopping-almost-time-to-go-shopping-again' day.

I think it's frankfurters for tea...with broccoli, turnip and strawberries... ewwwww

Sisterhood

2010-09-29T16:09:00.006+01:00

I was reading an interesting article in the Independent today about 'Sisterhood' and also Julie Burchill's column "Forget about romance and you might just get a decent marriage."

It reminded me of what I said to my mother last night, 'Women have it hard.' I truly believe that women still have it hard. There are small secrets that women alone carry through life in a way that men sometimes do not. That the only way to keep the house and home going is to keep picking yourself up and dusting yourself down.

Women always should, unerringly, continue to push for what they feel to be right. And in no small way, either. Perhaps I wrongly assume that women often feel more compelled to do this when sitting from a position of disadvantage. Who wants to stand out in the cold when the fire is warm, and the gravy train is heading your way?

Sometimes it is assumed that as women we should be grateful for what we receive; rather than be assertive and ask for what we think we should get; some women feel the best way to tackle a bad deal is to put the kettle on and not make a fuss. This, sweet though it is, will only get you as far as disappointment island.

I have always been a feminist. I refused as a young girl to fall into the trap of wearing dresses, and playing with dolls. I didn't want to be categorised as a little girl. I wonder if it was because my young mind felt that would be taking a step down. Now I'm proud to be a girl: I wear dresses, and lipstick, I'm happy to get my nails dirty, and I'll shove my manicured hand in the cistern to fix the loo. From a young age I wanted to be strong, and to play as hard and fight as tough as the boys. I never changed. Julie Burchill is pretty deluded, if (though she is 51, so perhaps outdated rather than deluded) if she believes women expect candelit bathtimes as a matter of romantic need. Women expect fairness. They expect the men to put the kids to bed, and they expect to be treated well as human beings worthy of spending time with, hence the joy of shared conversation. Hence romance. Romance is like a store card that earns men extra points.

Women don't want to be fucked and left to load the dishwasher; unless, for example, the sexual role play takes place in a warehouse in the 80s, in MFI.

Some women do let other women down. And some women don't.

I'm looking forward to watching Made in Dagenham. Maybe it will help me to remember the kind of woman I'd like to be; one who chases what is right, and not just the security of work and earning a couple of pounds. And to be braver, make a difference, and try to change things I feel are wrong.

Like....a growing disparity of living conditions between the rich and the poor, the haves and have nots, the cans and the can'ts
.....Honor killings....
Inflexible working hours for women....
....Semi-naked ladies baring their asses on general newstands, when kids are trundling past to buy preschool magazines and bags of sweets.
Longer paternity leave, so men aren't forced to leave women alone to 'get on with it'.

You know, those small things that really should have been sorted by now.

baby tour

2010-09-27T18:17:00.004+01:00

Occasionally my mum does the graveyard run; she visits lots of gravestones to put flowers on them. She does it in one swoop. There a fair few to visit in our family.

Over the weekend Jack and I did a baby tour. My stepbrother recently became a father, and my cousin a mother. In July we had two weddings in the space of a month, in September 2 babies were born in our family within a couple weeks.

This is my stepbrother's liddlun. He's such a sweetie. I'm pretty certain he could fit in my handbag.

*Excuse the Sunday morning hair. Nope, I hadn't brushed it. Yep, it was mid afternoon. I was, however, out of my pyjamas.

A little sickness

2010-09-27T17:27:00.005+01:00

When I phoned big sister Josephine yesterday, she really wasn't feeling very well at all. She sounded all hoarse, and was coughing and spluttering as she ironed the kids clothes ready for school today.

I told her to go to bed, she said she didn't have time she needed to 'get things done'. The previous morning, she'd been on Saturday duty on the football sideline, cheering the youngest on at his football lesson.

I had rang her then too: 'Where are you?' she croaked.
'On my way to rugby, to watch Jack play in a match. You?'
'Where do you think,' she coughed, '---- football.'

Josephine has been standing on the football sidelines for over a decade now, little wonder she has a cold.

'Did you have a rough night?' I said, thinking perhaps she was just hungover.
'No,' she replied, 'I'm ill.'
'Oh bollocks,' I cried, looking at my feet. It was really sunny on Saturday morning and I'd put on the new FitFlops Sybil had given to me --- in exchange for a portion of fish, chips, peas and gravy. A good swap: she's slim and can get fat, I'm fat and can get slim. Now talking to Josephine, my toes were bleeding, literally running with blood. I wasn't running, I was limping.

'My feet are bleeding,' I cried. 'Hang on, a bus is heading down the road. I'll get on that, then I'll call you back.'

I rang her back a few moments later.

'Are you on the bus,' she croaked.

'No, I didn't have enough money so I've to walk,' I mumbled and then began to wrap old tissues around my toes. I tried to hobble down the road. 'It's about 2 miles to school, I'd hoped for a nice stroll. I'll miss the first half.'

Josephine laughed and laughed and laughed. 'Well serves you right for wearing stupid shoes to rugby.'

She isn't very sympathetic sometimes.

On Sunday she moaned that no one would come to visit her.
'I haven't got time to be ill.' I told her.
'And do you think I have?' she said. 'No one's being nice to me today.'
'Alright, alright,' I said. 'I'll come over for a brew.'

So Jack and I went to visit her... wearing my father's dust masks.

'You're not very sympathetic,' she said laughing at us sitting on her sofa in protective masks.
'Well who laughed at me for having bleeding feet yesterday?'
'Do you want a cup of tea?' she said.
'No, thanks,' I said. 'I'll just sit here, if I take it off, I'll catch your germs.'

Caught in Pyjamas

2010-09-24T08:20:00.013+01:00

Do you ever have moments when you think: 'Shall I... shan't I.......shall I...shan't I...... ...shall I...shan't I.... shall I?.... put the bins out wearing head to toe red and white dotty pyjamas?

(Also, are you looking at the word 'shall' and thinking, 'Is "shall" actually a word? It looks weird to me.)

It was 7.50am, Jack was heading off to school and I was hoping to get dressed and go out to a cafe to write for 8am. I always ensure Jack is ready before I am; perhaps I should rise at 6am to shower and do my hair before he wakes up?

Onwards...

'You grab the brown bin,' I said, 'I'll get the grey one.'

Our house is in the middle of a never-ending row of terraces. We need to walk down quite a long alleyway in order to reach the street where the bins are lined up. Yet, for some reason, I thought we'd be the only ones dragging our bins down there at that time of day.

Then I heard a neighbour's gate click open. Oh bum -- hopefully it'll be the wife, I thought. Drats, it was the husband wearing a business suit, ready for work, and obviously they're not as slatternly as me.

'I don't usually wear my pyjamas outside,' I said. The neighbour laughed and carried on dragging his bin behind us. Then a trendy suited media-type-man with a trendy briefcase swung around the corner and headed our way. He looked confused when he saw me: girl, pyjamas, daylight, alleyway, in land of suits, avec un boy her height in prestigious school blazer, what is the situation here?

There was no avoiding my pyjamas situation, and it would have been rude to cut and run. So I pretended I wasn't wearing PJs at all, I imagined myself in jeans and T-shirt. My neighbour and I had a friendly chat about local medical centres, and recommended doctors. He asked how Jack is getting on at school. He said he'd drop the details of the medical centre over at the weekend. The man with the briefcase passed us again, and to the side of us the hip-young-professionals were making their way to work. It was then I remembered the toothpaste I smeared all over a huge spot on my chin when I went to bed last night. I really should get into the habit of checking my appearance in a mirror before I leave the house.

I could behave like this on the council estate where we used to live. Where bin wars took place. It was normal there to parade around in your PJs and flipflops with toothpaste on your spots.

But here, in the land of dentists, and doctors, and hip-YPs, it's not very cool.

Early risers

2010-09-23T07:53:00.007+01:00

We have never been particularly good at getting anywhere on time in our house: when we lived in London, we were literally a few minutes walk to school and still we arrived just as the bell rang - or the kids were already heading to class.

I seem to get more done now we've moved. London very slowly sucked away my energy stores; it was mostly to do with the time it took to get simple little things done at simple little places, like the supermarket. Then again, there were lots of interesting things to do too; I do find myself thinking, 'Ah, what shall I do tonight? Vacuuming?'

Here we have lots more time, and getting up in the morning doesn't seem a problem. Jack rises at 6.45 (previously unthinkable) and heads for the shower. This morning he suggested setting his alarm clock for 6.15am.

'It's not necessary,' I said. As much for myself as him.

Even rising at 6.45am, he arrives at school 40 minutes early.

The health risks faced by young mums

2010-09-22T22:00:00.005+01:00

The Independent has a pretty balanced account of the topic below; 'schools to offer antenatal clinics'... and states that the fathers would be invited to join the sessions.

Pregnant girls in the news again

2010-09-22T11:49:00.012+01:00

'Antenatal clinics should be set up in schools to care for pregnant teenagers who are missing out on vital care, a major health watchdog said today.

The National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence (NICE) wants midwives to go into schools to offer advice to expectant young mothers and carry out health checks. Evidence shows that pregnant women under 20 often feel excluded from mainstream antenatal care and judged by their peers, NICE said.

The clinics would be part of a package of care aimed at women from deprived backgrounds, including those suffering domestic abuse, drug or alcohol misuse and women who struggle with written and spoken English. However, critics said the idea could "normalise" teenage pregnancy and increase the problem.'

(Note by Maria Roberts: Why are the words 'pregnancy' and 'young women' always clumped alongside every social disadvantage going?)

See the full story here on the guardian site. If you don't want to read that version, google the story and it'll come up everywhere else.

I have to say I'm baffled by this report, and that it is actually a news story.

My first thought was: WHY ISN'T THIS SERVICE HAPPENING ALREADY?

Oh, it's because there is this general ridiculous need to further alienate young women who don't conform to some idealized Middlemarch version of society:

Thought 1: Life is UNPREDICTABLE. And there is not AN INSTRUCTION MANUAL to be followed.

The article continues....

But Norman Wells, director of the Family Education Trust, said: "Bringing antenatal classes on to school premises runs the risk of normalising teenage pregnancy and of increasing the very problem it was intended to address.

(Note from Maria Roberts: oi, mister, I doubt that very much.

"Schools exist to assist and support parents in the education of their children, not to be the panacea for every social ill.

(Note from Maria Roberts: SOCIAL ILL? Question: 'Mr Norman Wells, does the thought of pregnant women make you feel physically sick?)'

"The more that schools are called on to shoulder the burden of problems created by a permissive society, the more they will lose their focus on imparting knowledge and teaching children to think in a rational and logical way."

NICE is absolutely correct, and these other buffoons are not. Young women, no matter what their situation, should be entitled to healthcare that keeps them well --- and an education that enables them to do well; In the same way that older men, with heavy drinking habits, are entitled to medical assistance with their prostates after pickling their guts for years.

Young women who fall pregnant are not symbols of 'social ills'. Girls are born with OVARIES. They will one day have BABIES. Yes, it would be far better if this happened later in life (for whom? the women or the children?), but sometimes it happens sooner.

Are we going to carry out checkups at aged 3, and if these girls don't show promise and stability, have them sterilized to prevent future problems? Withholding medical provision will not make teenage pregnancy go away. Contraception, a wonderful invention though it is, does not prevent all women from falling pregnant. I know, because I've been there.

Will we one day become so ashamed of our statistics that a woman must have an abortion unless she has 1. an income of £26k+ 2. a boyfriend who really, really won't do a runner and 3. She is aged 26+ with a university degree and a clutch of A*
A-levels.? By keeping a baby, is the girl not doing a noble thing? Committing herself to motherhood. A social necessity?

Wayward opinions of young mothers like Mr Oddball's are actually just a thinly veiled argument in favour of eugenics.

And another thing: where is any mention of young men? We cannot, and should not, write young men out of their responsibilities as fathers.

So I say YES YES YES have these clinics, and please, please, bring the boys into the classes. And let the boys be sitting beside them, not off playing football somewhere. If young women are already having babies in not so great circumstance, then at least give them the opportunity to create a happy family, and given them hope for their own future. Don't punish them for not being you, Norman Wells, and people just like you.

Rugby

2010-09-21T09:12:00.021+01:00

(Picture from www.supercoloring.com)

Jack has just started in Year 7 at a great, big, huge boys school that seems to be sponsored by BMW. It's a very masculine environment; given there is no father at home, I see the school as his metaphorical father with loads of male role models. Anyways, even with me being a bit of a socialist, and a leftie, my views on education are surprisingly serious: i.e education is everything, work hard, play nice, do well. No excuses.

And pretty Catholic too: don't hide your whatevers under a bushel - and then that parable in the bible (about making use of your talents) often springs to mind too. So my family philosophy is: "Make use of your talents and help others. No excuses."

It's a shame my family consists of just me and Jack: I quite fancy being matriach of a small army.

Yesterday Jack texted me: 'I got on the Rugby team!' He was very pleased about this, given that he has only been playing rugby for ten days and has been selected as a winger on the A team (especially as the other day I said, 'if you don't get selected, it's not a big deal. Just keep going to practice, you've got years to get on the team,' - oh yeee mother of wrapping-in-cotton-wool-faith).

Jack worked hard for his place on the rugby team. He's been to every practice, almost every day, since the day school started. He has his first match tonight.

This morning we hunted for rugby socks. No sign. The rugby socks have been lost. So we hopped in the car at 8am and arrived at the school gates at 8.10am, school starts at 9.05am. We entered the sports pavillion, heading to the stinky corner, and pulled all the old dirty kit out of a box and searched for socks. It was stuffed full of grubby sportswear, including one Nike trainer.

Then we asked the porter, who had just found a jumper on the playing fields and was presently hanging it out in the morning sun to dry, if he'd seen some socks.

'Come with me,' he said.

We followed him to his special cupboard where he pulled out a basket of odd socks. No sign of our socks.

'I'm not shouting,' I said. 'And there's not a lot of mums that'd get up at this time and drive to school to hunt through lost property to find socks...but ... but think of this, if you lose a pair of socks each week, and they cost £5 a pair, and there are, say, 4.5 weeks per month, how much is that?'

'£22.50,' he said.

'And say you lose socks every week for 12 months of the year?'

'£270,' he gasped. 'That's a lot of money.'

'But not just that,' I said. 'If socks represent 1/100th of our possessions, and so we times that loss by 100, how much is that?'

'£27,000,' he shrieked.

'So if we took a slack approach to all our property we'd be losing £27,000 worth of items a year.'

'That is a lot,' he said.

'Look in your class changing room,' I said.

Jack went down the pavilion corridor to his form changing room, seconds later he walked towards me holding out a blazer, and a school shirt ( total cost £50) belonging to a classmate. 'I'll take these to Josh,' he said. 'And there's a pair of shoes in there too.'

'I bet his mum went bonkers,' I said.

Jack pulled a face as though to say: 'I bet she really did go bonkers if you're this strung out about a pair of socks.'

Shoes! I thought! Shoes! How can any child go to school and then forget to bring his shoes home?! And his blazer?! And his shirt?! Did his mother send him to school naked this morning? Barefoot? Cold?!

'Ask in class if anyone has your socks,' I said. 'Please?'

'I will,' he said.

Then I headed to the school office. I need to pay for a French trip -

'I've lost my cheque book...' I told the French teacher....

Growing pains

2010-09-20T09:12:00.012+01:00

When my little boy was more little than he is now, I used to think, 'Oh it'll get easier soon.' Now I know how wrong I was; bringing up children doesn't get easier because they can brush their own teeth, it gets harder because you must remind them to do it. I think my mother would agree, life hasn't got easier because her children are grown up with kids of their own, the requests and conversations simply became bigger. Family is full time.

I don't come from the school of parenthood that believes bringing up kids is a breeze. Actually, if you think it is, I'd say you are doing it wrong.

To get the balance right, parenthood requires constant attention. It's like learning how to fly a kite; you have to know when to slacken off, and when to reel them back in. This letting go and taking control takes a fair amount of practice and I've come to realise that this is how it will be for the next ten years. I don't mind, but I'm under no illusion that an ideal-dispute-free life is about to happen.

Nine, by the way, is a beautiful age: when Jack was that age, joy was very simple.

I suppose I am on Jack's back at lot at the moment. Starting high school requires a leap in day-to-day life; suddenly I'm faced with a boy my height, who takes equal pleasure in a good debate. He's like me, but mouthier.

Our key words at the moment, are: 'listen; respect; and kindess.'

I often find myself saying things like, 'one day when you have a wife, or a family of your own... blah, blah, blah... you will need to be considerate.' i.e: don't make an enormous milkshake and use all of the milk, or don't drink hot chocolate in a cup the size of a lake, because I never get any.

Like the other day as I browsed around Karen Millen, Jack huffed and puffed because I wanted to look at dresses. 'One day when you have a wife,' I said. 'She won't like it if you say to her, "You just said you haven't got a bean to spend so what are we doing in here?" (We had just spent a fair amount of time in Game, looking a PlayStation 3s.) 'You like looking at games, I like looking at dresses. It doesn't matter if I can't afford one. I like to look.'

Jack said: 'But I'm only 12 years old. Why are you talking to me now about having a wife?'
'Because,' I said. 'Just as it has taken 12 years for you to learn to read - and now you can read very long books - it is exactly the same with growing up. It takes that long to know all this stuff.'
'Can't you just tell me when it happens and I'm twenty?'
'It'll be too late then. You'd have to learn everything very quickly. You aren't born walking, you have to learn to walk. As you go through the next eight years, you need to learn all the things that will make you a well-adjusted grown-up, because when you are in your twenties you'll be living life on your own terms.'

He nodded then, he did actually understand what I was on about, even if I was being a little obtuse.

'From now until you are 21, I have to guide you towards being an adult. I need to get you from here to there....' I said gesturing to some imaginary point in the future. I pictured him as a ship, and we're in search of an island.

Jack seemed OK, about that.

'I'm still learning to be a grown-up,' I added. 'I still make mistakes all the time.'

He grunted in recognition. Later as we left the apple store, he gripped my arm and pushed his head into my shoulder. A boyish demonstration of affection.

'You're an amazing mum,' he said.
'I don't always feel it,' I replied.

Wishful thinking

2010-09-18T07:47:00.014+01:00

Yesterday, after I'd been to my sister's workplace to talk about being a writer, I came back home and began researching for my next book. This consisted of sitting on the sofa, drinking tea, and putting in a call to Emmeline.

The call went something like this:

'I've been asked out by an incredibly wealthy, ridiculously handsome, single-mother loving, kind man, aged 35 with a GSOH. And he's going to buy me my favourite dog.' A spaniel, in case you wondered. 'Should I go on a date with him?'

'Well, I don't know,' she said. 'Has he got anything else going for him?'
'Yes,' I said. 'He's the world champion at cunnilingus.'
'I think you should leave it,' she said. 'He doesn't sound much good to me. You want a grumpy out-of-work type.' (I think this is the dating advice I give to myself, truly.)

Hm, the call didn't go anything like that at all. Instead we chatted about 'sticking to the story' because I keep changing mine. My second book is about a single mum who is given everything she thought she ever wanted: a big man, with big bucks, a big heart, and a huge co...co...clock.... ; but she isn't certain she loves him. The person she loves is her childhood sweetheart and he, the little, rascal, is going to come back and unsettle everything.

I'm undecided on how far to stretch the characters: should the man, Alex Banks, be super-super rich; or should he simply be well awwwf

You know, like a dentist.

If he's super rich, the stakes are high and the comedy is too.... he can be a toff and she can be a scally. And then the story is about escapism, and what ifs. Like,' what if Prince William dumped Kate Middleton for me?' (It might happen?)

If Alex is not a toff, then the story is more realistic and the book becomes about something that could actually happen; and indeed many women go through. They settle for security, in place of love. And then the comedy will be situational, and there's a darker element to the plot.

'What I want to write about,' I say. 'Is this idea that all of us are guilty of thinking that someone else is getting a better deal.'

(I'm speaking in my northern vernacular again, the London-lilt has now truly worn off.)

What I mean to say is that Katy Sullivan looks at other people, like I used to, and thinks, I want what you have; I hate my life. But when she is given the opportunity to have it all she realises that the grass isn't greener just because the fertilizer is more expensive.

'So, it's a story about the grass not being greener on the other side?' says Emmeline.
'Yes.'

Then I told her about the mum I met the other weekend, with her two children, a boy and a girl, the £20k+ a year nanny, the £100k a year job, and a lifestyle she thinks she doesn't want.

As we sat in another mum's garden supping tea and eating biscuits, one woman's husband called wondering when she would be home. I think she wanted to stay longer. She said she wanted my life, (believe me, you don't). How she thought it would be easier as a single mum (her nanny earns more than me). I tried to put her right: 'Oh no, no, no' I said. 'It gets lonely.'
One of other mum's said, 'It's the same for us too, darling.'
Another one added, 'Try spending everyday with someone you don't love.'

But the nanny, the holidays, the house....I thought.

It can't possibly be worse than, no nanny, an empty house and no holidays?

Funny positions

2010-09-17T14:52:00.008+01:00

Snake girl contortionist.

Picture source: 'found on the Internet'.

I find I'm in a funny position at the moment. When I think back there were funnier, more delightful, positions to be in, but those positions have nothing in common with the position I'm in now. They had to do with sex, and boyfriends, and ambition. All glamour and seediness; if we combined the words in Brangelina fashion, it'd be Glaminess, or Seedmour.

When I was in my twenties seedmour was my big thing, but I've changed - and I'm only 32, I'm not old, other people are old - during the seedmour years I was battling against things; being poor was the big one, but on reflection life was exciting; who knew when we'd get out of there?

We're in a spell now which feels 'poor' but not as poor as I was back then.

This morning I went to the place where my sister works and I read out Chapter 9 from my book, the bit where we are getting ready for Christmas and I don't have enough money to buy a Christmas tree, or presents for anyone, and we're living in a council house, and I'm desperate for change.

We're not living in the council house anymore, we're renting a nice terraced house, on a nice street, in a leafy district in the North of England, and there's a cottage-style garden with vegetables growing at the end of it. My neighbour plays the accordion in the afternoons, I hear her through the walls and it's like living on a cobbled street in a pastoral era. Quite delightful.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but I'm heading in a direction, so follow me if you can.

And things, life, got sorted out. I quit with the romances that weren't going anywhere (such a boring thing to do), I moved to London, lived with loads of other single parents, (crazy), dated an academic (I will never do that again), got a job with a publishing company (hard) moved back.

Now Jack, who was so excited with every little suggestion at ordinary fun, is 12, and he doesn't need me as much anymore. I find myself working still, but waiting for him to come home, when the real work will begin. When I can fuss around him.

Once upon a time, Friday night was bounce on the settee night, and it worked a treat, we had fun. Now if we bounced on the settee together we'd look ridiculous.

All at once my job as mother is more important than it ever was; guidance being my sole pursuit in our house; but the contact hours are fewer. He listens to my nagging and then heads to the bedroom.

It feels like I should be out doing things I enjoy, for me. But I've lost the swing of it a little (drinking in bars doesn't count).

And this is why; I went from teenager to student to mother in a bolt.

It feels like I've never not been a mother.

So when it comes to spending time on myself, I don't know what to do...

Moving on

2010-09-16T22:40:00.009+01:00

We have moved house again, seriously... I have become a turtle and very slowly I hulk everything from one place to another with us.

In the past 24 months we moved house four times.

4 times!

A few times were of my choice, and a few others had to do with 'situation'.

I am completely sick of moving and never want to move house again, it costs a lot of money, it's quite messy, and I seem to have lost all my essential belongings in the process. Money included.

I lost the:

Corkscrew
My fancy cereal bowls
All cutlery
A few mugs
And every single love affair and romance I ever had; which was rare for me because I hung onto old flames like trusty Clarks shoes. I think I dropped them all inside the M25 never to be found again.

Then we moved into our new house and I held an unpacking party, there were lots of items missing and in some ways it was like we had half a home.

Salt: no
Pepper: no
Spoons: no
Wine glasses: no
Soap: no
Toothpaste: no
Mummy friend: no

Also missing at our unpacking party was one of our mummy friends.

Of all the things we lost during our move, what I miss the most is our mummy friend. I was so looking forward to spending more time with her once we lived closer again. Cups of tea. Chats about whether the kids should have yet another games-type-console-thingy. Exams, school places, attitudes.

It takes a long time to make good mummy friends; we're talking all the years of infants and juniors standing in the cold in the playground.

Our mummy friend went into hospital, and the following week she didn't come out.

Cheap books for sale

2010-09-03T23:09:00.000+01:00

I was wandering in WHSmiths thinking ... Oh last year my book was on sale here and there were loads of them, and it was in the top 20; if only I'd hopped about a bit more because I didn't quite get how lucky I was. Mainly because I was very busy promoting it.

Then I thought, shan't look to see if my book's here; I'll be sad if it's not!

Anyways, it was. A few of them, on a nice big display and being sold dirt cheap.

£1.99 (3 for a fiver?!)

My thoughts were thus; I'll never make any royalties if my book's on sale for 2 squid.

Mostly I thought. Hooooraaay, it's still being sold.

Happy single mother days...
X

Wedding pics of the triple princess

2010-06-25T18:29:00.004+01:00

My Sister's Big Greek Wedding

2010-06-06T14:37:00.006+01:00

My laptop and I are melting in the Greek sun, but here's a delicious shot of my sister finally getting married... 16 years dating... 5 years engaged and 2 kids later.

I think she looks very beautiful indeed. In the words of her youngest son:

'My double happy moment was when my big brother said my name in his speech. My happy moment was when my mum was in the carriage and looked like a triple princess...' big gulp of breath. 'She did look like a triple princess.'

Oh.... OK.... that's not working....I'm in a bar (hilariously) called Gyroland....I'll post some pictures when I get a better signal.

Party time - NO CONSERVATIVES IN MY BACK YARD

2010-05-06T22:37:00.005+01:00

Having been ridiculously busy, and vaguely misrepresented in the Sun newspaper who had me supporting a piece on being 'let down by a Labour government,' and therefore, a bit Tory, which was odd given I said,'I do not feel let down by the Labour party.' And the only thing I ever liked about Cameron was that he rides a bicycle, and even then that was show piece.

Though, I do think that Brown has been a tosser of late, and that there are few good people in his little red coop, and Sarah Brown doesn't actually need to be playing the good cop in heels all the time, very irritating. Labour need someone new and exciting, like --- hm, Lady Gaga, for prime minister.

I have, historically, been Liberal Democrat, but I think Nick Clegg is a scoffing schoolboy and I don't trust his hairline, so I've gone off him like old mushrooms.

So I voted, and London being London, the rule seemed to be you can vote for three people on this paper and one on the other. So I divided it between the two least offensive of the main parties, and then gave my vote to women. (Hopefully Robin is a woman?)

In my opinion women have been left on the sidelines of this election: male commentators, male news reporters, male referees on the debates. Yes, yes, yes, they've been going for the 'Mum's vote' alright- but elsewhere...like er. ITV, BBC, Sky (I don't have Sky, who chaired that one) ...did women hit a glass ceiling?

If one actually reckoned it up, we women are the marginalized group in this vote.

And yes, I know about Mumsnet, and all those things, I'm talking about heavyweight reporters on prime time television with breasts. Perhaps I blinked and missed the women... there were just too many men in suits standing in the way.

2010-03-27T00:35:00.003Z

I'm on the train, heading back from watching The Jesse Rose Trip at Kensington Roof Gardens. They were excellent. I'm sober - £6.75 a glass of wine!

Super talented, attractive, young, band...

Good Lord...

Anyhow, I'm sitting by a glamour puss, aged 50 plus, her head buried into a plastic bag, should she vomit.

Must be Friday night.... Hm / Saturday morning.

Zzzzzz

Short Cuts

2010-03-24T13:47:00.001Z

I think there should be tax cuts for people 5ft 3 and under, to er.... enable growth.

Lock In

2010-03-24T13:42:00.003Z

Mandelson's buzz words: priority, lock in, lock in, recovery.

Hoorah, if you don't have a house worth over a million squid, no stamp duty.

I bet some people will be pissed off...like, er those who've already been stung.

Talking off being pissed, booze is on the up: drats.

Darling Budget

2010-03-24T13:38:00.002Z

I'm at work on my lunch, watching ITV's budget coverage: it's my new favourite tv show.

Bankers
Boozers
Shiny-faced politicians

Apparently, 'it's not about the detail, it's about the mood music'.

Also, I'm loving the live blogging element pasted onto the action.

Who knew politics could be this exciting?!!!

Teary-eyed

2010-03-22T22:00:00.003Z

Oh... Married Single Other, it's still the best thing on television - not least because I was watching my new favourite show only to be happily astounded to see my flatmate's boyfriend on there singing!

But oh, how sad, how perfectly written, how perfectly shot, and what a perfect cast of characters.

I don't want it to end....

We are Flora

2010-03-10T21:55:00.004Z

This evening Jack and I watched Manchester United beat Milan:

'If life was a supermarket,' said Jack, just after the second goal. 'We'd be Flora Omega 3.'
'How'd you work that out?'
'Well we're not Tesco Value margarine, we're just a bit above Vitalite, but not quite as good as Lurpak... so that makes us Flora.'

Move over Aristotle and make way for the world according to Jack.

At last!

2010-03-08T21:50:00.006Z

I'm watching a television show that seems to have been made to make me happy!

Oh, the joy...the joy.

Single
Married
Other

er no, that's...
Married
Single
Other

I love, love, love it.... love, love, love it.

It's ace, watch it.

Hmm think I may have met Dean Lennox Kelly (Dickie) at a recent party -- when I was very, very drunk... and I fell over, but the floor was wet honest... it wasn't that I couldn't stand up. Perhaps it wasn't him, hmmmm, said man told me he worked in a call centre and hated it.

To do list

2010-03-07T11:53:00.003Z

It's a sunny Sunday.

My list for today's activities contains the following.

*Get through heaps of laundry. BIG HEAPS
*Clean the house. BIG CLEAN.
*Collect and carry two sofas to our house, and somehow squeeze them into a living room with three sofas already in it. This means we will now have five sofas in there. Yesterday, with a hangover, or maybe still tipsy, I purchased two sofas at a knock down bargain price. They'll fit nicely into the house we're moving into in three weeks.... they just won't fit nicely into our present abode. Also, eventually, they'll be perfect for the house in Manchester. Because I was a bit miffed when I had my house valued to be told, 'Well, none of the furniture matches, which doesn't make it as appealing as some of the other houses we've sold here.'
Lulu, my former housemate will be helping me. She called at 8am this morning, and we chatted for an hour.
How she actually rises happily out of bed at that time on a Sunday morning, I cannot comprehend.

*Tackle mummy admin:
accepting school places, and rejecting school place
arranging social things for said child
trying to get up to speed on birthday cards

*Tackling moving house admin.

Ooooooooo now my list is too long and I just know that I won't get any of it done. At some point, I must also sit down to write my novel.

Ashley and Cheryl United?

2010-03-04T21:29:00.017Z

I'm usually not one to judge celebrities' love lives (yeah right) but in the case of Cheryl Cole, I can't help myself. Cheryl is a gorgeous young woman, she hails from a tricky childhood, she is a grafter, and she's been in trouble for (apparently) slapping someone... Now, hopefully, she has put being a wally behind her... or not when it comes to husband Twashley Cole because if you believe everything in the Star (I do.... not ever read it) the bets are in that she is going to give him another shot. (Of freaking sedatives to dampen his libido one hopes.)

And actually, I've always kind of valued mothers who forgive cheating men for the sake of family, home and kids because women are capable of making such tremendous sacrifices, which often means having strength rather than being weak. And also, those philandering MPs and co. had probably been married a trillion years, someone got itchy feet, had an accident between the sheets and repented and regretted it. So I do believe that marriage is for life and understand that fidelity for life might be difficult. I've never (really) wanted to marry anyone I've been with so far, because I knew I wouldn't commit to the 'life' business of it. OK, I had silly dreams, like the one about the Toga character in my book, though in my defence I was in my twenties and a bit of a fantasist. Now I'm a grown-up, I'm a bit more sensible about things like...

Anyways... Cheryl love, what is your excuse? You have no one to protect here but yourself. Thank the Lord you didn't have babies with the donkey. You married young, big mistake. You are a successful, rich, beautiful independent woman and your career is on the up - at least it was. If you tried hard enough, you could become a role model for young women (providing they don't look into your brawling past) but, and I'm sorry to say it - those millions you have sitting in the bank, the peachy glow you smile upon contestants, the nice frocks - it comes with a price, Hunny. That price is, to quote Spiderman, a fabulous philosopher and similarly hot in tights: 'With great power comes great responsibility.'

Cheryl has no excuse, if she reunites with Twashley the world will be topsy because she will be setting such a low benchmark to other women: She may as well stand in Hyde Park and command that women can aim to have it all, but feel so worthless about it that they deserve to be treated like shit.

What kind of famous prat would be so idiotic as to send pictures of himself in his boxer shorts, when his wife is one of the most idolised women in the county? A Twashley that's who. There could be a host of shows off the back of this: You've Been Twashlied, The Stupidest Twashley in Britain, The Twashley Factor.

Twashley has shown himself to be the kind of weeble that blames others for his actions. He tells people to fuck off because his life has been ruined. What he should have said was: 'I am a prize twat for wrecking my marriage. I hereby change my name to Twashley.'

Cheryl sweetheart, you are worth so much - why then do you value yourself so little?

I look Woof

2010-03-03T21:49:00.002Z

I'm getting used to work... but by Lordy it's making me look rough. I was speaking on Skype to my mother and stepfather this evening - this whole video chatting fashion is highly odd - They sat on their sofa, I sat on my bed in my dressing gown, and we chatted. They got to see me sipping wine and looking a horror, meanwhile my mother looked pretty good. Actually, she looked better than me and she'd also worked a full day, and she has twenty years on me.

Sweet, I think...

2010-03-01T21:47:00.007Z

Jack finally gets it - why I was an utterly draconian mother these past ten months. Today when we arrived home from school a motorcycle courier was standing on our garden path holding a box of cupcakes - sent to Jack by our friends in Manchester as a gift for passing his exams. Emmeline and her beau had been witness to my collapsed, drunk and despairing state of 'What if he doesn't get into a good school?' only a week ago.

Oh my, these past ten months I did not even have a career as such -- I was quite simply a career mum.

Career Mums by my definition are mums who, 'having honed various talents in the workplace, then apply these to the task of raising children.'

I'm a goal orientated person - I can't help it, I'm a capricorn - we're all the bloody same.

I swear to the heavens, I will never be this pushy again - until GCSE, A-Level, University, Postgraduate, who am I kidding?

OK, I promise, I hereby promise never to be pushy again... oh, who am I kidding? I won't be able to help myself. It's not just him I'm concerned for, it's a future generation of Robertses - we're not from the landed gentry, nor the chattering classes and co.

Opportunities don't just happen, we have to work for them. That is why we are working middle class. I keep pretending to be working class, I'm probably not now.

Alright, I hope I will never be this pushy again because maintaining the smiling, laughing, stern, podium of pedagogy was exhausting! I had mini breakdowns every five hours. I bank on the school picking up where I left off and so Jack will learn from them the importance of hard work.

My task is complete and I'm handing over the baton. (If only.)

I'm not even one of those people who values money and hard work above anything else. In my opinion hard work for nothing is an absolute complete waste of time. Being able to work towards something you love is a gift.

Working Girl

2010-02-25T07:15:00.002Z

Can't stop to chat...I begin a JOB today in an OFFICE, that hasn't happened since...ooo 2007.

I have had my bicycle serviced, it now rides beautifully and so I shall ride to work, I have also purchased some new lucky knickers... and surprisingly found my old pair (they were on the landing, beneath the coat rack - oddly). Crikey, it's like going back in time.

Must dash... how exciting, somebody else is going to pay me a wage! I've been paying myself a wage for the past two and a half years and I'm a really mean boss to work for: no lunch, no holiday pay, no holidays, no sickness, no pay rises...

I'm going, going gone....

2010-02-18T17:00:00.003Z

I drank too much Sancerre over at a friend's house last night, I am thus unable to write.

I'm going for dinner with Teddy tonight at my favourite little restaurant.

I shall N O T drink wine... ever again.

Valentine

2010-02-16T17:09:00.004Z

So there I was not really knowing that it was Valentine's weekend, of course I knew that Valentine's Day was on its way because of the event at the shoe shop and we stuck paper hearts all over the window. But that was a pre-Valentine's Day event and I'm not one for ever actually knowing what day it is, what month, what year, or even what time of day it is... I swim through life in a blur.

My friend Teddy shrieked on the phone to me today, 'Hey missy, how could you not know it was Valentine's Day!'

Er.... because I didn't buy a card for anyone, and because for once Jack didn't send a card to a girl at school. Last year, my gift was a goat and a lovely card. But then that boyfriend decided.... anyhow, that's all history now.

Saturday afternoon I was at home and at about 3pm, I thought I'd go for a little cat-nap.

'Just going to have twenty-winks,' I announced to my flat-mate Pippy, her boyfriend, her son, and my son. 'So if anyone feels like being really quiet, please do so.'

'Don't blame you,' said Pippy. 'You go ahead and enjoy.'

They were watching the rugby, my son was on his DS, ahhhhh 20 minutes bliss all for me....

I sloped upstairs and lay my head on the pillow, I was just closing my eyes and thinking sleepy thoughts when I heard a tap at the front door, followed by a rustle and Pippy creeping up the stairs.

'Are you awake?'
'No,' I growled. 'I'm very asleep.'
'You've got to come out here,' she said. I could hear the excitement in her voice, it was similar to the tone she used when last a gift landed for me at the door. 'Quick, quick, quick... we need to know.... get out of bed.'

I opened my bedroom door and I couldn't see Pippy's head because of the gigantic bunch of flowers she was holding. Oh my, they really were gorgeous.

'Open the card,' she shrieked, 'open the card.' I'm sure she jumped up and down on the spot, though I couldn't actually see her because of the size of the bouquet.

'This doesn't always happen,' I explained to her. 'You're going to think I'm the kind of girl that often receives flowers, I'm not.'
This is because Pippy took delivery of flowers for me only about three months ago. Not bad going for a single girl.

(On reflection, I suppose it is becoming more common...)

I read the card, dropped it onto the floor. 'I'm going back to bed,' I said.

Pippy's smile turned downwards, 'I'll take them downstairs for you then shall I?' she said, remembering the fate of the last bunch of flowers I received.

Sleepless in Suburbia

2010-02-12T09:26:00.003Z

So I woke up at 3am, and lay on my bed gazing out of the window again. I had taken myself to bed at 10.30pm - I know the saying is early to bed early to rise but this is ridiculous, by the time 7am came I felt like I'd lived a whole day.

I should have sat at my desk to write, but I used to behave like that -workaholic - and fell quite ill. So I made a cup of tea and some toast, and began flat hunting, and thinking of more cliches to post here.

Like...

Early bird gets the worm... a house on our very road has come up to let, and so I am viewing it today. It only became available yesterday. This could be perfect. It's in a small gated enclosure, and for the past few months as I've walked by it I've thought, 'Maybe we could get a little place in the Gardens. It looks very sweet in there.'

I'm viewing at 1pm. Meanwhile various neighbours (it's that kind of place) either have extra flats, or know people with spare flats, so our options seem to be widening.

As for the meeting with the teacher, it wasn't so bad. (Even though, I scurried down the stairs almost about to cry.)

Wistful

2010-02-11T08:50:00.006Z

I have a meeting with the teacher at school this afternoon. She thinks my son Jack is disorganised and not giving me letters to sign and return.

That isn't quite true - he does give me letters but I glance them over and mentally add one thing after another to a list of things to do.

School sends a lot of letters home: perhaps ten on a bad week, four on a slow week. It's a full time job keeping up with mummy admin: applying for secondary schools, finding somewhere to live, settling into a big city, wah wah wah.

I'm being a cry baby I know it, but there seems to be an endless stream of things to deal with a the moment. I could actually do with being by a stream, in the sunshine, eating a picnic. So could Jack, he really doesn't feel like he fits in at this school: he's never had to deal with that before, he's always been able to fit in anywhere. I am trying to load him with happiness but it's hard because kids in the playground can be cruel. I want to hold my own assembly and scream.

This reminds me of Rhodri and our holidays in Wales. We would go for long bike rides together with bags packed with food. I think it was Easter or a half term, I remember it was warm but not hot. We passed a stream, swung our legs over and off our bikes and then headed into the glade. There was a deep natural pool beneath the trees. We stripped off and jumped in - my son included. There was no one around but cows in the field above us, and birds, and wildlife. Looking back it now seems like our own perfect paradise; actually I think it was freezing.

There were lots of things I found really difficult with Rhodri, and actually I hoped not to write about him on this blog, but old habits die hard: the eco-stuff, being skint, fighting about politics. But there were other things that made being with him very easy too, and perhaps although I imply it, I don't actually say it in the book.

He made me laugh, there was always something bizarre we could do together, and I suppose that and the craziness of our relationship made my life feel full. And at the moment, my life feels 18%. I do wonder if I used to smile and laugh more.

Every day Rhodri told me that he loved me - OK perhaps not as we were splitting up - but I would wake in the morning, his arms around me and he would tell me that I looked beautiful ('How?' I thought, 'I have crust in my eyes and dribble around my mouth.') and that he loved me. Or when I'd had a rough day, we danced in the living room, or walked the streets looking into people's gardens, or he'd put a record on and we'd snuggle on the sofa when Jack was in bed.

It's easy to remember the good times, I suppose I also wanted to scream a lot, like the time he made me choose between him and a cordless telephone and obviously I went for him.

SIGH

Adults need to be loved too, that's the conclusion I'm drawing from all of this.

Harlots and Heels

2010-02-10T10:07:00.004Z

Also, for any London people in the vicinity: I will be reading from my book at a Valentine-themed shopping event at a shoe boutique this evening. It is a very small, swish, little place. Free wine and chocolates with a dash of romantic comedy from 6pm-8pm. I'll probably read at about 7pm.

Stella b,

51 North Cross Rd
East Dulwich
London SE22

xx

Pain in the ass

2010-02-10T09:47:00.005Z

Slightly annoying couple of days....

Starting with the eyebrow burn....

Followed by a tag being left on a cardigan I bought for a photo shoot.

Then the letting agent implied that because my flat mate is moving out, I have to leave too and they will put the house on the market for new tenants immediately, (she isn't leaving until April) which doesn't give me much time to find a new flat mate. Therefore, I will have to leave. So I did an emotional plead on the phone and they have given me two weeks to find someone. I am very sorrowfully gazing out of the window at a TO LET sign.

I LOVE this house.

Then my CRAPPLE iPhone broke again, though it seems to be working now. I'm sure it retreats when I'm mentalstruating, it must be a surge in my hormones that does it..... it's always packing in.

I ordered a printer and it arrived with all the glass smashed.

I've developed a crush on someone: I haven't had a crush on anyone for over a year, I'd quite forgotten how it feels... other than distracting, and unlikely, and then again, rather like seeing the first primrose of the decade.

The Writing Job

2010-02-09T16:49:00.002Z

I think I was supposed to meeting Helena Bonham Carter this morning for a photo shoot. I lie not - but it was cancelled. I do love that woman, she is so strong and sexy and feminine and masculine. The women's charity Refuge have asked me to act as a spokeswoman for their Care and Control campaign: more on that soon... and Helena Bonham Carter is the celebrity launching it.

There was also the possibility of appearing on GMTV tomorrow morning - but after I spoke to the researcher, it seemed they pretty much wanted to (metaphorically) make me sit naked on a sofa on television. So I thought that wasn't a good idea and declined.

Much of the time I am at my desk writing, occasionally someone calls and asks me to do something cool, I get a bit giddy and then calm down.

In the past few months I had calls to appear on:

CNN
This Morning
Newsnight
Possibly have my own reality TV programme
GMTV

.... that didn't happen.

And on radio...

Vanessa Feltz
Mr J Vine

..... they vamooshed.

Although, I did manage to do lots of other really splendid things. When I figure out how, I'll post up some media stuff.

So I'm writing this new book Katy Sullivan, it's going well, I reckon. I want to tackle a subject I feel is still a bit of a silent taboo, and as I'm putting together my proposal and story idea, I wonder if even though this is something I want to write about, it could be badly received. Maybe it's just me... and that doubt is holding me back.

Writing Tools

2010-02-08T10:54:00.005Z

I am about to sit down to work (11am, bad girl!)

I thought I'd post a picture of my tools, that I absolutely can't write without:

Tea

Biscuits

Diary in the background (I need to give myself, hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly targets, not to mention, annual, and a five year plan. Therefore, my diary is my best friend. I use a paperblanks diary, I just love it.)

White Tack for sticking notes and pictures to the wall.

A desk obviously, (though some people write on their laps, I actually need a desk.)

A laptop (none of this writing it out first by hand lark)

AND MOST IMPORTANTLY

My blue fluffy slippers. I cannot even begin to think without a pair of fluffy slippers. My feet must be cosy and warm for the rest of me to function. A previous pair were pink and literally fell apart before I sadly binned them.

I'm a big fan of blue... particularly this shade.

If you feel like leaving comments with details of your own OCD activities, please do.

YOU ....ouch!

2010-02-06T11:41:00.005Z

I had a photo shoot for You, the Mail on Sunday supplement, last Friday. And so I thought I'd go and have my eyebrows shaped on Thursday, you know, put my best eyebrow forward and all that.

BIG MISTAKE

You hear about these horror stories where women get badly burned by the wax but you don't --- well I never did --- think it could happen.

Let me tell you, it hurts, it stings, it's really horrible and I shall be going back to threading, which is pricey but accident free. Or the lovely cream thing they do at the Estee Lauder counter at big stores like Selfridges and House of Fraser.

What baffles me is that this isn't actually my eyebrow, IT'S MY EYELID, daft beauty therapist.

The Wheel of Fortune

2010-02-04T08:10:00.012Z

According to my flat mate, this is supposed to help with life planning. Shade in each segment to indicate where your priorities are, and where you'd like them to be.

I've had my head in a whirl recently because I've been thinking about leaving London for Manchester: I can't afford to live here. Just when I'd almost hauled out the cardboard boxes, booked the removal van (i.e the family) I was offered a job. My guardian angel seems to have a cheeky streak in him; he drags me by my hair through challenges, then hands me a golden egg, then does it all over again. It's not ideal, but I do have complete faith now, from experience, that nothing is ever sooooooo bad it can't be solved. With that comes contentment.

For the past six months, I've been so busy with old stuff - things associated with Single Mother on the Verge the book, which I love doing, but let's be frank here darlings -- I don't get paid for most of the chatting on radio and sitting to have my picture taken stints, and it cuts into a writing day something chronic: also whilst I'm not getting paid, I'm spending like a fiend.

Unless you are in the stratosphere of internationally successful author, one does not make a shit load of money from writing. At least, not in the beginning. The agent needs to be paid, the tax man needs to be paid, and you need to use the advance to write the book... it doesn't, well not in my case, get added to some great big saving pool reserved for shopping trips and cruises.

When I was 28, after years at university, and years of balancing work as I wrote and brought up a child, I was more than £10,000 in debt. Actually, quite a bit more than that. Yeah, loads more than that. (Which is usual for postgraduates, Mother, so don't fret.)

At the tail end of 2007, I lost a job I loved (cuts in funding), my relationship ended, and in a two-week whirlwind I sold a book, which previously I had no concept of, nor intention of writing, for a high figure. I hit 30 on December 29, 2007, with a different stride to the girl who hit twenty with a little life growing in her tum. From aged 20, everything would be about trying to provide for that little life, and not 18-30 holidays in Magaluf.

I wrote a book and managed to clear my debts. We didn't go on a luxury holiday (or even a holiday abroad), and the one thing I'd like to treat myself to, a classic navy Burberry mac, is still hanging in Selfridges on Oxford Street, and not in my wardrobe. It was scary. It was like giving birth in House of Fraser --- when you didn't know you were pregnant. But it gave me such an enormous amount of perspective, because suddenly I had choices about where I might like to live, and the person I could be, because I wasn't chasing the wolf from the door everyday. The wolf isn't at the door now, but I can hear it howling around the corner. I'm glad it's there because it keeps me hungry, and it keeps me real.

I was lucky to have the luxury of being able to write and promote my book, and be a stay-at-home mum. It is the being 'a stay-at-home mum' part which was my dream, baby. My dream. Everything before had been about managing, but now I didn't have to manage and could simply 'do' what I loved, bizarrely that was tapping away in the morning, and making dinner at a decent time in the evening, running the bath, helping with homework, and reading a bedtime story.

However, I think I'm going to join the real world of work and writing again. Is it possible?

Thoughts please....

Sleepy

2010-02-02T18:53:00.013Z

Last night I just couldn't get to sleep.

I tried all the usual remedies: Valerian, reading, a banana, a meditation CD, a Radio 4 play, and still I could not nod off. My double bed bumps up against a window, which quite oddly slides open from the bottom up. It was 3am, I was too warm and so swept the latch across the window frame then pressed my hands against the glass shunting it up. Then I lay on my belly, my head resting in my palms instantly soothed by the cold air that hit my cheeks, like I was in Bedknobs and Broomsticks.

I shuffled forward on my mattress, stuck my head out of the window, and looked across our yard up to the London rooftops with chimneys that touch the sky. I listened to the sounds coming from the high street: an ambulance, a bus, a cat, a baby crying, and from the flats opposite, a couple having sex.

I slid down my bed, rolled onto my back, and gazed through the darkness up to the ceiling. 'This time last year, I was in love,' I thought. And then: 'This time last year, I was in hospital, sitting on a sofa, being told I needed to have an emergency operation as he held my hand.'

I didn't like that thought and so I rolled onto my front and again looked out of the window. In the distance I could hear a plane heading somewhere, and the still wails of said couple in the final throes of (evidently) wondrous copulation.

'If we'd have lived here, in Couple Heaven, would we have split up?' I thought. 'Maybe, I'll drop him a line and see how he is.'

Then I realised what a bad idea that could be. I drove myself mad with these thoughts; some romances, that one was more fleeting than any other, can stick with you like a bunion. All that thinking really wore me out.

Did I mention...

2010-02-01T19:34:00.003Z

Did I mention Penguin payed me a lovely amount of money?

Oh yes, did I mention I SPENT the lovely amount of money.... oh dear, I really truly and honestly spent it. I can't imagine I will ever be that rich again. (I wasn't even really rich. Just you know, a bit below comfortable.)

(Sorry Mum, sorry Dad, sorry everyone else, but I had to use something to pay the bills.)

So now I'm in a icky sticky situation where I need money to pay the bills, and I'm in the capital city where everything is criminally expensive.

Even tampons are expensive here. Even fresh air has a price on it.

All Over Again

2010-02-01T19:11:00.005Z

Hello.

I haven't been blogging for a while here, I've been blogging over at MumsRock, a fab'n'funky site for Mums with non of the twee loveliness of various parenting sites. I've had blog block. The problem, I think, was that I had nothing to write on this site, and I reckon that was because it contained such a lot of content about the old me: a girl who lived in Manchester, on a social housing estate, with an eco-warrior, and wondered when her neighbours might next kick off, and when the bills might get paid, and her son missed his father. And of course, I had all sorts of dilemmas: blog writing probably works best when there are all sorts of dilemmas to try to figure out. I was often broken-hearted or despairing, mostly both, and poor, and forever being made redundant! The credit crunch hadn't even hit then. My blog won an award, I attracted the agent associated for making a success out of Belle de Jour and Wife in the North, Penguin paid me a lovely amount of money. I moved from the estate to London... I live in lush Nappy Valley, I moved agent, I got a job.

....I've changed, and so I want this blog to change too - I kept wanting to blog, but it didn't seem right. Then I thought of a solution, quite simply I would delete all the old content. I'm sorry if you've read the book and came here to look up the back story, it's all gone now. Delete, delete, delete.

In its place is a new Single Mother on the Verge. I'm 32 - I reckon that makes me a woman-soon. I'm completely and utterly single, if you've read my book, you'll know I had a number of romances, if you haven't read the book, buy it because it is so much better than the blog (was).

So I'm going to try to blog....

Excellent, I'm glad it's all gone: I feel like I've revamped my wardrobe, moved country, changed my hair, started all over again.....