Home and Away

Dear Mum,

I’m curled up on the family sofa, a cup of tea is in hand and a bar of Dairy Milk balances on the sofa arm beside me. Various family members smile down at me from the lounge wall. The clock is pealing in Dad’s study.

Neither you nor Dad are here. You are on your way to Washington for a two week east-coast expedition.

It’s great to be house-sitting. You’ve generously jammed the cupboards and fridge. And it’s a treat to have a dishwasher waiting for me to feed it its own dinner.

But there is something somewhat eerie about a large empty house, particularly one you’re familiar with. Memories haunt the house; the corner that the Christmas tree adorns and we congregate around on Christmas morning, the far end of the kitchen table where you do your weekly paperwork.

Now it’s just space. No amount of nostalgic recollection fills it.

Instead, my childhood fears trail after me. I can’t help but scout around dark rooms to double check that nothing is hiding and preparing to pounce.

It’s foolish and ridiculous, I know. My cheeks flush with embarrassment as my phantom followers laugh and point at my silliness from their hiding places.

A graduate, who has lived in rough student areas and I’m frightened of my suburban home of which I know every wall fissure, every groaning floorboard, every alcove.

I thus turn to a good friend of mine; vodka. To ease my night terrors and lull me into some sense of comfort.  This is, I would say, the finest company for a night-in.

Missing you x

Poking, liking and tagging

Dear Mum,

You may remember that last Autumn I deleted my Facebook. It felt like the ringing in my ears had finally subsided, leaving the hubbub and frantic noise for calm and simplicity. After a fortnight, I caved.

Now that I’m working I’m contemplating purging myself of it once more. After all, I have no social life – it evaporated into thick London air when I bought my season ticket.

I don’t want to see online evidence of my friends’ exotic foreign jaunts or continuing student lifestyle.

Plus, it irks me that there are those who live their lives by it. These individuals update their status several times a day, ‘poke’ friends to the point of cyber bruising and gain all their information from their mini-feed.

Some others, however, regard Facebook as a dating facility. I’m not sure which is more worrying – the strangers sending friend requests or those who accept the stranger’s request. What happens next? Do these new ‘friends’ communicate on the ‘Chat’ bar?  If they don’t chat, what’s the point? Aren’t they just clogging up one’s mini-feed?

Of course, I enjoy ‘Liking’ the odd status, commenting on a photo now and then, perhaps poking the boyfriend (a subtle reminder for him to ring me). But of the 492 Facebook friends I have accumulated I socialise with approximately 40 of them. And I communicate with just a dozen of them regularly.

Thus, life would be simpler without – the peaceful serenity that is reality. On which note, I need to be in bed for a 6am alarm clock! x

Shall I be mother?

Dear Mum,

I’ve just got back ‘home’ and am slurping on a cup of tea. Sadly, my abode doesn’t smell nearly as heavenly as the family home did this morning.

Waking to the aroma of sweet luxuries browning in the oven is delightful. Generally speaking I don’t like being woken up. But a natural awakening by the scent of baking tickling my nostrils is very welcome.

I hope the tea party for Miranda’s retirement from primary school went well this afternoon. I was somewhat taken aback by the sight that greeted me as I followed the heavenly scent and wandered into the kitchen, bleary eyed, at 10 am.

My first observation was flour. It was everywhere. On the kettle, in your hair, on the hob, in the cutlery drawer, on Mary Berry’s face that stared at me from the breakfast table.

Second, scones. Dotted about every available space of worktop. “Good lord! How many scones have you made, Mum?” I asked, going to pick at one.

“Fifty!” you said, brushing my hand away, “One for every one going. You can have one of these substandard ones.”

You gestured toward a plate with two golden crowns, just as plump and glossy as the army of sufficient scones. I picked up a runt of the litter (a metaphor you didn’t appreciate) while you cut into one of the passable specimens and poked at its center, a look of disappointment on your face, clearly not content with the consistency.

“Well they all look delicious and everyone should appreciate the effort you and the rest of the committee have put in,” I waffled through a mouthful of scone.

You rocketed about the kitchen spreading buttercream on walnut cupcakes, thickening the cream for the Victoria sponge, and lining plates with patterned doilies. I made you a coffee purely to get you sitting down for five minutes.

You looked extremely motherly, with sugar glittering on the side of your nose and a bowl permanently tucked in the crook of your arm. I found it hugely comforting to have you standing before me, embodying the archetypal 1950’s image of a mother.

But times have changed. There I was, trying to comfort and mother you as you anxiously thought about school and impressing your friends. It’s one of those realities of life, that parent-child relationships are reversed as the child takes on more responsibility in family life. Actually, I rather enjoyed being mother.

Anyway, I hope school went well today, you break-up for Summer tomorrow! x

Man’s Best Friend?

Dear Mum,

The neighbour’s dog is barking incessantly and I can’t focus on anything. To channel my frustration at this constant background noise I’m keeping a ‘dog diary,’ recording the start and finish time of the dog’s daily choral slaughter.

Some might regard this as obsessive and sad. “How can she be so cold and unfeeling to resent a creature simply exercising its voice?”

I think it’s a great psychological assignment to channel my emotion plus its satisfying to see how often this dog is at it. I’m not barking up the wrong tree – my diary proves his howling is unrelenting.

I don’t mind admitting I’m not an animal person. Perhaps this is down to Kate and I not being allowed pets when we were young – you not liking dogs, Dad not liking cats and neither of you liking anything smaller than the previous. I must confess that, when I was young, I considered myself deprived, taking for granted a nice smelling house and the absence of trips to the vet when Snuffles was looking off-colour.

Today, however, I don’t mind admitting I have an issue with dogs. To be honest, anything that smells my crotch on first acquaintance isn’t going to be my best friend.

My issue with the mutt began with the claim that “he’s just being friendly.” I wouldn’t mount a new friend’s shoulders, scratching their arms while heaving a pungent stench over their face. So please remove your ‘friendly’ dog before I accuse it of harassment.

The dog I am welcoming of is the guide dog. There is something about their placid nature, calmly taking control of situations, not put off by surrounding human commotion (i.e. no nasal investigation of groin regions) and greeting all with dignified patience.

I find it very refreshing to witness a dog caring for a human, rather than an adult cooing over a dog in patronising worship. To me, the guide dog is top dog, and all others will have my respect if they only kept schtum when I want a lie-in of a Sunday.

Love from a rather disgruntled daughter x x x

The best of times, the worst of times

Dear Mum,

Here I am, with a day off! Sitting here in my room is a sharp contrast to sitting on a train packed to the point of rupture with the employed masses yesterday morning...

Opposite me sits a man talking to “Zo” on the phone, telling her that a hard drive will take more than three hours to arrive, love, while chewing on gum with ferocity.  My eyes cannot help but wander to his mouth, watching the gum glisten as it is stretched and compressed, stretched and compressed, accompanied by sticky sound effects.

To my left is a middle-aged gentleman in jeans and a cream linen jacket. Our carriage has the privilege of listening to his DJing skills as he wavers between heavy rock and indie music on his iPod, at 7.45 am.

Whilst slightly exasperated at my neighbours, I take delight in nestling into my seat. An English degree means reading a wonderful array of literature but lacks up to the minute paperbacks. Commuting is a novelty because it allows me to catch up with recent releases for two hours daily.

Today I finished ‘Rebecca,’ relieved it didn’t undermine ‘Jane Eyre’ as its inspiration, and it got me thinking about re-writing masterpieces. 

It is, I think, a wonderful idea, to celebrate a literary artwork by transforming it into a modern and accessible rendition, provided the writer does not demean the original.

Perhaps I could re-work ‘Great Expectations,’ depicting a Pip-like graduate entering the world of London employment, recognising life does not transpire as you assumed and realising one’s livelihood has been down to the slippery world of debts. This sounds all too familiar...

Lucy x

Warning: contains unsavoury material

Dear Mum,

It was lovely to spend Sunday night at home with you and Dad.  This might sound rather ironic, coming from a mere 21 year old, but I’ve outgrown the student life.

Yes, I did love the lie-ins and dancing until dawn and friends living on my doorstep. But give me a night-in with mojito, good film and the family any day!

Minus one thing, perhaps.  Why is it that every time Dad and I are alone in front of the TV all adverts and programmes are sex-related?

Without fail, you leave the room to make a cup of tea and cue the erectile dysfunction advert.

I always naively think “I’ll let that one go,” acting like nothing cringe-worthy has occurred. Yet the subject unwaveringly continues. The previous advert is followed by a Tena Ladies advert or the comedian continues his string of member related jokes.

Dad and I refuse to look at one another, channelling our attention at the TV screen.

I can feel every part of my body, growing heavier and heavier, the embarrassment and horror tangible as it weighs down by being. Dad may offer a snort of uncomfortable laughter to break the silence between us. But the feeling of mortification is undoubtedly mutual.

Fortunately, because we pre-plan the TV we watch with Grandma to avoid unsettling her, I am fully prepared for such unsuitable moments.  I can pre-determine the perfect juncture to excuse myself and thus miss the steamy sex scenes.

Sadly, channel hopping with Dad does not offer such preparation. I think fathers and daughters everywhere would agree warning signs before these televised moments are necessary, giving the child or parent enough time to leave the room.

Perhaps this seems bizaare – we’re both 21^st century adults and it’s just TV. But I don’t think our family are alone in not accepting this as a kosher family scenario. Frankly, I’d rather go shopping for loafers.

Ciao Mama x x x

Talk Talk... or else!

Dear Mum,

I am so glad the weekend is here!  This week has been jam-packed with ‘team bonding’ and ‘ice breaker’ exercises at work. I cannot think of anything I’d rather do less.

Why do employers regard this as necessary? They must believe we are incapable of introducing ourselves and naturally conversing with others. An odd assumption as each of us was clearly able to do this in our interviews else we wouldn’t have gotten the job.

One such exercise was ‘speed dating.’  

Firstly, the name of this ‘bonding’ exercise made me want to hide in the toilets with a mock sickness. “You go on ahead, guys. Gutted I’m missing out, gutted.”

Secondly, shaking that many people’s hands made me realise the importance of a firm handshake. I had one girl caress my hands in a Uriah Heep fashion, her clammy mitts slithering either side of my hand. Minging. I did then nip to the loo purely to wash my hands.

Thirdly, it seems perverse to ‘bond’ with someone over a laminated questionnaire rather than chat normally. It is very rare that the first three questions I ask a new acquaintance are: “What is your favourite beverage?”, “What was the name of your first pet?” and “What is unusual/unique about you?”

Fourthly, is it necessary for the senior members to stand on the side gawping at us, massive grins imprinted on their faces, as if we’re lab rats behaving as they’d hope we would? “This is going swimmingly well,” they clearly think, “aren’t we clever for coming up with this exercise?”

Yes, thank heavens you were here – if it weren’t for you we would never talked to one another and learnt such fascinating personal information! I now know Pam’s favourite beverage is a sherry, her first pet was a cat called Dandy and she has the unusual ability to chat! AMAZING!

Much love, x

From Midshipman to Commodore

Dear Mum,

I can’t believe Graduation has been and gone! It seems ironic that the pinnacle moment of three years of work is so fleeting. A mere handshake in response to your name being announced, a set of robes that a duplicate graduate will wear the following day.

I always imagined a great sense of reverence, an aura of wisdom shrouding me when standing in the procession. 

I was instead preoccupied with the concern of tripping over my gown as I approached the Vice-Chancellor or too many glasses of Pimms meaning I incompetently threw my mortar board and clouted the photographer.

Thank you for pinning my gown, by the way.  It is obvious the graduation outfits were designed for men as us slender shouldered creatures constantly battled with the slipping hood.

(I’m not sure I told you that one girl from my class pinned the hood to her bra.  She spent half the day pulling it down as it rose to a necklace’s position before rethinking her pinning strategy).

Anyway, it was lovely that you and Dad were able to meet my friends and their parents.  There is something very momentous about having one’s favourite people in one place at one time. I guess that’s what so special about weddings – the collection of friends and family (and those you feel obliged to invite), laying aside their own lives and sharing in a precious moment.

Like you’ve always told me, tradition is an anchor in life.  It was very special to have you and Dad at sea with me!  

Lots of love from your now qualified sailor! x

Phone 4 u

Dear Mum,

I do apologise for my text earlier.  Predictive text has many advantages but it can be a bit of a nuisance.

The number of times I’ve keyed ‘maxi dress’ and afterwards received a reply reading “‘Nazi dress?! What have you gotten yourself into?”

Anyway, I’m not sure how ‘pubic’ featured in my 160 character message to you this morning, sorry about that.

I thought of you on the train this morning. A teenage girl’s phone rang half a dozen times. It wasn’t just that the ringtone clattered about the train at 8am. She had assigned various songs to differing friends, meaning we had short sharp bursts of R&B’s finest virtuosos.

She did not observe the narrowed eyes of tired commuters.

I know piercing ringtones is a bugbear of yours, particularly when the call recipient is nonchalant about answering, meaning the surrounding individuals must listen to the infamous descending Nokia ringtone.

Do you remember when you first got a mobile phone, six years ago? It was a mysterious entity to you then.

We were shopping when it first rang. You tutted loudly and made a point of looking over each shoulder.

 “Mum, it’s your phone.”

“No it’s not,” you said confidently.

“Humour me - unzip your bag.”

Following my instruction you produced a flashing, singing phone.  A look of sheer terror was imprinted on your face. “How do I answer it?”

And now look at you! Questioning your daughter’s text speak, abbreviating sentences and reading my blogs!

You, Mum, are not simply a domestic goddess but a modern woman!

LOL , L x

A shoe-in for the job

Dear Mum,

I meant to write earlier but, I must confess, I was somewhat exhausted by an extensive shopping session.

This trip was not for a stylish new suit, nor for a flattering bikini, nor an elegant pair of heels. Oh no. The purpose of the expedition was to purchase a pair of black ‘loafers.’ Do pause to laugh hysterically before you continue reading...

We have been instructed to wear ‘loafers’ to work.  Needless to say female employees, and particularly those under the age of thirty (including yours truly), were greatly unenthusiastic about this new uniform.

Research into good quality leather loafers was not encouraging.  When I visited high street brands I discovered loafers resembling correctional shoes. I looked like I was modelling a pair of pasties on the end of my legs.

These ‘man style shoes’ are, apparently, bang on trend, which I fail to understand. I take an interest in fashion as much as the next female graduate. But these bulky monstrosities simply do not do it for me.

Speaking of fashionable footwear, I equally do not understand the trend for wearing ankle socks with court shoes.   I left ankle socks at primary school door along with plimsolls, chequered dresses and bunches. 

Call me crazy, but I would like embrace my gender and age in the way that I dress.

You will be pleased to hear, however, that I found a pleasant alternative to the loafer - the moccasin. Although almost identical in appearance, this shoe is far less stiff than the loafer and not as offensive to the female foot. 

Must dash off, my knitting calls...

Love Lucy x x x