There comes a time in every woman’s life when the gods appear to be kind. In your late forties you suddenly feel vital, able to take on the world! Post children your hormones make one last bid for youth and delude you into feeling fit, attractive and confident again. Enraptured with newfound zest you take up running.

A fellow Hampshiremum and I felt inspired to pound the picturesque lanes around our town of Alresford. She has a husband who is an ‘Iron Man’ , who dives head long into a bowl of muesli every morning before cycling 15 miles…….maybe  more; so felt compelled to get fit.

So one Sunday we park the car at Itchen Abbas village hall and embark on our favourite 5 miler. Enroute there were raindrops large enough to drown a pigeon splattering intermittently on the windscreen.

“It won’t come to much ‘ we agreed knowingly.

Despite the advancing precipitation we jog off, me repeating my mantra ‘nine stone, nine stone,’ with rhythmic heavy breathing.

 From the village hall we stagger down to the gates of Avington Park chatting as we go. A cursory glance skyward reveals storm clouds of biblical proportions; we turn left towards Ovington and ‘the blue bit’, resolving to ‘run through the rain ‘.

But this is no ordinary rain; this is Hampshire rain fresh from the Atlantic. To our left is a pastoral scene with horses and sheep sheltering beneath low branches and to our right three intrepid golfers stand huddled having forgotten all those early science lessons regarding metal and conductors of electricity, they look on incredulously as we pass with a cheery wave.

Suddenly, right over our head rips fork lightening and an almighty clap of thunder, enough to make the four horsemen of the apocalypse don oilskins and wellies.

The ‘blue bit’ was long gone and the road flooded we decide to run as far as the farm, then

BANG , CRACK !!!! Followed by screaming in unison, (I know very girlie). Elect to turn back and head for home!

The £85 running shoes are now seriously taking on water and the rugby shirt, (worn on ‘fat days’) has the appearance of a lead weighted diving suit and has moulded itself to my flabby contours, all streamlined elegance is lost as I wade through water the wind and rain stinging my eyes. I now resembled a swamp monster, short of cadging a lift from a passing ark one just had to keep going.

 Now my chum is renowned for her speed had gone into sprint mode leaving a wake any powerboat would have been delighted with.

Over the little bridges and on toward ‘The Trout’ I suddenly got the desire for a large brandy but felt sure there’d be a sign saying ‘No Dripping Joggers’.

Finally, with the storm at its height we reach the safety of my chums aged Golf. As we head back through Itchen  Stoke the windscreen wipers decide to pack up, we now have a touch of. Ellen Mc Carthy in the Southern Ocean about us!

Bid soggy farewell to not so fair weather friend, only to be greeted by husband and two children in collective hysterics,’ we thought you’d get a bit wet !’

They’ll be sorry when I’m fit and gorgeous thought I reaching for a chocolate croissant.

555 words

HAIR TEA.

With a very generous gift , a voucher for most prestigious and luxurious salon in local cathedral city , tucked into the aging Mulberry I settle into my seat and await my stylist Zalda .

I don’t remember the last time I sat in a salon for three hours, (probably more), with a newspaper and the time to read it from cover to cover plus coffee!! Whilst this may be common for many for this H.M it’s a real treat.

Enter Zalda ; she’s six inches wide, seven feet tall, completely clad in black apart from a huge silver motorcycle belt.

“Culor yes ?”

“Colour , yes lovely please”

“I vill get the book, see if ve agree on ze color, yes?”

“Great yes, absolutely”.

We agree various shades of chocolate and caramel.

“You hav thick hair I zink “

She flicks my hair nonchalantly, shrugs and goes off to mix the potions.

I settle down with the property section , well a girl can dream, and Zalda gets to work . Within an hour my hair contains many foil packets and I look ‘oven ready’, I’ve managed to glean from Zalda that it’s her last day as she was due to return to eastern Europe via Gatwick any minute. I try to chat; she’s in no mood.

“You English vomen look so yong , but zen you ‘ave no vorries. You sit now. Coffee?”

“Er yes thanks “

She’s right of course, not much civil war and grinding poverty in this neck of the woods. That notion, along with the doom and gloom headlines in the paper, stirs feelings of guilt. No now come on Sandra this is meant to be a relaxing treat, put away that burgeoning Catholicism.

So I sit and I sit and I sit.

Zalda returns, peers into the foil, sighs and shrugs, “Anzother tventy minute I zink “

She shrugs again.

“Good, all going well then?” I say encouragingly, she puffs out a breath and shrugs .I sit and sit, and then I sit for just a little longer. All hope of relaxation is fading, getting a bit stressy about the car parking, I’ll be hard pushed to make it without incurring a £15 excess charge. No, no, think positive, where’s that copy of Vogue.

Finally Zalda comes back,”It’z ok”, she shrugs.

A scented shampoo and special treatment later and I’m back in the chair.

She flicks my hair this way and that,”Ze back I like, ze front and ze sides  “, she shrugs, “no”.

“Right, well just do what you think “……..

What am I saying !! She sets about my perfumed, newly coloured luscious locks with all the dexterity of Edward Scissor Hands on speed, a terrified inner voice cries out for her to stop or there’ll be no hair left. I have a nightmare vision of her smiling down at me, “In my contry ve make tea from ze hair.”

Her hands are now a blur, I’m aware I sinking down into the chair, only to be pulled up and firmly repositioned.

Mercifully she is finished, she collects a large round brush, sets the dryer on max and 110 degrees and sets about ze blow dry. Luckily I have a scalp that is comprised of the same material that the Space Shuttle requires for it’s re entry to the Earths’ atmosphere, so simply wince my way through the procedure.

My hair is now glossy and very straight.

“If I zad ze curls like you I vould grow it long I zink “

Now she tells me!

As the smell of burning hair subsides, she rakes her fingers through it, “Zare , now you look just like ze French voman”.

Why am I thinking of ‘Allo , allo ‘.

Anyway, pay up; wish Zalda  good luck, dark glasses on and sprint to the car with ten minutes to spare.

Once home the husband sayes , ( after the predictable line “Did you get your hair done then ?” How we laughed .), that he liked the colour as do I . Star II said that he had a’ new mummy’ and that she looked ‘funny’, Star I simply said! Hi Mum “, but couldn’t crane his head away form the T.V long enough to make any appropriate comment.

I wash my hair and settle it back to its’ messy normality thanks to the aid of a great colour and cut.

    Do you sometimes yearn to free your children from the daily rigours of cerebral training ? Then a mid - week trip to the Tutankhamun Exhibition is what you need !!  How could any school say 'no' to such an , albeit thinly veiled , glorious educational opportunity ?

So with the sweet scent of freedom , and that of the Thames , in our family nostrils , we arrive at the 02 in time for coffee and slabs of chocolate cake.  Star I , aged 10 , then  manages to set Anglo/Japanese relations back by ten years  by leaping into the sushi bar to order whale and chips .

Then it's swiftly on past the obligatory ice rink, where a minor tantrum from Star II , aged 5 , is averted by persuading him that all things dead and Egyptian would be of more interest.

Having queued, we equip Star I with Omar Sherif - narrated sat - nav. ;'Turn left at Ra , first right to exhibit 7 , etc ', and then we proceed to journey back in time to the life , death and discovery of  King Tutankhamun.

Picture , if you will, 11 dimley lit galleries where one gazes in silent awe at the wonders of the ancient world..........accompanied by the sound of Star II on his imaginary quad bike, "Vroom , vroom ,kneeooow KNEEOOW, just going to park my bike over here Mum .!"

"Mum make him shut up !! I'm going on to the next one ."  All said at 180 decibels having neglected to turn dear Omar down, Star I speeds through the exhibition having "done the Egyptians in year 4".

I manage to cajole Star II off his bike long enough to engage with the 'funny man' with the body of a snake and wings of a bird , and even recieve a sympathetic smile from a fellow viewer as i assure him that King Tut. really did play  with the miniature papyrus reed boats in the bath. All this was no match  for the 'yummy mummy' - very much alive - in gallery 9 who had her angelic brood drawing hieroglyphics into their matching sketch books.

With an authoritative pat on my shoulder a guide requests that i prevent Star II from touching .........and kissing ....... the glass, and we are shadowed by a lady with polish and a cloth for the rest of our visit.

Decamp to Covent Garden where their educational day is rounded off by ordering an Italian meal from a waitress formerly of the Ukraine. Excellent

Christmas and beyond

 Yes, yes I know it’s a little late in the day, indeed the year, to be reminiscing about the Yule Tide experience but they say time is a great healer ……..

 It’s Boxing Day , 7-45 pm , the first chance to sit , relax and reflect since  23^rd , of October that is …….

Monday 17^th Dec.

Long , long day at work but all fun and festive.

Tuesday 18^th  Dec. Similar feel , but client base suddenly realise that not only Christmas but also New Year is upon us ! They flick through their collective diaries pondering dinner parties various , I keep mine close to my creative chest as the words , ‘sorry I’m already booked ‘ trip from my tongue with consummate ease . It felt good .

Wednesday 19^th. Dec . Stars I & II break for hols . so it’s a half-day complete with 9 little friends in tow for a Christmas party lunch . A seating plan crisis is only averted by two of them coming down with the plague .Still , managed to convince 3 10/11 year olds that it is still cool to eat carrot and cucumber sticks with pizza , then watched in awe as the healthy eating plan was replaced a feeding frenzy of all things festive and chocolate  , ah bless .

Two dear H.M s happily polished off a bottle of Chablis and four boxes   of M & S party food , success !!

Thursday  20^th Dec.  Work – status quo continued . Then off to the panto ! The ‘Wizard of Oz ‘, accompanied by five  friends and their off spring and freezing fog . First such outing for Star II.. , after several aborted attempts at cinematic  entertainment, where his penchant for running up and down the aisle repeatedly introducing himself to the unfortunates situated on the end necessitated  many a speedy evacuation form Spielberg’s’ lair .

However , this time , just as boredom thresholds were reached the scenery was changed amid much applause  from Star II  , and no one else at that particular point ………Anyway all good stuff to be repeated .

Friday 21^st Dec.    8 . 00 am – 8.30. pm , mega day  .Husband has full control of the children  and the ‘booze cruise ‘ ,all without the aid of a safety net

Saturday 22nd Dec. Work 8.30 – 4.00 then decide , in a fit of peak , to tackle  the food part of Christmas and take Mum who requires “ a few bits” . We don full battle dress ,pads and pit helmets , albeit festively , and  bravely march into the consumptive mouth of hell  that is our local  Tesco…….to find it……..all but empty and , even more remarkable , fully stocked !In a determined attempt to be less wasteful , I only get what I really need . As the guy at the checkout worked his way through a years worth of loyalty  vouchers  we got chatting about the amount of produce that they have to throw away each week just from that single store . Came away feeling guilty and  sick perfect start to the Christmas weekend !

Sunday 23^rd Dec. Friends come for lunch had a fab time .

Monday Christmas Eve .

Husband elects to play golf and from 7.30 am is in the ‘golf zone ‘ .

“Sandra , have you seen my golf shoes ? What shall I wear ? Is it cold or not ? Does this look alright  ? “

“ Yeah great “ Wasn’t really paying attention due to the preparation of family breakfast , clothing etc in an attempt to get to the shops early – ish . Still I’m sure in certain lights a  pale lavender jumper would look fab with dark green trousers .

Having lost the ability , due to the excitement of the impending game , to shut wardrobe doors and turn taps off the husband disappears from our lives much like a rock from Goliaths’ sling.

I assemble Stars I & II and , fearing an apocalyptic  shop in local Cathedral city, read them the rules of engagement and festive riot act. Then set off for that much loved Christmas Eve tradition of picking up the turkey,and other components of the feast, from M & S .

 All fears are completely unfounded , we park really easily , the shops are pleasantly quiet and the palace of Earl Grey , milk shakes and buns is nothing short of heaven ! Relaxation is mine at last.

Star I had taken being ‘ man of the house ‘ for the morning to his heart and decides to take personal control of the Yuletide food ; one turkey , one ham and two garnish packs. Despite their combined weight being nearly half a tonne he manfully attempts to carry them back to the car via the ‘olive man ‘ in the market.

 The short journey is punctuated by me saying “really  love let me carry it now .”

And by him saying ,”blimey this is heavy “ and continually dropping said load to the ground every couple of metres or so. Still no harm done , I ‘m sure it all looked beautiful when it went in the box .

With husbands tipsy return only serving to send excitement  levels into orbit , we prepare the Santa snack  - mince pie and port – and throw the reindeer food – oats with glitter in to you and I – onto the patio ; and they race to their beds with a heady mixture of anticipation and fear. “Will Santa REALLY come into our house Mum”?

Accompanied by a little glass of something I set to and create a set of Santa footprints from hearth across the rug with the aid of some self-raising flour . Illusion complete.

Christmas Day .

6.30.”HAPPY CHRISTMAS MUM AND DAD”

“That’s flour Mum “

 “No darling Santa’s footprints”.

“Yeah right. “

Amid much tearing of expensive  and non –recyclable paper there were heart felt OH WOW THANKS”. They were dead chuffed bless them. Beautiful , just beautiful.

Having prepped the veg the night before  . I break the seal on the turkey and read the instructions,

Cook for 2 hrs 40 mins. You fat lazy bitch make more effort next year. We’ve even cooked the ham for you for Gods sake!If you muck this up you really must be thick!

 This isn’t just any insult , this is a M& S festive guilt insult with extra venom.

A last minute , panic stricken once over with the ‘Mr. Sheen ‘ heralded the arrival of the immaculate in – laws  who immediately demanded as to the whereabouts of the turkey .

“Strangely enough it’s in the oven .”

It was duly inspected and,as the oven door was snapped shut , declared predictably inferior. Fortunately the satisfaction gleaned by the reinstatement of my ‘black sheep’ status meant that they missed the horrific state of the oven door, permanently scared by an exploding toffee and apple tart courtesy of Jamie Oliver. Got away with that one.

More lovely presents ensued. By the time the dropped and bashed turkey and ham were arranged on the plates it had taken up the appearance of ‘road kill’ with gravy , and nothing short of a flame thrower would endues the pudding into to ignite .

Post gluttony the Christmas scene resembled something out of ‘Cocoon’ both grandfathers slumped in open-mouthed slumber , while the grandmothers swap stories on how to care for their unwell spouses, bless them. Old age is not much fun it would seem. Sensing  a suicide pact pending I decide there’s only one thing for it …..

 Baileys with ice ladies ?”

It is one of the many Christmas products you ve to buy in order to make festive life complete. However, in reality, it is a vile drink it’s creaminess slides over your tongue making it take on the quality of a cheap carpet while the harsh spirit content forges on to play havoc with your imminent ulcer.

Anyway  Grandma Inc. knocked it back with gusto  and giggled their way through until home beckoned , much good will to all men.

With Stars I & II exhausted and happy in bed and husband in a port-induced coma on the sofa, I settled down ……….to a pile of washing up. 

Sorted.

3 for 2 and the man from Titanic.

Ah yes Christmas shopping , had to be done, no escaping. In a fit of peak resolve to get organised early , so started tentative Xmas consumption in August !

As ever pride coming before that fall , and with the immortal line , ‘Fortune vomits on my eiderdown again’ , ( Black Adder) , I find myself standing at the desk of the Marks and Spencer ‘Customer Services‘ department being closely examined by CCTV….

Let me recap..

Amid a sea of black velvet and glitter that is our local , and vast , Marks and Spencer at Christmas ,dear Mum and I sally forth on a quest for the last remaining presis and Yule Tide frippery various.

I collect toys from upstairs and then meet Mum at designated spot for payment and happy escape.

I join the inevitable long queue and notice that one man serving is all dressed up , with clearly no where to go , in tux complete with bow tie and slicked back ,well greasy actually , hair . He looked ,well , ever so slightly ….damp , I reckon flu was on its way, the whole impression was ,to say the least , clammy.

Being served by a man looking like an extra from ‘Titanic’ following his encounter with Davy Jones , was no great advertisement for the Men’s Department .

“Madam” , he says, “you’ve not got all your 3 for 2 items , you need to collect one more free item”.

“Er .. Well.. Ummm “ Decisive as ever.

“Just choose one from over there Madam , and I will hold the transaction until your return, leave your shopping here ,I ‘ll look after it “Slippery smile.

“Ok thanks”Trip to the near by ‘3 for 2 ‘ isle and collect pukey pink and orange bath gel for niece.

Upon my return queue up again , well I’m English I love to queue , then explain to a lovely man , dry no tux , that Mr Di Caprios’ friend at the end had my shopping and had held the transaction over until I collected all the 3 for 2 items . His glazed expression receded as the man in the tux squelched over , pressed all the buttons and I paid up.

Great , went down to the end of the counter where our friend from Titanic was serving and waited for my shopping. Ah…….

“Can I help you Madam ?”

“Yes thanks , I’ve come to collect my shopping, you said you ‘d look after it, while I got the remaining 3 for 2 item ? You held up the transaction for me ? About 5 minutes ago ?”

“But I gave it to you Madam, it’s in your trolley” He oozes over the counter to peer accusingly into my trolley”

“ Er no I definitely left it with you “

All eyes are on me now

“But I gave it to you Madam”

“No , sorry , I’ve paid for all my goods but, as you see, I only have the one item that you ,kindly, sent me away to collect, while you looked after the rest”.

A mild and increasingly wet panic the seemed to sweep over him , there was much cupboard and drawer opening, wasn’t sure if he was searching for my shopping or the last remaining life jacket . There ‘ll be no going down with the ship for this guy.

“Here Madam , take this bag, you have your receipt, simply replace the goods that you ‘ve bought”

“Er right , um thanks “ Hows this going to work then ? I walk round M & S with a bag , put things in it and leave the store…. I think I can see a problem here , talk about women and children first , rats leaving a sinking ship etc.

Meet Mum and explain, “Hows that going to work then ? I’ll wait here I think”

You can always rely on your mother in crisis .

Proceed upstairs to’ Toys’where I find two assistants filling shelves . I explain , in great detail , my predicament which is met with two incredulous stares. Perhaps it would have been more believable if I simply shouted “Iceberg , iceberg !!!!”

I start to explain the whole tail of woe yet again at which point either sympathy or boredom got the better of her , “Madam please don’t worry, you have your receipt , simply collect your goods and we will check the items before you leave, it’s not a problem. “

A life raft at last , sail round toys replacing all the items, including 3 for 2s , that I’d already paid for . Are you following this ?

Go to find final toy on the list the aptly named ‘Brain Teaser’ only to find none left.

“ Oh dear I think the one you bought , but haven’t got, was the last one Madam, sorry ‘

“No problem, I’ll take the Air Powered Rocket instead , it’s the same price so that’s fine” I say cheerily , past caring now.

“Yes that’s fine Madam , but you will need to go to Customer Services so they can swipe the item because it’s not the same as the item on your receipt” She adds a smile.”Happy Christmas”

The queue at Customer Services is as wide as the Atlantic itself and equally stormy , full of folk replacing or refunding half their wardrobes , if not more.

Eventually get to the till.

“Are you ready for this ?” I chirp, “you’ll never believe it “……I relay the whole tale again,”So all I need you to do now is scan this Air Powered Rocket,which replaces the Brain Teaser game that I no longer have because it’s out of stock , and then I’ll have receipt for it ,ok?”

I’m right she didn’t believe me , she is , in fact ,quite bemused.

“ I think I’d better get my supervisor”.

Starting to get a bad feeling about this.

So this is where you came in. As I start to read the Refund Policy, for the want of something better to do, that’s emblazoned on the wall behind the till; I’m aware that she’s been gone a long time , a very very long time……

Of course ! I’m being scrutinised by CCTV! Lets face it , my story is bizarre , I’m walking round the store putting things in a bag from a receipt for goods that I’ve paid for but not actually got. Looks bad eh ? Yep.

I can hear the pages of ’ Guide to the Body Language of Shoplifters’, turning as I speak . I’ll be on a staff training video by next week.

Very long queue has formed now , I’m starting to look conspicuous in my orange mack.

Yes ! It’s obvious ! Prepare my defence . Why would anyone attempt to shoplift wearing a bright orange Mac , (thanks Johnny ), with a matching scarf and ,ohooooo , is that just a hint of brassiness in the hair ? I could hardly be less camouflaged with the white shinny surfaces and bright lights of M& S.

Ok then ,body language . Don’t fiddle !Place ,crossed , hands with palms uppermost on the counter and continue to read the ‘Refunds Policy ‘, have now taken on the appearance of an orangutan awaiting Reiki.

Mercifully no redness in the face as yet, not that that will wash with two burly security guards as I’m dragged through ‘Per Uno ‘pleading “ but I’m peri-menopausal you know “, on my way to a place of incarceration where my remaining years will be spent humming ‘The heart will go on ‘ and muttering something about 3 for 2s.

Now pull yourself together , you’re innocent!

Meanwhile ,Mum continues to wait downstairs , still she’s probably engrossed in making a ‘Free Sandra Pagan ‘ placard as we speak. Yes , you can tell the allure of the Refund Policy had worn thin , was just reciting it will my eyes closed , when….

“Good morning”

A very immaculate woman , short and sharp suited probably with steel toe caps concealed within the black patent leather, confronts me , accompanied by nervous assistant.

“Madam could you tell EXACTLY what happened”. No smile , I’m getting a vibe of guilty until proven innocent and a voice saying ‘Mrs Pagan please , remember where you are’…..

Tell my sorry saga in a succinct but warm and friendly way.

She’s having none of it .” I’m sorry Madam, I don’t understand. Please go through it again”.

Ok , looking for inconsistencies are we. I relate my story AGAIN , getting just a little cross now.

“So he gave you a bag and told you to simply replace the items you’d already paid for ?”

“Yes , but it didn’t seem like a particularly good idea” I guffawed.

“Indeed”

Does this woman never blink I wondered, was she pushing the red button under the counter, the one that would send me through the trap door and into the shark tank and Davy Jones locker.

‘This isn’t just any Great White, this is a M & S Caribbean Great White with extra sharp pearly teeth’………

“Madam”.

Here we go.

She softens,” I can only apologise “, (hear the rest of the queue give a sigh - did I hear a ripple of applause ?) , “a member of staff should have accompanied you and helped you replace your lost items, this is simply not the way we do things at Marks and Spencer , I can not apologize enough”.

Case dismissed !

Supervisor leaves assistant scanning Air Powered Rocket and strides back to her layer - I mean office.

I ,finally , meet Mum and we put the placards in the bin on the way out. The last time I saw the man in the tux he was standing on the counter behind a customer with arms out stretched saying ‘ you do trust me don’t you Rose ‘

Monday:

Star I friend arrives complete with 'pleases and thank yous ' and the ability to take his own shoes off . Lovely.  Lunch time brings with it the arrival of two more friends initiating pizza - fest , "Oh they're both the same!"   Then there'll be no fighting will there ? Spit spot,  Mary Poppins rising....

Decamp to local park where Star I and friends play that well known game 'dodging the dog shit' , ( why is it EVERYWHERE!!!!!!), while Star II aims for the outer atmostphere on the swings.

Home sweet home and on to work.

Tuesday:

Star I great friend arrives at 8.30 , pick up another at 10 , three  10 - 11 year olds and one 4 yr. old  = panic ? No park!.........again, meet up with yesterdays' guest so all five boys rampage for two hours , then home for hot dogs my job done.......only to hear the words........

"Where are we going this afternoon ?"

"I  want a bike ride""

"I want to take my scooter"

"I want to rollerblade"

"Er.....right... ok"  Luckily  i am well versed in local knowldge of lovely farm tracks , previously used for running in splendid isolation. So trusty Renault is packed to the gunnels with two bikes , one scooter , rollerblades and water , oh yes and four boys various.

Beautiful sunshine accompanies our trip , the country side idyll  challenged only by my  repetition of "remember the blue one has no brakes...." Not in my nature to do risk , but there is a Ist Aid box in the car......somewhere.Anyway if all else fails , plenty of room for the Air Ambulance to land out here.

Eccentric , yes really , at 11 , and wonderful friend  chances his arm and indeed the rest of his body , in the little known sport of rollerblading up hill , with surprising success.

"Don't worry Sandra i looked up 'Falling made easy ' on the net "  Of course silly me ......

By the time i'd made it to the top of the track and toed Star II  back on his scooter via the use of my best scarf,the others had made it back to car , abandoned the bikes and blades and taken to the trees having scaled a muddy bank en route.

Sensing imminent fall out  -"You're pathetic if you can't get up here!!" - "Ouch there's a thorn in my finger !" etc, suggest not only a spoon full of sugar but a walk across the fields to the village park . I manhandle all things with wheels into the Renault and ,with water running perilously low , stride  determinedly over the style and around the fields . "Keep off the crops !!!"  Country Code's wasted on this lot.

The famous four play 'It' for what seems like an eternity until one of them gets a major strop on , decide on immediate departure.

"Last one back to the car 's a prick !"

"Sorry boys what did you say?!!!" All that English homework is paying off i see. Hoping the  continuing colourful language is carried away by the rising winds , i  cajole a tired but determinned 4 yr. old  back to the car . Upon our return one of the merry troop declares ,"Thank God we're back home i hate being outside"  Fine.....

Praying that their mothers have really good washing powders we wave a cheery goodbye. Felt i'd actually achieved something , managed a small but marauding group of would - be adolescences with relative ease, having prepared a casserole earlier ,  RESULT.

Knock at the door, lovely friend with two boys one, fresh from his Lumber Puncture ,surprisingly  chirpy and both very hungry.

Husband arrives home to find said casserole disappearing down small gullets , still great to see unwell small person on such good form.

Wednesday:

Guilt sets in about my lack of family commitment , so invite sister in law and niece to the Arboretum, aka "Oh no not here AGAIN" Should point out that sister in law is completely immaculate , having her round for a coffee intiates mass hoovering of the cutlery draw, so you can only imagine the horror that is cleaning the car  to its suitably gleamy best. There's some stains you just can't shift and even a blow torch will not remove that Smartee stuck on the seat.....anyway.....Amid the Arboretums spectacular Autumn hues the  cousins play hide 'n' seek for hours, we have a lovely lunch and even manage the shop experience with consummate ease.   Success.

Later Stars I & II are to tea with a friend and niece leaves to complete level 47 in her piano exam. Peace perfect peace........Am then transported too nearby beautiful new palace of friend who prepares a fabulous Italian meal, much merriment , home to bed  12.30.....

Thursday:

Jaded but up with the lark for first client  at 8.30 , a nice but fidgety boy  who is on his way too Wales, well you can't hvae everything. Raining now but , ever the optimist , set off with intrepid friend to local Forestry Commission haunt. Now misty , wet and muddy ..excellent.Due to  new but predictable  financial crisis,the picnic's not up to its usual bounteous best,but brilliant friend saves the day by producing chocolate brownies in the gloom. If she were Nigella you could of course hate her , but never this kindred spirit. Bless her ,took  Stars I & II back for tea and even washed their  mud soaked clothes !

 Not many people like that i think.....unless of course ...she's actually concerned for the welfare of my children?............Hadn't thought of that.......

Friday:

Seriously complex.Work at  9 , 10, 11, and 12.Star I is picked up at 9.30 and taken to a friend ,while a little chum of Star II comes to play at 10  At 12 Star I and two friends return for lunch , so five for lunch. Due to the obvious lack of a Red Cross food parcel  persaude three 10 -11 yr. olds that it's still cool to eat carrot and cucumber sticks and two 4 yr olds that sandwiches and chips are actually haute cuisine...couln't change the water into freshly sqeezed pomegranate juice either , must be loosing my touch

Little friend picked up at 2.30  and then transport Star II too another friend with his own quad bike!!!!

More work between 3 and 5, than cook buckets of pasta for remaining three who demolish it with gusto, after they have been ordered down from the shed roof on which they have built a 'den'.......where's that First Aid kit..

After dropping them home, return to a house that i know is going to need more than a 'Sixty Minute Makeover' , demolition and re-build seem more appropriate , and decide to push on with my idea that the new look for the small garden at Chelsea should definitely be that of Goose Green after the Fauklands conflict.  I'm a trend setter, excellent.........

So all in all , not a bad week , not bad at all. No fall outs , no death or major injury and  plenty of inspiration for my new book 'How to feed ten people on absolutely nothing'

  Thursday 10.00 am  :small  police van arrives out of which steps a seriously intimidating blonde  ,clad in black , from the 'scientific department '

"Is this the vehicle ?"

 "Yep" Tried hard to break the ice with an offer of a coffee, but judging by the look it would obviously seriously interfere  with scientific procedure. So with the words 'cover me i'm going in ', ringing in my ears ,  i  scuttled back inside.

After 20 minutes she seemed genuinely disappointed that she couln't  'lift any prints or D.N.A ,(!!!!!), from fabric fibres '  -  this girl is good -  from the scene.

"There's nothing for me here, Fairy Liquid and hot water will get the dust off. "  And she was gone..........

As for us ? Well locks £360., drill £200. and insurence excess £250.   Bugger.

I hope you're satisfied you little sod , if you were mine i'd have tanned your arse years ago !

This has been Sandra Pagan with a highly cathartic blog.

      Monday morning 1.40 am How do i know ?  There's  the  sound   of  unfamiliar  car,  no  people  ,  no  doors,  just  the  engine  running.

Now  i'm  used  to  the postman  next  door  leaving  early in his  throaty  desiel  and  the  party  animals  opposite with their cheery goodbyes accompanied by Drum and Base ; no  , this i didn't know.

Lift the blind to see the car parked ,black , lights out although clearly lit by the street light.  glance down to the side of husbands' van........ there he is  hooded , black - clad little  , ( well quite big actually ) , sod helping himself to the contents of said van!

HEY YOU !! ,( you must remember this is a nice part of Hampshire  -  or was ), and with that he legs it   , not carrying a box of Milk Tray  into the night but rather a brand new electric drill !

Husband staggers round the room searching for the window , not too good  at night vision minus glasses or contacts,  anyway they're long gone.  Decide not to dial 999 , what's the point when a little lecture on wasting police time awaits , so opt for leaving a message on a Police helpline .

Hear nothing. Next day decide it would be best to report 'the incident'  again , phone 999 get a lecture on not reporting it  at the time...Wednesday  dawns, large Police 4W.D pulls up outside  ,great for the neighbours, containing one  , very nice , policeman. Shouldn't  they be car - sharing by now ?

Anyway, he takes a detailed statement as he sips his coffee and , having  ascertained  what we do for  a living , looked  incredulously at me  asking "What the hell are you two still doing here then ? You should be living the good life in New Zealand , you'd get in no problem".

He seemed so very keen on the idea that it didn't  feel like the appropriate moment to say how the notion of living on an active volcano had never really appealed , despite its beauty .

He , undaunted by my lack of enthusiasm ,  had meanwhile launched into tirade about this country 'going to the dogs' , how the  'Force ' was loosing good men as they could no longer cope, everything being run  by statistics so if people don't report crime then you end up with no police on the street , the assumption being they're not required , and as for kids these days, no respect , no manners and they all have too much. "I've worked in London where it's really bad, it's all coming down here you know just you wait and see....."

I should be taking a statement from you i thought, "more coffee? sedative ? I was feeling  a tad depressed as he departed ,leaving me with my 'crime number',barely had the courage to step outside my own front door to see him off . Left with a sense of paradise lost.

"There 'll be someone along to dust tomorrow"

"Great - the whole house ? Oh yeah... right... finger prints ...of course". I knew that i watch N.Y.P.D. Blues

.

Bon Vacance v Hidi hi.

Travel , journey , trip , vacation , holiday , exploration; any of these conjure up far - off exotica accessible only by Club Class , private sea plane , yacht or some chauffer driven conveyance………Clearly this H.M. has been too long sitting with the Earl ,(Grey) , dipping into ‘ Travel ‘ magazine, ( God bless Conde Nast for rainy day wish fulfilment ! ).

The awesome locations displayed within its’ glossy pages are accompanied by ‘ essential ‘ advice on how to get 6 months supply of bikinis into the smallest Louis Vuitton ; and which of the hugely expensive beauty products will ensure your skin stays like that of a three year old in 120 degrees, and prevent you emerging from Club Class looking like a puffer fish.

Back on planet Hampshire things are a bit more ‘real’

Don’t misunderstand me we’ve been around and about , Europe, States , Caribbean and of course the dreaded skiing. Here’s some advice, always go alone , there’s nothing more stressful on your virgin trip than being the only member of your party who hasn’t competed in the Winter Olympics at some point.

Always wear black, that way you will look marginally more elegant in the ‘snow plough’ position - which needs to be held for the duration of your stay - than you will in the ubiquitous pink . No one wants to look like a blancmange dying for the loo - trust me , I know……..bugger.

Plus black is a handy colour , having inadvertently strayed from Blue run to Black mogul field , it takes you neatly from slope too funeral.

Skiing is fantastic , particularly when dropped from a helicopter onto virgin snow from where you descend too your lodge to partake of spa, haute cuisine and log fires………….there’s that travel magazine again! Reality dawns with memories of the scent of ‘Deep Heat’ ,other peoples socks and the ,mentally scaring, image of my brother-in-laws pale blue Y-fronts drying on the heater……..another story there I think.

All macaroni H.M holidays are dependent on the horrific constraints of money , school holidays and your ability to tolerate the delights of the human trafficking experience that is Heathrow or Gatwick , until …………this H.M went native! Not new - age traveller , no no , camping is de’ rigour my dears!

“It’s the only thing !” , cried Toad.

We’ve been doing it for 2 years now - sounds like a confessional - “Hello my names’ Sandra Pagan and I’m a ….camper.”

Like many things in life, don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it.

For a H.M. addicted to the consumption of consumer goods camping is heaven scent. Completely ignore those who advise a two- man tent and a Swiss Army Knife are all you’ll need . Survival in the ‘wild’ is dependent on so many essential gadgets , not least copious amounts of Cath Kidson and red dragon - fly fairy lights,( only for the totally gullible ……bugger) , the unfortunate side effect of which is that the tent takes on the appearance of brothel come night fall.

The greatest gift camping bestows is a feeling of complete freedom , your children are transformed from competitive target - attaining, electronic game nerds to spirits somewhere between ‘Swallows and Amazons ‘ and ‘Lord of the Flies ‘, ummmm oh dear . However the true camper needs to hardened to the subtleties temptation , the perfumed bedroom with luxurious en suite I visited recently led me to doubt my camping ways , much like a vegetarian who craves a bacon butty from time to time.

The weather in Blighty can be a downside , trying to get one tonne of soggy tent , which has taken up all the characteristics of an elephants placenta , into the boot of the car , is no mean feat . Then your dream like state of Poussin - esque arcadian heaven is awoken by the omni - present nightmare that is communal ablutions.

Fear not, I have discovered the way to avoid the ‘chav line’ queue for the shower , where you will be enlightened as to the all too numerous ways one can have sex under canvas ; and so too that you will

miss the woman who simply strips off in public even though she would be more at home in an episode of ‘Little Britain’. The trick is to go early , 6 - 7.30 am is the optimum window, when you are only likely to encounter

one or two others who smile knowingly at you , much like Gandalf does to a Hobbit. Pride does ,inevitably, come before a fall hence you run the risk that the showers may not yet have been ……cleaned . Ah do not despair , make sure you are equipped with the campers’ ultimate weapon……… The ‘Croc’ shoe!

Yes , yes I know this H.M has pandered , not for the first time , to the brain - washing tactics of the consumerist Gods . Yes , I know it’s a rubber shoe costing £30 , available in a myriad of colours , AND before you ask yes I do have ‘Croc Butter’ and three accessories O.K!!!!!! Bugger.

But trust me if you’re ever in a communal shower at 6 . 30 in the morning , feeling smug , and happen to look down you’ll be so very relieved you’re wearing Crocs. For there , lurking in the darkest corner of the shower …..is the unmentionable…..IT. The unexplainable , unimaginable , insalubrious soggy tissue hair ball ‘other’……

As the water runs through your trusty Crocs you are safe in the knowledge that you’ll never actually have to put your feet on the floor. You dry yourself contorting your body into positions only Sting could fully appreciate in order to get back into your clothes .

Survival in the wild ? Ray Mears eat your heart out.

The Halcyon Days of Summer.

For the working H.M the strategic planning of the summer holidays matches any military campaign. Friends conference , ( 0 900 ), weeks in advance to fix diary dates for days out and kid swaps between working H.M s , which are all neatly dove- tailed in between sports courses various , all booked at great expense , now you know why you work . Not a day goes by wherein the ‘smalls’ are not going somewhere or seeing someone or doing something . Minimal T.V and not a kids camp in sight , could this be a roaring success ?

No ….bugger.

Week One. Birds and a Frenchman.

The best laid plans of mice and men etc…raining as in monsoon . Undaunted fellow H.M and I and four smalls are off to the local ,and wonderful , Hawk Conservancy.

11 . 00 am the owl flying display …..cut short by the fact that owls are not waterproof and therefore were not keen on either precipitation or participation . Us older birds ,feeling likewise , took shelter and declared an early lunch . With not a dead chick in sight the kids feasted on a range of healthy options , ( please note this was the first day of the holidays - expect a general deterioration )

2.00 pm Hawks and vulture flying display.

Gorgeous visiting French hawk handler is sent off to a small hillock to retrieve two vultures who , not liking the rain either , had taken to the trees, as does the Eagle Owl never to be seen again. As the rain fell we were treated to the spectacular flying skills of Kites and Hawks who gave not a toss about the weather just as long as they continued to be fed , much like the kids.

Meanwhile our French friend was occasionally glanced upon said hillock swinging his bits around on a rope trying to entice the birds. .Bet he never had to work so hard. Vive la France !!!!

Despite efforts to educate the smalls on the ways of birds, the highlight for them was , as ever , the shop ,takes them thirty minutes to finally choose a plastic hawk and a bouncy egg. Success !?

Week 2. A Day at the Arboretum

Screech to a halt in the over- flow car park amid cries of “Oh no not here AGAIN “ , on the first really hot day of the hols. Still on the healthy eating plan we ,the same H.M friend as last outing - she’s a real trooper, attempt a picnic amongst ‘rare specimen’ trees, which all the smalls are now intent on climbing.

Once past the rather austere lady at reception , armed with the ‘childrens activity’ sheet and the price list for the ‘ Art in the Garden ‘ exhibition, ( “ No don’t climb on that - it costs £16.000 “ ! ) ; we are free to explore

Having thrown the last of their sandwich and just a few ‘tiny ‘ stones into the Koi Carp lake, in which there floats a large ice berg , ah the wonders of post graduate art , we move swiftly to the beautiful labyrinth of generous boarders that comprises the ‘Magnolia Walk’. Which is peppered with the most exquisite glass sculptures precariously perched on low pedestals ………you know how that vein in your neck sometimes throbs…..?

The sun now beats down and numerous shuffling octogenarians take to the shady benches; not only do they know the Latin for the new hybrid Hebee but also for ‘ shut those bloody kids up ‘………very impressive.

Then home via the usual ice cream and shop debacle , however there are no breakages , bones or art ,half the activity sheet is filled in and we leave with a multitude of sticks , leaves and stones…….ah sweet success.

But will they renew my membership ?

Week 3. Studland.

Saturday dawns , first really hot weekend of the hols, on go rose - coloured specs , ‘lets go to Studland tomorrow ‘.

Awash with thoughts of soft gold sand , clear sea and a stroll along an uncrowded beach I dispatch husband to M& S for his favourite picnic foods ,ignoring him muttering something about ‘easier to go to West Whittering’…. No no , this H.M is now on a , all be it thoroughly blinkered , major offensive to create the perfect family day out……..bugger.

Sunday , up later than hoped and further delayed by copious pancake cooking , then off and away fully equipped for perfect day by the sea.

There’s a ‘misunderstanding ‘ on the motorway , “ Why Fern down ?”

“Well obviously you’re not taking the ferry…….?”

“ Yes”, and then those immortal words….”it’s quicker….”

After two hours arrive at Sandbanks, where the word ‘FULL’ seems to feature quite large.

“It will be different at Stud land “, this H.M confidently assures just as we past the ‘1hour waiting from this point ‘ sign for the ferry…….bugger.

The rose - coloured specs now appear to have been surgically applied to my retina enabling me to wax lyrical about the wonders of Sandbank architecture and to play the ‘which house would you like to live in ‘ game…….for 1 hour 15 minutes. At one point the husband launches himself from the car , much like a greyhound from a trap, I just catch the phrase f**k this , as he manfully strides out for the sea, which is 67 cars away from us , so he said……..

I am now in Mary Poppins mode, the voice is clear but several octaves higher than normal and I can’t stop saying ‘nearly there darling’.

Panic rising , rose specs in melt down.

Finally cross over on ferry ,through toll, survive the antics of cyclists and furious drivers, (they were having trouble parking for some reason..), and arrive at Middle Beach………..

CAR PARK FULL. Bugger, bugger

Above the general melee of Stars 1& 2 shouting ‘can we just go home’ , and husband loudly declaring that ‘ this is the worst, ( expletive , expletive ) day out I’ve ever had.” This H.M looses it…..” I can’t believe you lot are so bloody ungrateful .”

If I had a ‘How to be a good parent ‘ manual then would have been a good time to rip it in half. The only thing in my defence was that this scenario was being played out in all the surrounding vehicles .

The lovely men of the National Trust , predicting a riot, opened the car park, with a rush of hot rubber on gravel this H.M bravely fought of competitors ,by driving round the car park the wrong way - past caring now, to secure the final space.

Mary Poppins returns, “ There we are darlings, lovely.”

Have lost rosy specs .

It’s 120 in the shade , talking of which I forgot to pack the beach umbrella so I circum - navigate the ice cream queue en -route to the shop where I purchase one. Ah but the beautiful beach is , of course………….. Packed , heaving , the world and his wife and all their off - spring are there .

In true Macaroni fashion we find the last square foot of this ‘paradise’ available, right next to the wasp - infested bins -a little trip too Ist Aid any minute I think.

Stars I & II take off too the sea weed choked shore line , followed by husband who stands gazing , motionless , out to sea. Anthony Gormley’s got nothing on this.

All is not lost , Studland is blessed with a little boat that weaves its’ way in and out up the beach selling ice creams. Sensing imminent keel - hauling give Star I £8 and watch him wade into the surf , didn’t know it was quite that deep……bugger. Still it’s astonishing the dangers a 9 year old will face to get his hands on 4 ,overly priced, ‘Magnums’ not least a clip round the ear with a temporarily redundant out board motor…….no harm done.

Despite the wasps ,swarming at biblical proportions , we embark on our much awaited picnic, “Where’s the scotch eggs and sausage rolls I bought?” Where? I appear to have left the husbands favourite delicacies in the fridge….bugger……nicely chilled, middle shelf……..Redemption was close at hand in the form of two ,mildly warm , beers.

It’s safe to say that that represents the best of the day.

Our departure , made a tad tricky by the accompanying sand and shell collection , was further hampered by U . N - style negotiations on why we needed to get home as opposed to going to a ‘Little Chef’, or Little Thief as my husband calls them. The usual rule applies - mass screaming on how unfair life is all the way to the ferry, for which there is a one hour wait ……..

The sight of the Sandbank palaces brings not only a sense of déjà vu but reinstates the humble Macaroni status, wish I’d worked harder at school.

Still who cares that they’ve got aquamarine windows when you’ve got a tonne of sand in your knickers and it’s taken two hours to get out of Bournemouth!!!!!!!

Finally the delights of the M27, loads of traffic , none of it moving

Husband looses the plot, the general thrust of his ,rather convincing , argument was, “should have gone to Whittering - can’t BELIEVE you took the ferry” , and the final body blow, “ this is the worst day out I’ve EVER had ,I am NEVER doing this again!!!!!”

Crest fallen this H.M s gaze tearfully drops downward and comes to rest a tiny image of a petrol pump flashing red…………..BUGGER!!!!!

All reason has now left ,am utterly convinced God is , yet again , punishing me for a previous clanger , panic has set in .Husband has declared me hysterical and is shouting “ just clam down for Christ’s sake.”

I’m now hunched over the wheel breathing into a paper bag as the faithful Renault gasps its last……..

Creep around the roundabout onto the M3 to find it doing its’ best impression of the ‘Road to Hell’, elect to come off and in so doing take a wrong turn and end up on the deserted carriageway going BACK to Bournemouth !!!!!!

But then an oasis in this tarmac desert……a garage…….but on the other side of the road . With the Renault now pleading ‘petrol…..petrol’ I execute an excellent hand - brake turn around the next mini roundabout then half a mile at 80mph ,(approx), and screech to a breathless halt on the forecourt.

Husband, now silent with rage fills the car, I get Stars I & II to the loo and then draw a small ,but interested crowd , as I proceed to empty the boot of the car , included Sahara esq. amounts of sand , to locate the last of the picnic, and the map.

I innocently suggest going via Ringwood ? Salisbury ?

I’ll drive….M3.…. Lets just get home , came the stony reply. Far from sounding like the last reassuring line in a Bruce Willis disaster movie , as the kids shared the last sandwich, I knew we were in the hands of a homicidal maniac . With G - force at maximum we arrived at the local Co - Op , white Bordeaux now essential, particularly after SEVEN hours in the car………..a fine time was had by all ……….bugger.

Cognac and the Connection Cable

After a week of camping on the Vendee the intrepid Pagans venture south to visit friends near Cognac , in the village of Juillac - Le Coq , (be careful how you say it. )

A minor misunderstanding as to our precise location - “Oh you’re only 1 hour away ..”- in reality turned out to be nearly 3 hours….and a bit…….and then just a tiny bit more…….

Clutching a map and a little photo with their telephone number , ( our chums never answer their phone ), We call in at the friendly Renault garage ,where the lovely Monsieur ,” Ah wee Bill !” , explains to this thick Britt H.M exactly how to find ‘Chez Menuet ‘.

Premier gauche, something something, up the hill ,cross roads then premier driote , ah we, bon, merci.

After a further 20 minutes of ‘ rant ‘ driving , a bit like Top Gear but with verbal violence , I look across the valley to see our friends’ abode, luckily I remember what colour her shutters are, all we had to do was aim for it.

Moments later we find ourselves in a vine surrounded orchard sipping the second glass of white Bordeaux, the first one went down rather quickly….

Soon we are rediscovering Arcadian pleasures, Stars I & II played boule,picked the fruit and made the acquaintance of a kitten.We drank ate lasagne and talked and talked until the sun went down , peace perfect peace.

Do you know the sound of needle scratching across vinyl ?

Morning dawns fresh and crisp across the misty vines with the air as clear and fragrant as the grape itself. Anyway that’s how it appeared to me as I threw open the shutters of the beautiful guest room having just enjoyed a scented shower , no ‘Crocs ‘ required here I can tell you. Possibly this differed form the husbands’ experience of sleeping with two overly excited children in the other guests room, a caravan or ‘sweat box’ as he so eloquently described it………

Anyway, prior to breakfast we just needed to pack the car and set up the D.V.D player for the long journey to Rouen.

“Where’s the connection cable for the D.V.D, Sandra ?”

“In the pocket in front of the seat”

“No it’s not””

“”Yeah, in the pocket””

“It’s been in here for two weeks, but it’s not in here now!”

Bugger

Reality, always stark. abruptly dawns, I took the cable out to plug in the cool box…so…..where did I put ….the cable .Have you ever had a Spielberg sky moment, you know when the camera zooms in on your horrified face and the sky behind you flies away at lightening speed….imagine if you will.

What followed can best be described catastrophic , the husband seemed to be convulsed in some kind of fit, probably not helped by the over night heat in the sweat box - sorry caravan ;he proceeds to hurl abuse and the contents of the Renault in all direction’s. Our hosts’ polite enquiry as to was there anything wrong and could they assist in any way only served to propel husband further into the ‘zone’ , off the reitcher scale of apoplectic rage .

With a whirling of arms and legs , only interrupted only by the mantra “ my f****ing life’s c***p “, he virtually strips the car down to its’ chassis Then with bulging eyes and foaming mouth tips all the contents of every bag out onto the manicured lawn, I feared for both his health and sanity,however this proved to be quite cathartic for the dear chap who suddenly stopped and pronounced , “well .. It’s not in here “

As our friends announced that breakfast was ready it occurred to me that you only find out who your true chums are when your dirty undies are festooned on their vine , fine vintage that. Bugger.

We quietly re-packed the trusty Renault , I quietly went upstairs only to find……..another bag………if there is a God…………either way I dead………….there it was……the connection cable….the root of all evil. Bugger?

Skip down stairs humming an annoying little tune, tried hard not too ….honest…… presented husband with cable and suggested an anger management course might be a good plan on our return to Blighty.

So where did your husband serve the divorce papers then ?

Oh it was lovely really , over coffee and croissants near Cognac.

Easter holidays, time of contemplation, renewal, consumptive chocolate fest and, if lucky, the first throws of summer prompting the disgarding of winter garbs.   Yes all of those, and as a little aside, flu en masse- bugger.  The eldest, (age 46), was the first to succumb having caught it from a friend in Guildford.  One would think they have a better class of  'bug' in Surrey, but no. Passed on to me some five weeks ago now. Star I awoke hot and sweaty on the first day of the holidays, soldiered on manfully through the first week, recovered, and passed it on to Star II who still resembles a boiled sweet, red and slightly sticky - Calpol for breakfast dinner and tea poor love.  Now I have to say, despite acknowledgement of 'man flu', the husband has been really ill. I suggested a trip to the quacks but he was having none of it. There in lies the difference.

After three weeks of feeling like death, aka  'I'm fine', clearly the logical thing to do was to take my golf ball sized glands to the Docs a get sorted.  Result?  Given enough pills to kill a horse and get on!  Then, due to all the coughing, bugger the disc in my back, one call to friendly Doc and have pain killers and anti-inflams.  A heady mix when accompanied with Chablis, life takes on an altogether rosier hue.  Couldn't drive, sit or sleep.  But could stand to work, oh lucky me, so with the T.E.N.S machine on 'stun an elephant ' mode continued on.  Lovely friends rallied distributing Stars I & II across Hampshire for school and swimming et al, and bought flowers thanks.

But these events have brought into sharpe relief the stark, but yes rather obvious revelation, that when the ' woman of the house', ( at this moment feeling like the 'old, (very old), retainer' or maybe Miss Ping Pong Loo  the handy Phillipino - although I believe de rigueur amongst H.M is someone from the Ukraine) anyway, breaks down the whole thing goes to pot.  It's only when you can't bend down that you realize just how much picking up you do, by the time I'm 50 I will either have returned to the fetal position or will resemble the sister of the well known physically challenged Parisian bell tower inhabitant.  By week two one could sense slight irritation in the husband as he helped me on with my socks.  Sympathy?  Naa not me, anyway the husband reliably informs me that it's to be found between 'shit' and 'syphilis' in the dictionary, as is 'stoic'.

It's only a flesh wound, I've had worse.  Then, as is the way with bug indused pill-popping, a mild depression sets in.  I considered at some length that if I were to snuff it I would be replaced by a nubile blonde within a fortnight. The husband would be nestled in to her ample cleavage and Stars I & II would be calling her 'mummy'.  She, hopefully, wouldn't be that bright, ( a blonde with a PHd - the final insult), but she would be more canny, she would claim she didn't know which end of the hoover sucked and 'of course, husband would leap into action.  Blondie would be seriously 'high maintenence' the ultimate 'yummy mummy', she would have to have a cleaner as the combination of her pert large breasts on her slight size 10 frame would render bending positively dangerous.  She wouldn't understand any of 'that financial stuff' - one bat of the eye lashes would turn the husband into Alan Sugar over night!  And then in the bedroom she would preform chapters of the Karma Sutra of pat - let joy be unconfined!!!!  Homework would be effortless and always accompanied by piles of chocolate brownies resulting in Stars I & II entering Oxbridge 10 years early. In short Blondie is a trophy wife all shinny and new, this H.M is more the darts trophy.....bugger.

These thoughts  prevail my existence at present, leaving me to question the point of it all, best years of my life appear to be over, look like my children's granmother etc etc....clearly more 'fine' than I had realized .... bugger.  Like I said Easter is a time of contemplation therefore conclude that marriage and children are life's greatest investments, a very long term investment. Everyone knows that long investments have peaks and throughs, are subject to market fluctuations even prey to aggressive take over bids. Despite an ironic sence of humour this market place is currently in 'bust',shares at an all time low, in need of some serious investment ....... bugger.

yes the Audi.......you move to the middle lane and watch him speed by, ignoring  the "bird"...bugger, still well worth it, just to be that close ....Thy shalt not covert .......

I return to the reality of the pick up with a wistful smile only to find myself in the remake of the Italian Job there are so many Minis around!

And, of course, I'm now late......bugger.

Ah yes the Porshe Boxter, great noise, but tends to look like it's been trodden on at some point necessitating the driver to lie down, raising her head occasionally to consult the Sat-Nav.  In the summer months they are largely inhabited by ageing men in the ubiquitous baseball cap and Oakleys, accompanied by much younger blondes clad in Max Mara and Gucci that the wife doesn't know about. She's stuck on the M5 in the 4WD with the kids, (one in pink),visiting her mother.

And me?  Well this Macarroni got seriously shafted by the French, which would sound quite exciting but for the fact I'm talking financially.  Bugger.... bought a Renault Megan Scenic on a 'special deal' which turned out to be more exspensive than the debt of an African nation. However it's got two things going for it......

1) It's not pink.

2)It's practical.  (Now I know I'm old....bugger).

Inside and out  it has the same aesthetic characteristics as the vehicle owned by my cattle farming friend but without the blood, well, unless we've had a really bad day.  And whilst it has a good safety record, (sounding even older), it's the car most likely to break down, the AA Relay guy cheerily informed me on a labouriously slow journey back up the M3 on day. However all is not lost, one of the great joys of a 1.6 engine, actually the only joy, is that once you finally reach 80-m.p.h not years, just feels like it - and if this coincides with you being in the outside lane, you've reached your optimum velocity, then all you do is wait.........in a short time it's there, two cms from your boot......the builders chav wagon. You hold your nerve.  One flash, an illegal overtake on the inside manoeuvre, and he's gone, revealing the prize ....

The 'school run', that much commented upon, mirth riddled exercise that we find ourselves dutifully  embroiled in twice daily.

Recently, presumably down to the moon being in the right quater or some other preordained stroke of luck, I arrived EARLY for the afternoon pick up.  I normally pick up my nine year old, who, incidentally, shall no longer bear the pseudonym Dameon but rather Star I, there's also a Star II. Christ I'm begging to sound like an Emporeor H.M now.  However, could have been worse ..... Rha and Thor ..... I kid you not ....

Anyway, as I was saying, I usually instruct Star II to 'act casual' as we sprint our way towards H M Central  H Q, aka the school gate, with a flick of the pashmina you can look as if you've been there all afternoon chatting about brownies and Barbados etc etc.  I have never mastered this technique, not helped by Star II who usually decides he 'needs a wee' behind the bushes along side numerous other Maccaroni off spring .... there'll be a letter home shortly I have no doubt.

I digress.  So I found myself with a slice of that rare commodity TIME, and so slipped into the delightful state of people-watching, more specifically contemplating people and their cars really.

Firstly, the Jag. I'm sorry what is the point of owning a car that once it's over six months old induces thoughts of Arther Daley, all fags, car coats, trilby hats and calling people 'my son'. The Jag driving HM has an arrogance that is second to none, example? Forcing another H M to reverse down a hill past a line of parked cars even though there was time and room enough for the Jag to pull in and wait......outstanding Emporeor bahavour!!!

BMW drivers are the same , with the exception of those young lads in base ball caps, a mobile clamped to their ear looking incredibly suspicious  in cinema carparks, clearly they could not afford the '7 series' were it not for the stuff they sell ........... allegedly......

Then, of course, the 4WD, enough said I think. Suffice to say every time I meet one of these gleeming blacked out bungalows-on-wheels the same phase springs to mind .... 'come on chummy, you're the one with the 4WD, get in the ditch', but to no avail as they glide by  a la Posh and Becks I'm the one in the ditch, no surprises there then ... bugger.  The only person I know with a 4WD that truly warrants it is a H M who farms cattle.  Her ageing 'disco' looks like it served in the Gulf and has had so many animals in the back in various stages of birth, death and decay, that a quick go over with the Shake n' Vac simply will not cut it.

Then there's the young HMs who have an overly developed pink gene.  What is this propensity for puke-sorry- pink?  Pink is EVERYWHERE!!  HMs with girls have no problem locating clothes or toys in stores, the slight humming sound and the luminous glow emitting from them gives it away every time. Posing the question 'do you have this in another colour ' is a crime against girliness. But in cars too?  Pink seats, pink seat belts, pink fluffy steering wheel covers!!  aaaaah!!  This variety of HM is a hybrid of the Maccaroni with its pink highlighted hair, pink straighteners plugged into the cigi, (pink tipped) lighter and not forgetting the way they still chat on their pink phones WHILE THEY DRIVE!!!!!!  Then there's the word 'Kenwood' emblazoned somewhere, often in pink, just leaves me with an image of my mum grappling with a dough hook.

Then theres the V.W van, love them really, but Hampshire's coast line is not renowned as a surfing paradise.  Just because you hang a religious icon and a few beads from your rear view mirror does not mean you've circum-navigated the globe giving Michael Palin a lift en route.

"God," I said, "does that mean you just let it grow and grow?"!

"No I have a Hungarian lady to do my Brazilian!  She does Kylie you know........"

Oh ...right. Bugger.

Ah well back to the drawing board.. no I think maybe the building blocks of life. The Earl and I sit and ponder whether it's not in fact too late for this HM

Indeed am I rendered useless by my lack of knowledge regarding Rabbits, Plato and Brazilians, and Hungarians for that matter! Is the meaning of life inextricably bound up in a sex toy and having your hair ripped out by a lady from Eastern Europe?

In the spirit of being true to one's self I shall simply add the above to the long line of inadequacies. Still it's often better to travel than to arrive.

However the Earl and I concur...we're buggered.  Except the Earl's not actually, he's made millions in Bergamot oil and tea.........Bugger.

One should, of course, be open minded, give everything the mental once-over as it were.It is therefore easy to debate that attending just two sessions of 'Practical Philosophy' was hardly giving it a 'fair crack of the whip'  Failure again? Well hear me out, the main thrust of those two sessions was to (a) be true to one's self, and (b) to constantly pose the question 'what would a wise woman do?'

Sitting in session two, with the insidious feeling that something was not quite right, my body language must have looked a treat!  Clad in black, arms and legs firmly crossed and the obligatory polo neck pulled up just under the nose you would have to be a Platonist short of a Plato not to get it.  "No one's messing with my mind mate!"

Discussed this at length with a truly wise woman who put me onto an encyclopaedic web site which was hugely informative and confirmed my thoughts - watch out for the mention of an initiation ceremony in week five.

So, with a screech of tyres, leaving my goat's head spinning in its plastic bag in the car park, this 'wise woman' got the hell out of there.  Two weeks in and cerebral constipation is cured by major reality enema.  Failed philosopher?  No way - even Plato didn't put in an appearance with this lot!!!  Wiser?? Oh yes, definitely wiser....

Decide then to stick with the 'moonies' I'm comfortable (relatively) with.  So off to another session of ritual abuse with WW, (no offence they do a great job).

"Oh dear Mrs Pagan, things not too good this week? Let's see if we can't get you back on track. Many of our members find this works, its goat's head soup."

AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!        

Go for a post traumatic, (the effect of W.W. on me), drink with friends and discover the newly cleaned cerebral slate was soon to decline into information overload meltdown. In the company of the 'three graces', Chardonnay, Chablis and Sauvignon Blanc, the evening soon turns to matters of the heart and ultimately the body..... sex.  Bugger - no no, not literally.

Now my two friends are both gorgeous, intelligent and well travelled, I sadly, am none of these. I am also 'blessed' with having had an incredibly Victorian childhood, perfect if one's desire is for a career within the Mrs Beaton fan club or the entry to a Silent Order somewhere.  So for this teenager there were no pictures of Slade or The Osmonds, just Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Anyway as the conversation continued I finally reached the very pinnacle of Victoriana.  My learned friends suggested that a "Rabbit" would be the cure-all for all associated stresses of life -hilarity ensued when I said I didn't like things kept in cages and it would only add to the stress factor as I would be the only one who cleaned it out............

This ranks right up there with a discussion over a pecan pie the other evening, when, chatting as we were about all things feminine, my friend said she had a 'Hungarian'.

For some time - at least 25 years - yes at least - I've had the desire to delve deeper, to conjecture upon life and its deeper mysteries; asking the poignant, though rather obvious questions, who am I?  What is the meaning of life?  How many pairs of shoes is it reasonable to have? Etc etc.

Now let me say from the onset that Ido not set myself apart, there are, of course, numerous Macaronis who aspire likewise.  What do we share in common?  NO TIME TO DO SO !!!  Then there are the Emperors who appear quite happy in oblivion - 'I drive an Audi - therefore I am' - sussed, no worries.

As time goes by, much like an aging Amstrad, my files have become so copious and saturated with long since redundant information, that my RAM/ROM (whatever), has thrown in the towel.  In short they're full of crap, of the cerebral variety, mentally constipated. (Some would say I'm simply full of crap -  ok ok I take that on board).

I consider then that I have been afflicted with mental constipation for long enough and enrol onto 'Practical Philosophy'  (change your life in 10 weeks for £66....umm not bad....week one Wisdom.... oh dear....)

In my line of work I am often told I am a 'wise woman'.  This immediately brings to mind some toothless crone living in a swamp awaiting a visit from Blackadder. I think it's because I listen to people - a lot - that I am seen so.  Wise that is not a toothless crone.....?

So, Monday evening, after one hour and much deep and meaningful theorizing on whether one needs to be truthful to be wise, if truth is inexorably linked to wisdom, if one's truth gene is missing  are we destined to live a life void of enlightenment; one chap decides that we are all victims of social conditioning. That we need a fraction of what we have, and that we are trapped in a cycle of blind materialism; desire, possession and depression.  And it is this cyclical horror that renders the 'self' untrue.  Tralaa ! Of course. This HM skips from class, full of joy, anticipating the renaissance of her former self.

Tuesday.  Find myself in in an undercover operation attempting to get a LARGE box into a village Post Office without detection, bit like a Stealth Bomber in a pashmina. Box contains 'returns' to my dear friend Johnny (Boden).  Forgive me Mr Postmaster for I have sinned, a confessional through a perspex screen.

"At least I'm returning them all....well almost all".

"You women, you're all the same, stop feeling so guilty - live a little, we get a lot of Boden through here"

A large queue has formed by now.  With a cheery "see you next month then" I exit said place of postal confession, feeling justifiably proud of my sacrifice to the God of materialism, ( the 'returns' to dear Johnny), but am bought up short by the stark realization that the much coveted linen jacket, ( of course I NEED it....!!!) leaves my potenially wisdomed - up inner self floating in a sea of pus.  Bugger.

The following ramblings are dedicated to those of us Hampshire Mums , (H.Ms), who despite trying so hard seemed doomed to failure on a daily basis.

Someone once told me there are more Maccaroni penguins on the planet than there are humans. This led me to ponder, if indeed it is true, why haven't they tried to take over.  Would a Maccaroni government be infintly better than what's in place currently.  How would it effect the price of fish?

Anyway, suffice it to say, there are as many varients in the H.Ms spiecies as there are in the penguin.  I count myself as one of the humble said Maccaronis, but boy oh boy there are plenty of Emperors out there!!!

The scourge of this H.M is homework.

The latest gorgeous creature, (24,no kids ,no fat, no idea), to be teaching my darling boy obviously has not the slightest notion that homework is simply not compatible with boys aged between 7 and 10; (I will no doubt be increasing the upper age limit), and certainly not when in  combination with a pre-menopausal woman !  Who can't spell.

Picture the scene if you will.......Sunday, "yes I know it's a gale force eight but the walk will do us good"...... which indeed it did .  H.M at her very best, two friends and their kids various with mine up to their waists ,virtually, in mud, mud glorious mud.  Much happiness and home for a hearty lunch.  Great ! Success!!

Pride comes before a fall........

Looming large , much like a Dementor, over the whole weekend had been not only the long running saga of the 'Thank You 'notes, (do I HAVE to..), and cello practice - had it been the violin I would have supported the 'I can't be arsed' policy - but Fridays' Tudor Project homework........

"Mum , I (meaning me), want to make a life - size model of Henry VIII "  Bugger.

The words "your child works very visually Mrs Pagan" come flooding back.

"By Monday, as in tomorrow."

"Yep"

In my role as Saturdays' supreme H.M I had gathered together a large selection of Tudor-ish trappings, and gone in the pouring rain to the art shop for a large sheet of card - "sorry we haven't got a big bag madam" - honey you're looking at one - hoping that dear Henry was in fact only two feet tall.

Sunday afternoon, I suggested that it might be a good idea to press on with homework, or at least make a start, which is met with the same enthusiasm as the thought of a two day couse on the art of sucking up peas with a straw.

THEN.......AT 3.15.......HE CHANGES HIS MIND!!!!!!!!!!!!!

At this point the H.M has 4 options,1)open another bottle of the H.M stress-buster, Pinot Gri-whatever, 2)panic/loose it, 3) relating to 2 - kill child or 4) spend a short time with the Earl (Grey) and two Kalms. Obviously 3 is not an option so go for 4.

By now darling boy has gone into the attic determined  to recreate one of Henry's battles - exactly which one seems to be of no importance - utilizing his fort and 500 plastic soilders and copious amounts of cellotape.  At this point Igently point out that the fort is in fact of Norman origin as is the army now amassing in a sticky heap inside.  He assures me it's fine because he will label everything..........o.k.

The Kalms now kicking in, I decide  the important  thing is, this is  his homework not mine and put away the pictures of Hampton Court.  Aaaah peace perfect peace.........

Then, with a good walk clearly not ruined, the husband returns, triumphant,f rom the 19th, blissfully unaware of all that has gone before.  In a vain pre-emptive strike ,with eyes as big as saucers, head nodding in direction of the child Isay, pathetically, Dameon's doing his Tudor homework Dad.....

Fathers are, in my experience, crap at picking up the subtle innuendos of such gesturing so husband launches into,"well that's no good ,i t's Norman not Tudor - you can't hand that in"..........

To say  it hit the fan would be a gross understatment of what followed, the Kalms had now lost their potency - may I suggest doubling up on the dose - this H.M was nearly hysterical as was darling boy, leaving husband looking like a rabbit in head lights wishing he was back on the 1st!

Monday evening, Dameon returns clutching a Gold Certificate for his model of Henry VIII, you see husband came up trumps and with a little help from the boy produced a beautiful cardbaord Henry, whilst I took deep breaths into a brown paper bag.

Well done Dad.    Bugger.