The inaugural Alresford charity 10K and 4K ‘Fun Run’ – always a contradiction in terms I feel – for the global eradication of polio. We enter en masse.

“Don’t you hate it when your training schedule gets interrupted,” bemoaned a slim, tanned 65-ish lady in the changing room. I nodded sage–like in agreement whilst picking my jaw and pelvic floor off the carpet. Glad I opted for the 4K.

Star II and I ran the 500m, he went off like a rocket, and “Come on Mum,” bit more of a warm-up than I’d anticipated.  Star I likewise in the 1K, briefly led the field. Both proudly displayed their medals with numerous photo opportunities.

Meanwhile the 10K runners were in serious pre-race preparations, ankles round the back of the neck and all that stuff. Then they were off.

After 24 loo stops, we few adults took our place for the 4K alongside a sea of junior runners, then we trot off also.  With sunglasses on and iPod up to 120 decibels I’m quite comfortable in my own, slightly sweaty, world. Until the downhill section is reached when the 10K runners lap me. Feel like a hippo stuck in a herd of migrating Gembok all with watches and pulse monitors. The stark realization being that they, like the kids, run with effortless 4-foot strides, gliding forward at speed. I  jog, going  up and down …a lot.

On the final bend a line of applauding marshals check their watches too, probably thought they’d be home long before now.  I lumber torturously towards the finish only to find Star I’s headmistress handing out the medals. Try not to look in need of oxygen.

Time? Two days 48 minutes, I’m up for the 10K next year.  Better start now.

Day 12 and some 1200 miles into the Pagan’s French expedition. It’s been mixed weather to say the least, “but the vines need it."  Only an ex-pat could say that.

Today our friends left for the ferry. It came as a strange relief that their stress levels when packing a wet tent and its damp and smelly contents into the family car before a five-hour drive, were on par with our own departures from campsites.  I took the children swimming in the rain and the plucky wee ones stayed until they were blue and shaking. More stress on their shivering return when it was discovered that the smalls’ clothes had been packed … right at the back of the car…under lots of stuff.

Rain poured down as we said our teary ‘goodbyes’ and we retreated to our tent for a lunch of generously given spare food, then into town. Having forgotten it was Sunday we were forced to spend far too long, (10 mins), in a ‘Magasin de Souvenir‘, a pixie shop to you and I, saying ‘no’ until we were puce before retiring to a coffee shop to enjoy lukewarm chocolat chaud and hideously strong coffee, served by a beyond surly garçon whose jeans were so far down his buttocks one wondered what lay beneath the apron.

You see this is the stuff of camping, nothing like the illustration of the same in a book I acquired recently entitled  ‘Happy Campers’. Within its recycled paper pages the authoresses wax lyrical about clouds, butterflies, beach games, fantastic food, friends and knitting. There are a succession of photos showing the merry band of campers on deserted beaches, in fields and woodlands, (could they be owned by ‘Daddy’?), having packed all they need into their aged Landrover.

Did I fall for this romantic nonsense? Like a bloody shot - hook, line and sinker!!  Actually I think there is a chapter on fishing …  Oh yes! Off I went and bought wool and telegraph pole–sized needles vowing to knit a (double!!) blanket for the newly designed ‘bo ho chic‘ interior of our tent.

Out went the sleeping pods to be replaced by two double mattresses, white (! I know, I know), bed linen, crocheted blankets, rag rugs, mosi net and sheer curtains!

The husband, he who is long suffering, happily went along with the whole idea, his vision distorted by the idea of sex in a Bedouin environment, a dream that quickly turned sour once he discovered he was sleeping next to Star I who always wears a ‘hoody’ in bed irrespective of climate and so takes on the thermal qualities of a nuclear reactor come nightfall. Meanwhile I’m across the other side persuading Star II that he can breath through a mosquito net and it is best to have it over the bed.

The new interior design worked a treat …well just a couple of teething problems.  For some reason I only purchased one mosi net, so it was somewhat stretched, to the point the husband awoke with a net patterning on the side of his face which was so peppered with bites that he took on the appearance of John Merrick for a few days having been gorged upon like a blue entrecote.

No such problems for the girlies in the book, if they’ve any sense they’d have napalmed the site before they set up the tepee.

Still, undaunted, I’ve taken up knitting as illustrated in my new campy bible. Two double blankets will be ours! …….eventually……..I reckon on about  160 squares to be sewn together …so it will take a little time ….well a lot actually. Still they’ll be heirlooms, or dog blankets.

The other problem is that Star I & II love twirling themselves up in the sheer curtains and spinning themselves round in the mossy net until they resemble Frodo’s encounter with Shelob  If there was an Olympic event for the highest ‘Croc’ print on a curtain Star I’s  a gold for sure.

By the penultimate day of our stay the husband had become somewhat disillusioned and declared bo ho camping  ‘crap’ and with a slash of the Swiss Army knife cut down the mosi net and put the blade straight through the tent……..oooppps.

It rained really heavily that night, still the gaffer tape held…….ish.

Picture if you will a fragrant pine forest abutting the sandy beach of La Porge Ocean on Bordeaux’s Atlantic coast.  We Pagans sit at the picnic table feasting on cheese, ham, baguette and grapes, all except Star II who is concentrating on increasing his pinecone collection. Husband suggests the discreet jettisoning of them at some point but I can visualize them in the grate at home.

The surrounding French sit, probably for hours, at beautifully laid tables with their well-behaved immaculate children. Their conversation regarding art and politics is abruptly interrupted by the bellowing voice of Star II: “Mum I need a poo!”   The French are aghast as we appear to behave like our namesakes, bolting our food and deciding who will take him and inquiring as to the whereabouts of the wipes.

At the risk of sounding like my Father, that’s why we won the war,  “No time for lengthy lunches, eat on the hoof old boy – chocks away!”  And indeed why we have more stress-induced heart attacks and ulcers than our laid-back cousins.  Anyway I digress, back to poo, if only it were ‘Winnie’.

I scan the area; my eyes come to rest upon a square, roofed building of slatted wood construction - ‘La toilette’.  Loo, bog, even bathroom are not most romantic or luxurious sounding names. But salle de bain and toilette conjure up an altogether more powder-puff scented experience. We all know the reality of Les toilettes.  My heart sinks.

This will be a new venture for Star II. The lucky chap has ‘been’ in en-suites around the globe and even the camp site facilities are bearable when accompanied by Clarins. This however had a different perfume one could almost taste at about 200mtrs.  We round the corner and I take the last breath of fresh air.

“What do I do?” he innocently asks.

“Well,” my voice chokes, "I hold you, you put one foot there and there and you go, QUICKLY!”

“Ok”

“Don’t get your shorts wet, don’t touch ANYTHING.”  Sounding slightly hysterical now and stifling a retch.  We assume the position. I am faced with a white-tiled wall encrusted with flies.  I hold Star II and my breath, beating Shelley Winters in the ‘Poseidon Adventure’ by some considerable way.

“Do try and hurry my love.”

He’s taking his time chatting away about pinecones. I’m bent double, slowly turning purple and perspiring slightly, also aware that my sunglasses are slowly, but surely, sliding down my nose.

There will be no retrieval should they fall. … Closer and closer to the end of my nose with no hope of pushing them back …. closer and closer still.  At the very least I’ll have to take a breath soon … still sliding . … when …..

“Finished Mum!”

“Thank God! I mean, good boy.“

We’re out of there!

There is, as you might expect, a curse on the Pagan family when it comes to borrowing things, particularly in Cognac it would seem.

Having driven for 750 kms  and a bit more including what I will politely call ‘detours’, we arrive at friends to camp as we did last year.  This is Remy Martin country, no Mataxa here oh no, our friends’ garden is equipped with electric hook up and wet room.  Without a pool or the sea, the two requirements for a successful holiday for the Pagan family, it has to be said that Stars I & II amused themselves brilliantly, by picking up rotten apples for the compost, playing frisbee, cricket and boules…

It’s the evening of the second day of our three day stay, I come back from a walk with mon ami, it’s almost dark but the boules are still visible on the lawn so I collect them up.

“Where’s the Jack?”

No one knows.

It’s the size of a large marble and painted red…. so you can find it easily…right.

I should explain that, prior to moving for good, our friends have been visiting France for many years. The boules are an ancient and much loved purchase and very expensive I’ve been told: we’re talking the Chanel No. 5, the foie gras and the truffle of the boules world. Quite useless without the Jack.

These thoughts haunt my restless sleep.

Up with the lark, well buzzards in these parts, I’m determined to find said Jack. I ascertain that Star II saw it last, I grill him as to its whereabouts to the point that in-between bouts of “I’m thinking” he invents increasingly wild stories.

“A huge bird came down and took it Mum. …Really.“

“Keep thinking honey.”

My friends’ garden surrounds their house and is probably an acre in all. They have transformed it from a field to a place of beauty with a sunken herb garden, huge wide borders with a profusion of both classic and tropical flowering plants and shrubs and there is a circular rose garden flanked by rows of lavender. Purple sage grows under the row of vine, which forms one side of a rose arch walk way whilst a line of fruit trees forms the other.  So there’ll be no problem finding a little wooden ball amongst that lot.

In an attempt to act casual I stroll around the garden peering at plants like a true botanist. Clearly it doesn’t work.

“What are you looking for?”

“Oh nothing, no, it’s fine, just admiring.”

We’re all at it now studiously ambling round furtively peering under the occasional shrub.

“What are you doing, what have you lost?”

“Nothing,” came the collective reply.

All is lost, including the Jack. We go off, in gloomy mood, to local indoor aqua park and then plan a trip to an equivalent of ‘Boules ‘r’ us‘ in Cognac for replacement Jack, probably as hard to track down as a ‘Golden Snitch’.

One last look in the garden after lunch ……….

“I’m sorry, what EVER are you lot looking for?!”

Confession time, I prepare for hysteria …”I’m, (mother takes on mantle of blame) really sorry but we, we lost the Jack……….sorry…really very sorry.”

Silence……….then…

“Oh for goodness’ sake! Is that what you’ve been looking for! We’re always losing them that’s why we paint it red! Must be the sixth one we’ve had! Silly things, it will turn up in the autumn, don’t worry.”

Fixed grins and sighs of relief accompany us to the local ‘Super U’, where, quite by chance, we find a pack of three wooden Jacks. Star II presents these to friends that evening.

“Ooohh that’s lovely, we won’t have to get any for ages now.”

The next days our friends are busy preparing for a large garden party and we Pagans are packing up the tent ready for the Bordeaux leg of our trip. As I do the last minute checks ensuring no rubbish, phones, Nintendo games etc are left on the grass ..… there it is, smack bang in the middle of the newly mown lawn, the little red Jack.

Funny that....... bless it

Star I goes down with hideous and recurring lurgie, but, despite his temperature being off the scale during the night, come the afternoon he was perky enough for the park.  Which was somewhat of a relief as I was running out of ways to keep two 11 yr. olds and an eight yr old fully occupied before we were joined by their mum and five year old sister. Once this Hampshiremum’s café has produced pizza and sarnies en masse we trek off, under gathering storm clouds, to the park.

We Hampshiremums  were  berated  by two five year olds to ‘push higher’ on the swings while the others charged round ricocheting off trees, hedges and climbing frames with seemingly inexhaustible  energy. A change of apparatus and the onset of rain meant my chum and  I sought  refuge under the trees while the kids played on oblivious to the change in the climatic conditions.

Then, having taken my eye off the ball as it were, from across the park came the disgusted voice of Star I: ” Eerr Mum, look, he’s wet himself !”   Sure enough there was Star II  high on the wooden platform having clearly had a wee of Niagara proportions. My handbag  emergency kit of a mobile, old shopping list and an empty cheque book was not going to cope with this unhappy event. Best pop back home I thought.  Star I continued to mock his bladder-control-impaired sibling, when suddenly out of the mouth of this particular babe came “B***** hell shut up !!!!!!!!”

Mercifully the park was now devoid of less hardy Hampshiremums, but the rest of us were glued to the spot, mouths open in stunned silence . An icy wind blew and all eyes were upon me.  Mothering skills on trial, all I could muster was a choked  “What did you say?!”  Brilliant,  let's get him to say it again!

What followed must have looked like Mary Poppins on speed. I ushered mass evacuation from the park with a lengthy and detailed explanation of the correct use of the English language to my urine-soaked youngest en route.

Seemed to work, the other children fell into silent contemplation and Star II repeated his mantra ”I’m really, really sorry Mummy.”  My chum offered up her support, “Funny, my children never use language like that, where did he get it from?”  Thanks for that.

You know the scene, every disaster movie has one.  Just before the hurricane hits, just before the giant meteor strikes the Earth or the aliens invade, there’s a sun-drenched slow motion shot of laughing children happily playing in a park. Hold that thought, you are about to enter Year Six – SATs Year.

Now, at the risk of sounding like Al Murray, if we were living in France we’d be out in the street protesting about the injustice of it all and demanding that our 10 / 11 year olds be left alone. In reality Year Six generates temper tantrums ‘extraordinaire’, neurosis, competiveness, urgent chewing of cuffs, (sometimes down to the elbow), recurrence of eczema, disturbed sleep patterns due to nightmares; and that’s just the parents and teachers!!!!

And  me? This Hampshiremum opted out, abandoned all things studious around Easter time, chanting the mantra “No more revision”.  I saw Star I turn back into the happy, relaxed and confident child he once was, there’s enough stress in life when you’re an adult who needs it when you’re ten? Anyway once they’ve entered the hallowed halls of senior school SATs are simply tossed aside with not so much as an ‘am I bovvered?’ from the staff, only to be replaced by CATs, the results of which are utilized to predict the outcome of the GCSE results some five years hence!  No pressure there then………

As they’re logic tests I reckon some serious study on ‘Big Brain Academy’ one and two should sort it.

Fortunately, aside from the initial foaming at the mouth, our school adopted a laid back approach to the whole sorry affair and confidently predict that all of Year Six will reach ‘the target’.

Oh except one, left sitting in the corner sad and lonely with the dunce’s hat on…….. Ah that will be little Master Government then.

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 new-found 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; thus we felt compelled to get fit.

So one Sunday we park the car at Itchen Abbas village hall and embark on our favourite 5-miler.  En route 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 heads rips fork lightning, 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  lost as I wade through water, the wind and rain stinging my eyes. I now resembled a swamp monster, but short of cadging a lift from a passing ark one just had to keep going.

Now my chum is renowned for her speed and 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 chum’s aged Golf. As we head back through Itchen Stoke the windscreen wipers decide to pack up, so we now have a touch of Ellen McCarthy 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.

With a very generous gift, a voucher for a most prestigious and luxurious salon in local cathedral city, tucked into the ageing 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 HM 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, “Anuzer 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’m 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 its re-entry into the Earths’ atmosphere, so simply wince my way through the procedure.  My hair is now glossy and very straight.

“If I ‘ad 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 says (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.

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 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 Sharif-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, eleven dimly-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 receive 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.

Yes, yes I know it’s a little late in the day, indeed the year, to be reminiscing about the Yuletide 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 three 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 with a feeding frenzy of all things festive and chocolate, ah bless.  Two dear HM 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 offspring and freezing fog. First such outing for Star II, after several abortive attempts at cinematic  entertainment, where his penchant for running up and down the aisle repeatedly introducing himself to the unfortunates situated at the end necessitated  many a speedy evacuation from 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 pique, 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 year’s 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, have a fab time.

Monday - Christmas Eve .

Husband elects to play golf and from 7.30 a.m. 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 Goliath’s 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 has 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 husband’s 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 it 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 heartfelt “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 God’s sake!  If you muck this up you really must be thick!    This isn’t just any insult, this is an 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 to know 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 scarred 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 induce the pudding into ignition.

Post-gluttony the Christmas scene resembled something out of ‘Cocoon’, both grandfathers slumped in open-mouthed slumber, while the grandmothers swapped 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 have 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 goodwill 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.

 Ah yes Christmas shopping, had to be done, no escaping. In a fit of pique 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 pressies and Yuletide fripperies 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 nowhere 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 nearby ‘3 for 2‘ aisle and collect pukey pink and orange bath gel for neice.

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 Caprio’s 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 but increasingly wet panic then 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."  How’s 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.  “How’s 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 tale 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 a 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 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 mac.

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 against the white shiny 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.”

An 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 me 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,“ (I 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 lair - 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.  Lunchtime 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 atmosphere 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  10-11year olds and one 4 year old  = panic? No, park!.........again, meet up with yesterday’s 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 knowledge of lovely farm tracks, previously used for running in splendid isolation. So trusty Renault is packed to the gunwales with two bikes, one scooter, rollerblades and water, oh yes and four boys various.

Beautiful sunshine accompanies our trip, the countryside 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 first 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 uphill, 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 towed 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 spoonful 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 determined 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 adolescents with relative ease, having prepared a casserole earlier.  RESULT.

Knock at the door, lovely friend with two boys, one fresh from his lumbar 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 initiates mass hoovering of the cutlery draw, so you can only imagine the horror that is cleaning the car  to its suitably gleaming best. There are some stains you just can't shift and even a blow torch will not remove that Smartie stuck on the seat ..... anyway .....  Amid the Arboretum’s 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 to 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 to Wales, well you can't have 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,  persuade 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 ...couldn't change the water into freshly squeezed pomegranate juice either, must be losing my touch.

Little friend picked up at 2.30 and then transport Star II to 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 Falklands 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'.

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 HM 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 six 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 prevents 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 to funeral.

Skiing is fantastic, particularly when dropped from a helicopter onto virgin snow from where you descend to 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 people’s socks and the (mentally scarring) image of my brother-in-law’s pale blue Y-fronts drying on the heater …….. another story there I think.

All Macaroni HM 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 HM went native! Not new-age traveller, no no, camping is de rigeur my dears!

“It’s the only thing!”, cried Toad.

We’ve been doing it for two years now - sounds like a confessional - “Hello my name’s Sandra Pagan and I’m a ….camper.”  Like many things in life, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.

For a HM addicted to the consumption of consumer goods, camping is heaven sent. 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 dragonfly fairy lights, (only for the totally gullible ……bugger), the unfortunate side-effect of which is that the tent takes on the appearance of a brothel come nightfall.

The greatest gift camping bestows is a feeling of complete freedom - your children are transformed from competitive target-attaining, electronic game ner