Holidays for Good or Bad

The weather is strangely oppressive, with its lowering, uniformly grey skies from which the occasional drops of water randomly fall because, I suppose, the humidity gets to 100%.

We're into the school holidays now, as witnessed by the groups of children being shepherded around the city centre by
a) determinedly jolly dads, intent on the family having a jolly educational time (they'll probably return - much relieved - to work after a week or two),

b) tight-lipped mothers for whom this enforced jollyhood precedes a further month or so of desperate child-minding, and
c) bewildered grandparents (usually grandmothers), dismayed that they have been dumped on (from a great height!) by working parents with no paid child-care in place.

I witnessed an excellent combination of a) & b) today in Caffe Nero, where the Bright-Eyed Boy and I were enjoying a lazy coffee and newspapers experience, Daughter #3 having signed up to a week's-worth of rock-music day-schools (where she is having an 'awesome' time apparently).

An aforementioned mother, on entering the coffee-shop, immediately slumped into the nearest comfy chair and assumed an expression of blank-eyed despair. Jolly Father seemed intent on letting everyone around know what a fantastically Jolly Dad he was by addressing his two young-ish children in an over-loud 'public' voice and explaining to them why they couldn't fill themselves with chocolate, buns and coke 'Because, you see Callum, too much sugar is bad for you and you might feel sick, and then and then we couldn't go to the Viking Museum.' No-one was particularly impressed, least of all the mother who passed her hand over her eyes and looked as if she wished the whole bunch of them would disappear in a puff of smoke and leave her with a nice big gin and tonic. Or am I projecting?

Summer holidays, as I am only too well aware, start off - like the Road to Hell - with good intentions:
We won't get cross, or irritated, or bored.
We will maintain a cheerful and upbeat dialogue with our offspring, regardless of their response (or lack of it).
We will not cave in to demands for any sort of stuff.
Food will be simple and nutricious and non-negotiable in either timing or content.
We will simply ignore bickering and wind-ups.
Entertainment will be cheap, and worthwhile. No DVDs, computer or console games.
We will arrange fun and creative play-dates with similar-minded friends and their children.

Like hell we will!

Children can spot a weakness at a hundred yards, can organise a concerted attack that saps not only morale and determination, but ensures that after the first holiday week that the days are running according to their own specific agenda. All bets are off as they loll in front of the telly snuffling their way through Twix wrappers, Fanta and Wotsits before leaving a trail of cheesy dust over your laptop keyboard because they're arguing over whose turn it is on Mousebreaker and you can't stand the noise. And certainly not the prospect of anyone else's brats either!

Been there, done that, washed the damned teeshirt!

I am so glad that my two youngest have got to the age of comfortable, mutual accommodation, can generally get on well, can take turns, are reasonably grateful, polite and sort-of helpful. SO VERY GLAD!

I used to absolutely dread the school holidays (as this blog has probably previously revealed), but we actually seem to have turned some sort of corner over the past couple of years and their increasing independence and maturity is a boon and a blessing. We jog along nicely - they understand that each member of the family (and not just them!) NEEDS their own space and time, that mum isn't a wish-granting automaton, that money is finite, and that eating your cake precludes still having it. If only the dog was so perspicacious!

Soon we are flying to Greece for a family week of exploring by jeep, swimming and sunbathing in off-the-beaten-track coves,, chilling out, eating and drinking in the local tavernas. And do you know, I am really and truly looking forward to it! We deserve this break - we really do. It's been a hard-working year for all of us: it's definitely time to kick off those shoes and relax, drink wine (or Coke) and watch the sun go down over the harbour.

The Last Day at Junior School

It is the Bright-Eyed Boy's last day of junior school today, and I am besieged by a lot of different emotions.

Sorrow - he is the last of my children, and his passage to senior school signals pretty much the end of his childhood and the intimate ties that have bound us for the last eleven years.

Joy - that he has had such a happy start to his scholastic career (even with the minor wobble when he had his anxiety attacks last autumn) in a caring and supportive environment and is blossoming into a lovely fellow.

Relief - that the monotony of the school-run (through a less than salubrious neighbourhood) has finally ended, and we no longer have to negotiate sullen dead-eyed youths and feral dogs on the walk to school.

Nostalgia - that in a few months time I will be remembering the school nativity plays, parents' evenings and trips out in a golden haze - I am doing that even now!

Anxiety - that he won't find the transition to 'big school' the adventure he currently imagines it to be and becomes unhappy.

Trepidation - now that I have two extra hours tacked onto either end of my working day, will I acquit myself of my academic duties, or am I (as I suspect) a complete lightweight.

Worry - that he won't be able to manage to crosss the roads safely, tie shoe-laces, catch the bus home etc.

Fondness - for all the others parents who I've been seeing on and off for the past seven years, and for some of whom this is also the last day at the school gate.

Life goes so quickly - too quickly - and I am reminded of the feeling I get when I return from holiday, that I could have enjoyed it all so much better if I'd put in a bit more effort, concentrated on enjoying the moment rather than looking aheat to what was next on the schedule.
I feel that way about their childhood. I was always so selfishly caught up in how difficult I found it to be a mother that I often wished it away, wished they were older, more independent. I never took into account how difficult it must be to negotiate the business of growing up. The little things were left unnoticed, swept away in my haste to get it all over with, to move on. I look at the childish cartoons on the fridge, the old school photos, the discarded toys and heartily wish -oh wish so much! - I could re-run the last thirteen years (since Daughter #3 was born) and do it all again but BETTER. Do it for them, not me! Regret is a terrible, heart-churning thing!

I shall try my hardest to be a better mum to them as they get older - God knows, they deserve it. They are great children and I am so proud of them and love them all so much. I have been given a great gift in my family, and it behoves me to treat it like the jewel it is.

Incrementality and Jesus Saves

School holidays are actually progressing much more smoothly than last year. Looking back, I think I was feeling pretty tense about the whole PhD thing and the funding thereof. That all came to a nasty head during our week away when daughter #2 decided to let me know (by text) that I'd had a letter from the AHRC. Of course, then I had to know what it said, got her to read it and text me any news "I'm SO sorry...." she started. Great. I was massively disappointed, but couldn't let the others know how I felt, which was really difficult when we were confined in such close quarters. So I pretended I didn't really care, dismissing the whole issue as a mere inconvenience. When we returned home I found out that the scholarships had already been awarded in early June, so no luck there either. All this tension pretty much overshadowed the whole Summer from start to finish. I had the OU course to do, but all the time I was thinking beyond that to possible doctoral study, but couldn't feasibly do anything constructive towards it. I was very ill at ease and this manifested itself in many ways.

This year however I think that I am much more chilled. The children are that little bit older, a little less demanding and tempestuous and I have my 'bolt-hole' where I can go and write for a couple of hours. Plus I have a plan, which always makes me feel positive and cheerful. Everyday I commit to writing for at least a couple of hours - it doesn't matter what I write: even blogging is a useful authorial experience, and hones the compositional skills. Refinement can come later. In the evenings, I spend half an hour brushing up my basic German.

One of the things that I have learnt over the years is the value of small increments. Whatever needs to be done can be done in small chunks that barely impact at all. 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step' and all that. Just keep those steps coming and you'll get there remarkably quickly and with minimal effort. This is one of the really useful things that motherhood taught me: it's no good bewailing the lack of time you have when you have small children. Divide your day into 15 minute slots and allot an achievable task to one of those slots. I carried this philosophy through to later my university years: 15 minutes is quite long enough to memorise some vocab, or photostat an article, or source a book, or grab a coffee. Just don't approach life as a monolithic entity: break it down so you can see its constituent tasks, then tackle them one at a time. Don't get overwhelmed: be a serial do-er.

Our 20 pence Jesus bears testimony to the benefits of this approach. He is a garish 9" high pink flock covered plastic statuette, with a slot in his back for coins, bought (with an ironic wink) by daughter #2*. Every time I find a 20 pence piece in my purse I pop it in the slot: I have been doing so since last summer. Just before our trip away, I'm going to empty him out and cash the savings in for Euros. I anticipate there'll be about £40 sterling, enough to buy us a cheap lunch out on holiday. A salutary lesson in the incremental approach.

* she understands my deep fondness of Catholic imagery, even if she doesn't share it!

Moan moan moan....

The weather has been absolutely atrocious recently: persistant heavy drizzle. The children are climbing the walls and I'm not far behind them! Fortunately daughter #3's rowing sessions have provided a focus for many of the days that would otherwise pass in an amorphous blur. At least we've got out! Many acquaintances are feeling the pressure: we've all done the painting/pasting/baking thing to death over the years. Neither we or the kids can tolerate any more make-do-and-mend bargain basement amusement. Intelligent youngsters suck up mental stimulation like sponges, and they won't be fobbed off with substandard offerings. The local museums are dull and patronising even with a well-planned 'treasure hunt' element. Theatre and cinema fare is predictable and overrated, concerts rare and exhorbitant. And you can only read so much in one day! My heart goes out to 'staycationers', those poor fools who thought it would be ironic 'fun' in these economically straitened times to camp or hire a beach hut or stay put and have 'days out'. By the time you've paid the entrance fee and marched a family of four around a good old British attraction in the cold and rain, paid for a few hot drinks and some seriously overpriced slimy sandwiches (or worse than dull, brought your own), you might as well have bitten the bullet and got some cheapy last-minute foreign holiday deal. At least the weather or food actually can't be worse than here, nor the locals less welcoming, nor your teeth less gritted.

The Best is Yet to Come!

Well, I've spent quite a lot of time closeted in my 'satellite study' i.e. the tiny laptop desk adjacent the door in the main bedroom. It's been a real godsend and means that I can get some work done without being subjected to too much distraction. Daughter #3 seems really caught up in the whole rowing thing, opting (quite voluntarily) to go to the training sessions 3-4 times per week. This is a fantastic opportunity for her to become skilled in a sport that she is really enjoying, despite the fact that she capsized today and had to be assisted from the river by a couple of nearby fishermen (who assured they'd seen it all before). It seems to be a bit of an initiation thing - completely expected at some stage, and better now than in January! She is completely unphased by, and indeed a bit proud of, her bit of drama. It's a real commitment getting her there for the morning sessions, I have to be a bit strict about making sure she's out of bed, dressed and having a good breakfast before I take the dog for her walk. Still, we're all ready by nine am to drive to the rowing club where I drop her off, ensure that she's safely off up-river and make my way into the city centre. The weather hasn't been so great lately, so sitting on the riverbank with a book isn't an option at the moment. Plus I've got the Bright-Eyed Boy with me, who is eager to fritter his birthday money on stretchy chickens, mystery UFOs, magic 8-balls, Pokemon cards and the like. The Starbucks bill for his caramel 'frapuccini' has been astronomical since the schools broke up. Crusty French bread, pate and sliced tomatoes for lunch and then a quieter afternoon. Happily his football training recommences this weekend, so that should mean he feels a little less left out. Not too long until our trip away: I'm already anticipating the delicious arrival as the sun sets behind the sheer headland, hearing the house martins squealing as they dive over the olive groves and grape vines; the greeny-turquoise sea, the ancient sun-bleached bastion set with shaded linen clothed tables; perspiring rose wine bottles sitting in ice-coolers; hot silver sand; tiny cups of espresso; almond biscuits dipped in prosecco; the freshest of exotic fish on ice in the supermarket; sleepy afternoons swaying on the terrace swing-seat. Aaaah!! I can't wait!

May Day! May Day! May Day!!!

The half-term holidays are here again (again? So soon already?!) and have unfortunately coincided with a severe lack of cash, owing to the fact that
a) it's been a five-week month, and
b) a Visa bill has arrived with the Venetian trip expenses (hotel) and two birthdays'-worth of presents on it, and
c) it's car servicing, road tax and insurance renewal time.
The weather, so lovely and balmy over the weekend, has defaulted back to the distinctly chilly (although that's been partially moderated by some sunniness this afternoon). The husband, faced with the prospect of returning to his ever-increasing pile of responsibilities, was surprisingly upbeat. Looking out of the window this morning at the dull greyness, it was me who was distinctly fed-up. Daughter no.3 impressed me with her organising skills as she arranged to meet some friends for a trip into town. She was most dischuffed when they proved themselves to be both immature and ungrateful (she'd offered to buy two of them a Subway sandwich, which they'd initially claimed to want, and subsequently turned their noses up at - it was her pocket-money she was spending on you, you morons!) and cut short the trip to meet me and her younger brother in Starbucks where we were scraping a filter coffee and a small bun. That's the family allowance gone - and it's another three weeks or so before the next payment. It's no wonder that parents are getting deeper and deeper into debt. There's really no cheap way of entertaining the kids during the school holidays. Don't give me that guff about baking and sticking and board games. Been there, done it, got the jam stains. Nowadays children are far more sophisticated and intelligent than that. They'll go along with that sort of stuff, but it holds little of sustained interest for them. We've also done the gym, swimming, museums, art-galleries, nature walks, projects, workshops, yadda yadda....What would they really like to do? Travel: travel abroad and get away from this miserable, chilly, sunless land. Me too, for that matter!

The Best-Laid Plans.....

Hey ho! School hols again!

In an attempt to offset the usual miserable decline in work output that generally happens during these times, I had decided to wake up at the crack of dawn to read a chapter on Douglas Moo's excellently detailed commentary on Paul's letter to the Romans and make some notes. My long-suffering husband is quite used to my bedside light going on at bizarre times and appears to be able to sleep on until his alarm goes off. Snuggling down last night, I decided to get a least an hour of 'work' in before the household awoke. Alas for the best-laid plans! When I did finally surface, there was already a cup of tea waiting for me and the dog was whining to be let out. Husband went downstairs and busied himself with getting ready for work, and I sat up and started reading, cursing my laziness. I'm tackling a particularly tricky part of the epistle at the moment, dealing with sin, death and the law. Every commentator and interpreter has his subtly different six penn'orth and the footnotes take up more of the page than Moo's text, so it is fiendishly difficult to keep a hold on the thread of the argument. Ideally, one needs a straight couple of hours to get into the swing of it before it starts to cohere, and today it just wasn't going to happen.

I impressed on the children last night that, with no school, they could have a bit of a lie-in - but it wasn't long before I was joined by the bright-eyed boy wondering what I had lined up for the day. Groaning inwardly, I put down my book and gave him a cuddle. We'd walked the dog and were entertaining daughter no.2 and the new baby before daughter no.3 flumped wearily downstairs and started painting her nails black. I suppose I could be doing some work now, but I'm a bit distracted and just not in the mood. The evening is also out of the question: if I try to tackle anything serious after the children go to bed, I just forget it immediately or fall asleep book in hand. My bedtime reading consists of inane mush at the moment. I shall try again tomorrow. Honest, I will!

Putting the Wagon in Motion

Nearly there: the last week of the school holidays - seven days to go!
The husband returned to work today, although in reality, for him, most of the weekend was a slow-motion anticipation of the dreaded event. The house is in complete squalor, but there seems very little point in devoting energy to something that will just require redoing very shortly. And redoing over and over again.
More worryingly 'my desk' is in absolute disarray too. 'My desk' is actually a metaphor for my mental/psychological/intellectual self. I am surrounded by both pressing tasks (an upcoming assignment) and half-finished projects that I embarked on enthusiastically enough at the time. All fall down before the terrible sense of inertia that I am seized with.
I know that I should meet up with the reading group tomorrow, but I really don't think I can be bothered to organise the children and haul myself thirty miles for something that I am, in truth, only an occasional and peripheral member of. (Don't bother me with the 'incorrect' syntax of that sentence: I consider Webster a complete arse)
I should (really should) invite my daughter's friend around for a reciprocal day of well thought out play and social opportunity - but I lack the energy to do so.
When I see my childrens' bright and lovely faces, I despise myself for being such a poor excuse for a mother, and yet more and more I come to understand my own mother's terminal frustration with her life. Her tense boredom and unhappiness stems from an intelligent and creative personality that was never given the opportunity to thrive and stretch itself, other than in a series of short-lived financially controlled, 'approved' hobbies/handicrafts/pastimes. Being a woman of her time (financially subjugated), demanding more of her life was never an option. Even now, when I suggest that something like the OU might give her a sense of achievement and purpose, she is reluctant to embark on something that might upset the status quo i.e. my father not getting his tea on time.
She, like me, needs intellectual involvement to prevent festering, a toxic introspection that robs the personality of energy, optimism and good will.
It is quite true: if you want something doing, give it to a busy person - they are the ones with the energy already in motion that will see a task through. An unengaged person must first of all overcome the moment of inertia: the busy one hits the ground running.
And so it is my goal today to get the wheels on this particular wagon rolling. Experience has taught me what I must do to achieve this: DO ANYTHING!
Activity breeds energy, energy begets energy, energy means achievement, achievement means happiness. Ergo, activity = happiness.
I am off to sweep the floor.

It does occur to me that I really need to set up another blog: this one has become hijacked by personal reflections, which although it is a useful exercise in thinking stuff through, was not really what I set out to do!

The Aeneid Through Gritted Teeth

Our annual hol. is only a matter of days away now and I am really, really looking forward to getting away from the daily grind and take in some Mediterranean sun and life. Funnily enough, the school holidays bring an even more rigid routine to my day: necessary if I am to achieve anything before nightfall! I have stuck to my pledge to make our day a combination of mental, physical and leisure activity to counteract the natural predisposition to loaf aimlessly and then feel slightly nauseous by tea-time. It seems to have worked rather well, with only minimal bickering and everyone getting a couple of hours to do their own thing, be it gaming, reading or in my case translating Book II of the Aeneid. Again my decision to complete only one photostatted page of text per day (circa 25 lines c/w transcription of vocab. and a 'fair'(-ish!) draft) has proved to be a sensible and achievable amount. Thus I am now at line 720 (out of 804) with only two days of feasible study time before we fly. Realistically, Friday will be commited to rounding up stuff for packing, ordering currency, final washing/ironing etc. so that leaves tomorrow.
I could get up very early tomorrow and finish it off - that would give me a good 'clean desk' feeling (so important for that true holiday feeling!). Problem is, I'm starting to feel a real aversion to the task in hand, just like I did when I was finishing off my undergrad. dissertation and the MA thesis. Oh dear. The barely suppressed resentment, the gritted teeth.
It's not that I don't really enjoy the Aeneid - on the contrary, it's been a revelation to me, the poetry is fantastic. It's just that when it's reduced to a mandatory task to be endured and completed, I get seriously mentally itchy. My own fault, I know, I know - I am the only person who is standing over me arms folded, tutting loudly. So....should I make a final push to finish off BkII, or let it go until I get back? Can't decide, which is why I am blogging not translating. What a waster!

Interestingly enough, as I have been working through the poem, I have had two translations at my side as a guide (having abandoned the prescribed West version earlier on): the Loeb Fairclough/Gould (correctly in the historic present, occasionally conspicuously poetic and archaic - not necessarily a bad thing), and a cheap-as-chips 'Wordsworth Classics' translation by Michael J. Oakley. This latter has proved astoundingly close to the original Latin, astounding in that I've never been recommended this translation or heard of Oakley. Occasionally I've had some minor quibbles (the temple of Ceres is itself described as 'forsaken', rather than it being described as 'of forsaken Ceres' [BkII:715], despite the obvious agreement of 'desertae' with 'Cereris' rather than with 'templum'), but all in all I heartily commend it.

What's the betting that I'll be up at first light tomorrow? Oh, we'll see.....

Summer Inertia

A curious dull sort of time, the approach to one's annual vacation. I am filled with listlessness: that is, I know that I must make out some lists detailing the articles still required for making the holiday as smooth and as hassle-free as possible (e.g. Do you really want to find yourself without wet-wipes just after you have eaten a three-scoop gelato in the blazing sun? Or paying way over the odds for some antihistamines when the mozzy bite turns nasty? I think not!) This task is seen as mandatory by the bossy, schoolmarmish side of my brain, the one that barks up the stairs 'Have you done your teeth yet?' every morning. And yet....and yet....there is a part of me (presumably the opposite side) that just wants to roll up at the airport with a backpack containing the bare essentials plus some holiday reading, arrive at my destination cool and unconcerned, organise my accomodation on spec (Oooh! Look at that lovely Etruscan well-cover in the courtyard. There! Under the walnut tree!), drift through the weeks unrestricted by schedules and timings, enjoying long lunches and late dinners.
But it'll never happen. At least not in the forseeable future of family holidays where I seem to be chief motivator and organiser. I don't know if it's a question of pride or guilt (See what a fabulous facilitator I am! I have brought TWO sorts of moisturiser!/Oh my God the children will get sunstroke just because I, their incompetent mother, forgot to bring their sunhats!), But I despise myself for being unable to cede control. Moisturiser and sunhats CAN be bought, at shops, by their father if necessary.....
Even knowing this, I fully intend to make a foray into town tomorrow to buy the necessary outstanding items. The languorous woman at the airport is not, and probably never will be, me.

Here we go...

So this is day one of the School Hols, aka The Six-Week Break, a time when normal time fractures and its disorganised shards eventually coelesce into some sort of 'other' routine. Being very much a creature of time and motion, I find the whole business highly worrying and not a little troublesome. My day is very nicely organised. thank you. Once the children are deposited at school (the school-run economically incorporates the dog-walk), I take my place at the computer with my cup of strong, black coffee (radio on; Start the Week, Midweek, In Our Time, Desert Island Discs, according to day) and start work. First the quotidien admin; replying to emails, scanning articles or blogs before settling to a solid chunk of work or study (lunch or not as the mood and stomach dictate). Various diversionary activities punctuate the week in accordance with the dictum mens sana in corpore sano; Tai Chi, deadlifts and other powerbuilding exercise, cardio work or swimming. Occasionally I am lucky to meet up with friends. I like this life.
And now I must weave together a different sort of routine that will suit all the parties involved.
Unfortunately the most effective way of doing this is to act as the sergeant-major.
"Right you 'orrible lot, get out of them beds and get downstairs, eat your breakfast then we're walking the dog. Thirteen hundred hours we're orf to the gym where you will partake in physical hexercise then we will make a quick sortie to the shops to secure provisions. Sixteen hundred hours will see us back at barracks for approximately two hours R&R, then dinnah, then I will spend approximately one hour on admin. Lights out will be at the usual time."
And everything will run pretty smoothly. The temptation, of course, is to just let them drift through the holidays stuck to their various electronic games, which would indeed keep them quiet. And they are very inclined to do so. However, I am determined that the day will have some sort of form, that exercise will alternate with creativity or some mentally engaging task, that food will appear at regular intervals. Spontaneity is fine, but is often used as a cloak for laziness. Still being in your jim-jams at lunchtime is not going with the flow. It is moral decay, damn you!!!

School Holidays Suck

OK I really need a plan. School holidays are no longer on the horizon, they are looming large, as in 'start next week'. No, that's not large, that's HUGE. That's a HUGE amount of time to fill in between now and September. Hands up all the Mums who are actively looking forward to six weeks at home, in Britain, in the rain, constrained by rising fuel costs, ridiculous entrance fees, disappointing interactive exhibitions and unrealistic expectations! Just as I thought......not that many. I suppose there will be a handful of Cath Kidston-clad optimists who are relishing a bug-hunt on the allotment followed by a floury afternoon round the Aga - there always are. They hang round the school playground on the first day of term weeping as ***** enters the system for the first time bewailing the shortness of childhood and the tyranny of the school run. But not many.
There is a conspiracy of silence amongst mothers who don't know each other too well. Everything is fine and dandy. They love spending as much time as possible with their children. They love the cooking and the cleaning and the sheer mindlessness of the daily routine - it's their JOB after all. Funny though, when you get to know them better, the facade starts to crack.

Really, it would be nice to go into the library to browse the novels without ****** screaming at the top of her voice, without the toddler wanting me to sit down and read the same old book to him on the big, ugly puke-stained fish-shaped cushion in the kids' section, read him that bloody book about the caterpillar that I can't stand in the steady controlled voice that tells everyone what a great mother I am.
Sometimes I just give them pizza and chips.
Sometimes I am so knackered and bored that I've opened the wine by teatime.
Sometimes I wish I could just run off, screaming into the arms of some young man.
Sometimes I feel so desperate for adult company I welcome the chance to chat to the chuggers and the surly postman and the double-glazing salesmen.

This is what I hear. Not tales of satisfaction and contentment, but stories of frustration, boredom and despair, urgently whispered by women who straighten up and add that they DO realise how lucky they are really.

So I approach the six week holiday with trepidation. Again. Knowing that by August's end I will be like the woman who sweeps her own square foot of bare earth with a switch of leaves, over and over, looking to neither right nor left, just at the patch of soil in front of her,which is what remains of her sanity.

General moaning.

The school holidays are just no good. Trying to amuse bored children on a shoe-string in indifferent weather is exhausting and leaves you feeling limper than a dead lettuce. Add to that mix a grumpy 22-year old who should have moved out LONG ago, a thesis that is just sitting there WAITING for final comments from an absentee supervisor (the clock is REALLY ticking now) and all the crap of hot-flushes/cold sweats/high blood pressure......Well, I've just had it. Fortunately the eldest is at work and the middle has been whisked away for the day by some cousins, so that just leaves the boy to amuse. But where can I fit in some study-time? And what should it be? Editing? Hebrew? And I promised myself I'd brush up on some Italian, but the CDs are about an hour's-worth each and we're going away a week today, so there's a pile of stuff to wash, iron and what's the betting I don't fit into any of my 'holiday clothes'. No doubt the husband will start stressing about flying soon and go into one of his gloomy silent phases. Bollocks. I'm off out.....