Here

"GOOD MORNING. MY NAME IS DARREN. I'M YOUR LOCAL POSTMAN."

Wow - I think - they didn't make them like that in W3.

The best you got was a grunt or a half glance.

But I like Darren's friendly introduction. Sunshine on my doorstep.

It's been fourteen days since we arrived laden with card board boxes, objets d'art swathed in bubble wrap, an intrepid Little A holding bunny in her hand, and even though I've suffered a bed confining cold, that there is still so much to sort through and unpack, I feel content.

The local welcomes, the warmth, has been quite disarming at times - 'Is this her first term?', 'when did you move in?', 'you're going to like living here, lots and lots of families'.....

I feel like a big kid, itching to explore, eager to find the short cuts, the quickest route to the Metropolitan Line station - 'Croxley Green' its sign shouts proudly, in bold, white letters.  

And so far I have uncovered three long, hedge lined passage ways that open onto a new crescent or behind Little A's pre-school. In London, I would've thought twice about walking down a deserted, enclosed path such as this, the barricading foliage not quite so inviting and green, crisp packets and over-chewed gum moulded on the tarmac. But it feels safer here. Much safer. And quiet. During the day, I spy the odd mother wheeling a buggy or a pensioner in walking boots. At night, the pavements feel bereft of footprints, and on the stroke of midnight all the street lamps switch off. Just like that. And it makes me think of a benevolent granny - the corners of her mouth up-turned, kindly - dressed in frilly night cap, and billowing gown, as she blows out the flame atop a tall, waxy candle in one strong puff.

If you were with me, we would saunter up the New Road, the road that houses all the must-have local amenities - the doctors, the library, the supermarket..... the undertakers. I would show you my favourite sign post, next to the library, one of those old signs that I love, that points you in every direction, that makes you dizzy from choice. Do you need the loo? Look it's sign posted right here....

Then I would take you to my favourite haunt - a tea and cake salon named Coco. Do you have your lap top with you? Great, because this is the perfect writing spot. I've officially christened Wednesday's 'Coco Day'. I'll inhabit my little table by the window and type away on my keypad with a hot chocolate or detox tea and large slab of cake, rounded off with a bowl of homemade soup and chunk of ciabatta at midday. It's the perfect place to loose myself in a tangle of thoughts and write lists and watch people go about their day.  

I know I have moved somewhere welcoming, where I already feel a part of the furniture, the sedate momentum of life. This is the kind of place where people move, stay rooted - our immediate neighbours have lived here over twenty five years. I hope one day Little A will look back on the place she grew up in with fond memories, remembering it as home. And we are still so close to London, only a forty minute dash from friends and museums and galleries and grand shopping plazas.

The other evening, I lay on my bed, the window open, a slight breeze brushing against my left cheek, and I realised I couldn't hear the hum of the 207 or the 607 on The Uxbridge Road, or the screech of sirens rushing towards another emergency, another arrest. Instead, my ears were treated to the undulating chorus of birdsong, so perfectly clear and uninterrupted - apart from the odd passing plane - by the drone of engines and drunken voices.

Then I smiled, picked up my book and read.


This is a very belated entry in the wonderful Tuesday linky, 'Where I live', by Michelle who blogs as The American Resident.

Amazingly, unbelievably, I have made the shortlist of the Britmums BIBS Awards under the category, Lifestyle. I am so ruddy grateful to everyone who voted for Older Mum in a Muddle. Now if you would like to see me in the Lifestyle final six, then please, please, please vote for me one final time. The champagne is on me if I make it this far...... (nominations close on 12th May)

Nothing and Everything

It was just one of those days. Where nothing and everything happened.

A day when a soothing pot of tea restored the equilibrium after the afternoon's fraught tears.

But the morning began at a snail's pace, frustratingly lazy, the gloomy smog of a head cold setting the dial of my day to red - to not do very much at all. Just chill.

"Little A, mummy is feeling very tired, let's snuggle on the sofa, I'll turn the TV on."

"Mummy, can you get me some dried cheerios in a bowl and a beaker of warm milk?"

"What's the magic word?"

"Please."

This is often the way, when Little A has woken in the middle of the night, not returning to her sleepy dream world until at least an hour later. And curled under the warmth of a duvet, Little A's hand resting on my crown, the theme tunes of Tilly and Friends and the Postman Pat wash over me, lulling me into a half slumber like the delicate sound of lapping water at high tide - the crunch crunch of my daughter's teeth on her breakfast cereal, the only prevention of my being pulled fully under.

We break fast at 10 am. I have my bowl of 'proper raspberry porridge', Little A - the hungry caterpillar - digests two bowls of cheerios, this time with whole milk, and a bowl of mummy-made nutella pear porridge. Then to feed my cold - unbelievably, Little A still isn't satiated - I toast some thickly cut slices of sourdough bread, generously spread with unsalted butter and mirabelle plum jam. Thoroughly delicious. After time spent colouring in, browsing social media, that extra cup of tea, our morning feast has finally reached it's conclusion.

It's 11.00 am.

In the shower I chide myself with guilty thoughts, I'm such a lazy mum, useless at getting on, other mothers are out and about by 8.00 am. 

After such a slow start, the only remedy I can think of is to make the most of the rest of the day. Little A and I dress together in the main bedroom. I watch as she pulls on her red doggy top, flattening the blond hair against her head. She falls over on the bed mattress as her feet catch in her trousers. I rub my tummy with stretch mark cream before clothing myself in what feels like one fell swoop. Little A reads a book bundled in a duvet on the sofa while I methodically sort the dirty laundry from the clothes basket into piles - underwear, Little A's clothes, Younger Dad's shirts, my jumpers (Little A's clothes always take precedence in the washing machine).

At 12.00 pm we are ready for the big, wide world. Well the supermarket to be precise. And it's here, in the baby aisle, were the morning's peace somersaults into a pool of pandemonium. Splash.

"Mummy please can I have this skipping rope?"

"Well I guess I promised you a treat," as I inspect the object of my daughter's desires, turning it slowly around in my hand.

"Mummy can I have this toy car too?"

"Sweetheart, you can't have both - you will have to chose one or the other."

"I want both. I want both. I want both. Waaaaaah."

And so it begins. She shakes her head. She stamps her feet in frustration. She screams. She barricades herself in front of the trolley. I am forbidden to move. So I kneel down at her level, "You have to choose. I am sorry but you can't have both, now I have to finish the shopping, you decide which toy you want as we go around the aisles." Of course, the situation escalates, "but I want both, I want both mummy." I plough ahead with the formidable task of calmly continuing the shopping with a mini volcano following behind.

In dairy, she pulls and pushes against the trolley, tears flying from her angry blue eyes. In wholefoods she is violet with rage, screeching, wailing, channelling her fire into physical strikes against my right thigh. We find ourselves obstructed by a brown tower of stacked crates, and in turn we frustrate a lady behind us. As she passes I notice her severe silver bob, her strong jawline, her ankle length black coat, she's tall but stoops over her trolley. Could she be 75? I don't know but there is something rather resilient about her, clearly made of tough stuff. She reminds me of a hawkish buzzard or vulture. Then she stops, turns to me and says with her nose in the air, "look how angry she is, what an angry little girl, totally out of control, no discipline, you need to discipline her."

The stooping buzzard continues her shopping as if she's just handed me a bouquet of flowers. But I am rendered speechless. And I feel terribly mortified, totally judged and inept. Why do some people think it's acceptable to publicly judge a parent? It's like the modern day version of medieval stocks. Maybe they should hand out tomatoes and potatoes and cabbages so shoppers can lob them at will at unsuspecting mothers.

Little A continues her frustrated onslaught. I feel every eye in the supermarket. At both ends of the aisle I can see customers and shop assistants staring - some smiling sympathetically - in our direction. And then, like passing through the eye of a hurricane, the eerily calm centre of a storm, the tantrum simply stops.

"Mummy I want a cuddle," she says between quiet sobs,"can you put me back in the trolley?" With Little A fully cuddled, nestled in the plastic seat, I turn my back to her pretending to choose a bag of wheat free penne slumped on a shelf while hot self conscious tears roll down my face. I just can't let Little A see that I am crying. I try making a phone call to Younger Dad - sorry I can't take your call right now, leave a message and I'll get right back to you. Frustrated, I take few deep breaths, and a few more still, and one final breath to steady myself. I'm ready to take on frozen foods.

"Little A, I have come to a decision," as I place the petits pois on top of the pork, "because you lashed out at me, and the trolley, you won't be getting any treats this afternoon. And when we get home you are going on the thinking cushion."

"But mummy, but mummy, I want the skipping rope. Waaaaaah."

And so it begins again. The storm continuing apace. I calmly wheel Little A to the baby aisle and place the skipping rope back on the shelf. And then I calmly wheel the trolley to a small checkout queue, my face parked in neutral.

"Look at you - I feel just like that when I shop at M&S," A kind voice interjects behind my back, and it has the effect of slowing down Little A's latest tirade - her shyness dampening the blaze.

I turn around to face a warm presence. Her cheeks are ruddy from tiny broken veins. In her hat she wears a miniature fresh daffodil. She's dressed head to foot in green and brown. A mother hen. And then she says something that's so reassuring, so comforting, that administers an antidote, some happy medicine for the earlier poisonous criticism,

"You're doing a brilliant job mummy, keep it up."

And I wanted to hug her. To say thank you, oh thank you, thank you once again.

I don't think she'll ever realise how much she made my day.

How did you handle a public meltdown?
Have you been publicly criticised for your parenting?


If you enjoy reading Older Mum in a Muddle, please spare a thought for me in the Britmums Brilliance in Blogging Awards - The BIBS - there are sixteen great categories to chose from but I think I'm best placed in the writers category. You can click on the badge below to take you through to the nomination form on the Britmums page - there's only one week left to nominate..... Thank you! X.

The Check Out Stand Off

Today is my day off .....

To see clients, read, write, practise a downward dog or simply to stop, sit still and listen to the ebb and flow of my breath.

Every Wednesday, I hand over a very willing Little A to a child minder who's taken care of her for nearly two years. She's a down to earth, consistent woman who I completely trust with my toddler.

In the lukewarm spill of the shower I consider the day ahead. I make mental notes of friends to text, twitter, or facebook - why don't I just pick up the phone - and engaging ideas for blog posts. I had intended on writing another instalment of my Once Upon a Time series but then this morning unfolded in a surprisingly baffling way .....

My ten o'clock appointment cancels which means I have an extra hour in today's schedule. I decide upon an excursion to the local supermarket. I've already prepared a hastily written list of culinary regulars like fish fingers, cheerios and 50/50 bread. Additionally, my purse harbours the all important shopping trolley pound. So off I set in my blue grey mummy mobile to the holy grail of food aisles in Chiswick.

I prefer to shop at the supermarket during the morning. As the aisles are relatively empty, I can navigate my trolley along two for one soup deals, wheat free inventions and palate sweetening condiments with wistful abandon. It's practically a meditation and by the end I feel almost self actualised.

Today my item list is short and so my shop is a brief contemplation.

I head for an empty check out. The trolley is laden with bounty and biscuits. And this is the moment where matters start to get a little strange.

In the adjacent queue I spot the husband of Younger Dad's cousin. He's there with his toddler who's deeply asleep in her buggy. We say our hellos and make small talk. I'm stuffing yogurts, bacon and houmous into a bag when two other customers line up behind me. One is a woman who appears to be of Malaysian origin. Her countenance hints at late middle age. The other is a man dressed head to foot in smokey grey attire. I don't notice him at first.

The cashier is still scanning my items when the woman moves to stand beside me. She's looking into an open purse with the anticipation of buying her goods. She isn't aware I haven't finished yet and I'm feeling a little uncomfortable with her proximity. Inkling tells me she might be new to the country. The cashier acknowledges the situation by asking the woman to step back until I've purchased my goods. She obliges without any fuss.

Without my noticing the man dressed in grey, Mister Grey, positions himself on the other side of the loading area so that he's stood facing me. He's also too close for comfort. I glance at him. His face is fairly young. I'm thinking early thirties. His expression is tense and ashen. His grey clothes are casual and a little unkempt. Then I look down to view what his fingers are fiddling with. I'm amazed by what I see. Between his hands are layers upon layers of fifty pound notes the thickness of a Bertolli butter tub. Actually, probably thicker than this. My first thought is no one carries around that amount of cash ...

I feel threatened by his stance and the wad, of what may be, dubious money. There's something edgy about him.

Now the woman is sidling closer again. I feel flanked and hemmed in by both strangers.

Enough. I've had enough.

I take a step back and foolhardily request "guys, could you both please give me some space here until I've finished".

Mister Grey tightens his facial muscles and retorts quite malevolently, "I can stand where I like. I'm from Brentford. The streets."

I tell him I need some room. That I feel intimidated by his presence. That I don't want to see his pile of cash.

He snarls, "you think jus' cos you're from Chiswick you can order us around. I'm a dad y'know."

"Well I'm a mum."

My friend in the other queue butts in "she's not from Chiswick."

He's right. I'm not. But hang on a minute. So what if I was?

Then out of the blue the woman hisses "no" and orders Mister Grey back to her side with the commanding flick of a hand.

What? They're together?

How are these two disparate souls connected?

I finish packing and pay in haste. The cashier apologises. Why? She hasn't done anything wrong apart from burdening me with annoying coupons I'll never use.

Before I leave I turn to the odd couple with a parting shot, "this wasn't a class issue, this was a space issue."

Mister Grey is about to respond but the woman admonishes him with a steely look. He backs off.

My friend escorts me to my blue grey mummy car out of concern for any reprisals.

As I pull out of the car park I see the woman and Mister Grey exiting the supermarket. I'm left wondering what brought these two characters together. It also dawns on me that Mister Grey's mention of his origins had nothing to do with class but was instead a threatening gesture. And why was he in the Chiswisk branch of Sainsburys with all those crisp pink notes?

I left the supermarket in a not so zen like state.

So tell me, what do you think was going on? Bent? Or just won the lottery? I'd love to know your thoughts .....