Merry Christmas one and all

Once again this blog has hit a fallow patch. Are they happening more often? Have I finally run out of things to say? Is my well of inspiration running dry? I think perhaps I am too close to myself to see clearly. What I can say for certain is that I am running on empty. Christmas is fun, and busy, and full. But I am now the generation who takes responsibility for looking after those both older and younger than myself, so it's not so much a break as an exercise in logistical precision, with one slip leading to food poisoning all round, or being on the receiving end of a look of hurt betrayal from a beloved relation as you realise there was one present you forgot to buy.

I am now reaching the stage of the Christmas holiday where I'm wondering if it's time to go back to work yet. Not, I hasten to add, because I prefer work to spending time with my bears, but because life is frankly considerably easier when there is a routine to stick to and I don't have to think about what's happening when and how and where all the time. I don't have to plan, or travel or entertain, or pack, or wrap. On the other hand... LittleBear's football season restarts on 11th January, so there go my weekends again... Can I have some more Christmas holiday please?

Only four people, and all those presents

Thoughts

"The country has spoken"

No doubt we will hear that over and over again from our Prime Minister. And it has, though in a rather strangulated whisper thanks to the distortions of our political system.

A gain of 1.2% of the vote share, to a total of 43.6%*, has given the Conservative party a sizeable majority.

Pro-Remain/pro-second-referendum parties had a total vote share of 49%.

Is the country's voice really that clear?

I would say that it isn't, but also that it doesn't matter. There is a large majority in the House of Commons to push through Conservative policies, and there's nothing I can do to change that.

On the other hand, do we have any idea what the Prime Minister actually thinks or believes? He has a long and varied history of lying, and has carefully made sure he made few concrete promises during this election campaign. I genuinely have no idea if he has any beliefs, or ideologies, that extend beyond himself. I fear the unknown of a Johnson leadership, as much as I fear the known of Conservative policies of cutting public spending, cutting taxes for the wealthy and selling our public services to the highest bidder.

I held BigBear and LittleBear in bed this morning as I felt sick and tired and I promised them both that we could still try to make the world around us a better place. Whoever is in power, I can still choose, every day, to try to help those less fortunate than myself. I can try to make positive changes in my life that protect the environment, that ease suffering, that bring light to other people's lives. I cannot change the policies of the government; I cannot increase funding for schools or libraries or hospitals or the police or legal aid or social housing or welfare.

I feel sad, angry and depressed that we have a Prime Minister who is a known liar, racist and homophobe.

I feel sad, angry and depressed that we have elected politicians who have expressed some truly horrible views on race and religion.

I feel sad, angry and depressed at the racism and populism I now see around me on a regular basis.

I feel sad, angry and depressed that we are now destined to leave the EU under whatever terms the Conservatives now choose, with no brakes upon their ambition.

But I will fight to be true to my own values of compassion, empathy, support and love. I will be the person I want the world to have.

It's the only thing I can do.



* The small percentage change in vote share has increased the number of Conservative seats from 298 to 364.
1.2% gain in votes is a 12% gain in seats.
43.6% of the vote has translated to 56% of the seats.

A poem

As I drove across town in the lashing rain to cast a proxy vote for a friend, a line of a poem came back to me. It was a poem by Rudyard Kipling, entitled "A Dead Statesman", from a series called "Epitaphs of the War" - a series of epitaphs he conjured up as though written by those who died during the First World War.

I could not dig: I dared not rob: 

Therefore I lied to please the mob. 

Now all my lies are proved untrue 

And I must face the men I slew. 

What tale shall serve me here among 

Mine angry and defrauded young?

 Our "statesmen" (if only we had some) are not dead, and nor are millions of our young, but the sentiment feels pretty apposite to me.

Remind me again...

A week ago, I started writing daily posts on Facebook, highlighting the ways in which society has been negatively affected by the policies of the Conservative party. I was going to keep going until election day, but honestly? I am too angry to keep doing this. I am filled with rage and sadness at the ways in which the poor, the vulnerable, the weak and the needy have been punished. I know I will not be voting Conservative, and I know why. I've done my small bit on social media to share some of those reasons, and now I'm going to aggregate those reasons and share them here as well.

Homelessness

At the end of 2018, there were 62,000 homeless families living in temporary accommodation in England alone. These families included 124,000 children¹.

There are 80% more children living in temporary accommodation than there were in 2010.

These figures do not include families or children who are "sofa-surfing" instead of relying on their Local Authority. The Children's Commissioner's Office estimates another 92,000 children are living in "sofa-surfing" families².

Remind me again why you're voting Conservative?

Policing

Police numbers have fallen by 20,600 between March 2010 and March 2019, representing a 14% drop in number of police officers. Taking into account a rising population, this is a cut of 19% in the number of police officers per head of population³.

Knife crime (excluding Greater Manchester, who didn't submit figures in time) has increased from 30,620 reported incidents per year in March 2011 to 44,076 per year in March 2019, an increase of 44%⁴.

Remind me again why you're voting Conservative?

Justice

Since 2010...

162 magistrates’ courts have closed, out of 323,
90 county courts have closed, out of 240,
18 dedicated tribunal buildings have closed, out of 83,
17 family courts have closed, out of 185,
8 crown courts have closed, out of 92.⁵

Legal aid spending has been cut by 37% between 2010 and 2018, with the Ministry of Justice suffering more cuts than any other government department. Access to justice? What access to justice?⁶

Remind me again why you're voting Conservative?

NHS

In 2005, a policy book entitled "Direct Democracy: An Agenda For A New Model Party" was published, co-authored by (among others) Michael Gove, Daniel Hannan, Greg Clark, David Gauke, Jeremy Hunt and Kwasi Kwarteng. All Conservative MPs or MEPs, in case you hadn't spotted it. Among the many statements advocating moving from our current system of a National Health Service towards a private, insurance-based system, is this one:

“Our ambition should be to break down the barriers between private and public provision, in effect denationalising the provision of health care in Britain.⁷"

Remind me again why you're voting Conservative?

Food banks

In the last five years, food bank use in the Trussell Trust network has increased by 73%, so that in the past year alone, nearly 1.6 million three-day emergency food parcels were supplied to people in crisis.

More than half a million of these parcels went to children⁸.

Remind me again why you're voting Conservative?

Disability benefit

Approximately 1,600 working-age disabled people have died every year over the past five years within six months of having their claim for disability benefits rejected⁹.

Remind me again why you're voting Conservative?

Education

Since the 2015/16 academic year, my son's school has seen a real terms funding cut of £200 per pupil.¹⁰

Remind me again why you're voting Conservative?


You may think that this isn't you. Maybe you don't vote Conservative. Maybe you do vote Conservative, but you do so for their policies on other matters. But if you do vote Conservative this is you. This is what you've chosen. This is what you've endorsed. This is what you are happy to allow to happen in your name. This is a price you think is worth paying. These lives. These people. These children.  And I do hold you responsible. Maybe you wanted lower taxation, or tighter immigration controls. Maybe you wanted less state intervention in business. Maybe you wanted looser banking regulations. Maybe you wanted a referendum on our membership of the EU. I don't know what you wanted, but this is what you got. This is what you chose for all of us. You own this. This is you.

Remind me again why you're voting Conservative?

¹ https://www.gov.uk/government/statistical-data-sets/live-tables-on-homelessness

² https://www.childrenscommissioner.gov.uk/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/cco-bleak-houses-report-august-2019.pdf

³ https://www.gov.uk/government/statistics/police-workforce-england-and-wales-31-march-2019

⁴ https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandcommunity/crimeandjustice/bulletins/crimeinenglandandwales/yearendingjune2019

⁵ https://researchbriefings.parliament.uk/ResearchBriefing/Summary/CDP-2019-0156

⁶ www.theguardian.com/law/2018/dec/26/legal-aid-how-has-it-changed-in-70-years

⁷ p78 of whatwouldvirchowdo.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/direct_democracy___an_agenda_for_a_new_model_party.pdf

⁸ https://www.trusselltrust.org/2019/04/25/record-1-6m-food-bank-parcels/

⁹ https://www.parliament.uk/business/publications/written-questions-answers-statements/written-question/Commons/2019-01-17/209778

¹⁰ https://commonslibrary.parliament.uk/social-policy/education/schools/constituency-data-schools-funding/

Lies, damned lies and Johnson

Boris Johnson spent much of his time before entering politics in journalism. It's hard to say, in the current climate, which is the more dishonest and dishonourable profession. Johnson has managed to bring dishonesty and dishonour to both however. He has the notable distinction of having been sacked from jobs in both journalism and politics for the same reason - lying.

Lying journalist

The first job from which he was sacked for lying was at The Times (for inventing a quote for a front page story).

When Chris Patten, a European Commissioner during Johnson's tenure at The Times, spoke of Boris Johnson, he described Johnson as "one of the greatest exponents of fake journalism". More recently, he went on to say

“He’s lied his way through life, he’s lied his way through politics, he’s a huckster with a degree of charm to which I am immune. As well as being mendacious he’s incompetent.”

Truly, a glowing recommendation from a fellow Tory. This is what his own party thinks of him.

In 1999, he sought a position as Editor of The Spectator. To secure the post, he assured the owner (Conrad Black) that he didn't intend to pursue a career in politics. It only took him two years to break that promise and run for Parliament as Conservative candidate for Henley in 2001.

Lying politician

The next job from which he was sacked for lying was once he'd slid into politics. Michael Howard had made him party vice-chairman and shadow arts minister. He was sacked from both posts after promising Howard that reports of an affair were an “inverted pyramid of piffle”. When it turned out that the story of the affair was completely truthful, he refused to resign and was sacked for lying to his party leader.

I am occasionally told that I shouldn't care so much about the details of politicians lying as, "they all do it". And it's true - every manifesto, every campaign, and virtually every interview is filled with exaggeration and bluster as politicians try to persuade the electorate that the land of milk and honey lies only with a vote for their particular party. But there is a level of lying that heads beyond the endless claims of spending on public services that haven't actually been costed.

It seems a bit tired and boring to bang on now about the Vote Leave campaign, but it's hard to talk about Johnson and his lies without mentioning some of his prime whoppers.

At the launch of the now-infamous, £350-million-per-week lies-on-a-bus tour, Johnson headed back to some of his favourite arrant nonsense, regurgitating Lies Of Christmas Past with claims that the EU was setting rules on the shape of bananas.

And I think I've perhaps drawn attention to the claim that the UK was sending £350m a week to the EU, followed by “let’s fund our NHS instead”. Never mind the fact that the UK Statistics Authority issued an official statement in May 2016 describing the claim as “misleading”. That didn't stop Johnson repeated it in an article in the Telegraph in September 2017, and at various tedious intervals since. If you tell the same lie often enough, some people will believe you.

Then there were the repugnant, dog-whistle, racist claims that we were going to be swamped by Turkish immigrants. Not only did Johnson co-sign a letter claiming “the only way to avoid having common borders with Turkey is to vote Leave and take back control”. He then subsequently claimed that he did not mention Turkey during the referendum. Lies piled upon lies to pretend he hadn't lied in the first place.

And here we are now, referendum long past and a general election looming, and the press and public simply seem resigned to the fact that when Johnson opens his mouth lies will emerge.

There won't be a border in the Irish Sea? It almost makes you wonder if he's even read his own withdrawal agreement. Or perhaps it won't be a proper border, as it will be manned by unicorns. Not to mention (though I will), the fact that it was only a year ago that Johnson told the DUP at their conference, "We would be damaging the fabric of the Union with regulatory checks and even customs controls between Great Britain and Northern Ireland on top of those extra regulatory checks down the Irish Sea that are already envisaged in the withdrawal agreement."

"Now, I have to tell you that no British Conservative government could or should sign up to any such arrangement," he added. No, indeed they should not Mr Johnson. So why did you? And why do you continue to lie to the public and claim that's not exactly what you've done?

Then there's his old favourite... Parliament scuppered a deal... Almost every day he wheels that one out, conveniently ignoring the fact that it was he that voted against a deal, repeatedly. It was he that resigned from Cabinet to be able to vote against a deal. It was he that pulled the deal from Parliament after they'd voted it through, because he didn't dare allow it to be scrutinised for more than two days.

How about the 20,000 extra police officers he assured the residents of Oldham were "already operating on our streets"? They aren't. The government plan to recruit 20,000 additional officers, to replace the ones they've spent the last few years getting rid of.

Or maybe there are the 40 new hospitals, when in truth 6 hospitals will be upgraded in the next five years, if the Tories regain power, and everything else is additional funding offered beyond 2025, none of which is for a new hospital anywhere.

Or perhaps the claim that we have the lowest corporation tax in Europe (we don't - it's higher than Ireland, Lithuania and Hungary) and that Labour would make it the highest (they won't - they plan to return to 2011 levels by 2022, when it would still be lower than France and Belgium).

His lies become so extravagant, and so bare-faced, it almost feels absurd to be forced to point them out.

Obviously, I don't know Johnson personally, though at least one of my friends has been on the receiving end of unwanted sexual advances from him, so I confess to being predisposed to dislike him. But don't take my word for it, why not read what others who do know him think...

“What had we done for Boris? Had we taught him truthfulness? No. Had we taught him wisdom? No. What had we taught? Was it only how to make witty and brilliant speeches?” 

 Anthony Kenny, master of Balliol when Johnson was a student there

“Probably the worst scholar Eton ever sent us – a buffoon and an idler,”  

Oswyn Murray, Fellow of Balliol College

"There is room for debate about whether he is a scoundrel or mere rogue, but not much about his moral bankruptcy, rooted in a contempt for truth," 

Max Hastings, Editor of the Daily Telegraph

“Boris really has adopted a disgracefully cavalier attitude to his classical studies. It is a question of priorities, which most of his colleagues have no difficulty in sorting out. Boris sometimes seems affronted when criticised for what amounts to a gross failure of responsibility (and surprised at the same time that he was not appointed Captain of the School for next half): I think he honestly believes that it is churlish of us not to regard him as an exception, one who should be free of the network of obligation which binds everyone else.”

 Martin Hammond, Master in College, Eton

And this is the man we appear likely to elect as our Prime Minister?

Are we not better than this?

Do we not deserve better than this?

Definition of insanity

Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome?

Two years ago, I held a children's party in our local Community room. I organised and ran party games for twenty-seven children, and felt stressed, over-wrought, anxious and (ultimately) utterly exhausted. So, when LittleBear asked to have a football-themed party in the Community room with me running football games for him, the correct answer should have been "No." Rarely do I come up with the sensible answer when my LittleBear asks for something however.

Which is how I came to be running a football party for twenty 7 and 8 year olds today. There was a lot of sweat, intermittent tears, but fortunately no blood. My single greatest parental asset now turns out to be a referee's whistle. They actually stop moving and listen*. Not for long, but often long enough to tell them something important, like "there's cake".

I have spent the last few days feeling stressed, over-wrought and anxious. And now I'm utterly exhausted. It's almost like someone could have predicted this...




* I have two spare referee's whistles. I'm open to offers for them.

Happy Birthday

Today my "baby" turned eight. Eight.  I can't quite wrap my head round eight at the moment. He may have to become MediumBear sometime. Not yet though. He's still LittleBear for now.

I have had to bite my tongue repeatedly not to spoil the surprises for his birthday, because I'm utterly rubbish at keeping secrets, but I'm glad I managed it, as he was suitably delighted with the esoteric mix of presents he received. I am a mixture of proud and alarmed that he is currently of the view that his favourite present was the box containing forty small screwtop jars. Each jar contains a sample of a different chemical element. I would have been quite happy to receive said collection, if only because it includes pieces of some splendidly obscure metals (Hafnium anyone?) and it warms the cockles of my heart to know my little boy finds the same joy. Second only to my son's delight in his new collection, is the knowledge that the entire set was donated to us by one of my colleagues after he decided that his accumulation of elements after a forty year career in analytical chemistry needed a new home.

For those concerned that my son might not be having enough fun, he did also receive multiple books and games, a cuddly snow leopard and a trip to Twickenham to watch the Barbarians.

Usually my highlight on LittleBear's birthday is seeing his happiness and excitement as he opens his presents. Today, however, it was trumped by a moment that almost brought me to tears...

It is "traditional" at his school that each child takes to school some kind of treat for all the members of their class. In LittleBear's case, the treat was a small mountain of packets of Haribo sweets, which he loves with a passion that I find mystifying.

When I retrieved him from school, he informed me that there had been one packet left, which would be for him. This seemed utterly reasonable to me, and in fact what I had assumed would be the case. As we set off down the school drive we passed his headmistress, who often tries to stand there to say goodbye to the pupils.

"There's MrsHeadmistress! Can I give her the last packet of Haribo?"

"Of course you can, if you'd like to."

And off he went, presenting his headmistress with his own sweets and having a little chat with her about his birthday, including his impending trip to Twickenham. She agreed to accept the sweets on the grounds he promise to tell her all about the rugby when he sees her on Monday.

As we headed home, I told my generous, sweet-hearted little boy how proud I was of him for being so thoughtful and being happy to give away his last packet of sweets.

"That's OK. It's my birthday and I'm getting lots of things."

How could anyone not love my boy?

A little up; a little down

Let us put aside, for now, the tedium and vexation of all things political. Instead, I shall shine a light on two minor aspects of my life, one a cause for mild sadness and world-weariness, the other an antidote to that weariness.

Today, LittleBear's football team had a friendly football match. It's half-term and there are no "official" fixtures, so Coach arranged a friendly against another local team. Our boys played well, had fun, encouraged each other, listened well, and were generally a source of great pride. And at the end, the opposition coach refused to shake hands with us. Apparently, there was some level of misunderstanding that was certainly not down to us (I've read the thread of messages exchanged before the match). The opposition were expecting us to be a "development side" and at the end we were sworn at and told we had "wasted their time" by being more experienced than expected.

I was dumbfounded to start with. I haven't even bothered visiting "angry" but have just moved to deep sadness. Why are people so horrible? Why does sport have the tendency to bring out the worst in people? Is this what I will continue to face if I stay in voluntary coaching?

And now for the brighter side of humanity...

Earlier this term, LittleBear's school had a harvest festival. Fortunately(?) this year I didn't have an opportunity to listen to them singing about broad beans in blanket-y beds, or big, red, combine-harvesters. Unfortunately, because of the absence of this auditory treat, I also didn't have the mental prompt to provide LittleBear with a donation of food for the local night shelter. I discussed this with LittleBear over dinner one day, and he told me that it probably didn't matter as they had a huge pile of food collected. We then mused that perhaps that in itself wasn't ideal, and that perhaps they end up with lots of food at Harvest and Christmas and not enough the rest of the year. And it was at this point that LittleBear warmed the cockles of my old and jaded heart.

"Mummy? You know how last year we did that reverse calendar thing* at Christmas and put food in a box?"

"Yes? Would you like to do that again this year?"

"I think we should do that but not at Christmas. Can we do it for the month running up to my birthday, and then again running up to mid-summer's day? I don't think many people will donate things in November or the middle of summer."

And so it is that today, while putting in an on-line grocery order, I have been transcribing a list of things in my lovely boy's handwriting to buy for the local food bank. Every day for the last ten days he has added an item to the list, after consulting the food bank website to discover what they need.

So, yes, some people are horrible. But I am blessed beyond measure that my LittleBear is not one of them**.


* My attempts to make sure Christmas isn't simply a festival of consumerism involves us having a reverse advent calendar - every time LittleBear opens a day of his calendar, we put something into a box to go to the food bank. Sometimes it's a nominal "put a thing in the box" and actually we buy several things at once and put them all in, having written them down on the day.

** Maybe this counts as the most appalling level of bragging about what an angel my son is. He's not, he's just a small boy with a big heart. And sometimes that big heart, and excess of empathy, means life is difficult for him to cope with, but sometimes it means he makes choices I think are bloody brilliant, and I love him to bits. And this is my blog, so once in a while I'll brag about my baby.

Micro-blogging

Foolishing I followed the news today and became increasingly despondent at the idiocy, self-interest and flagrant ability to tell bare-faced lies that our politicians seem to possess.

I'd been promising myself I would make pie for dinner tonight, and had been looking forward to it for several days. (I take my small pleasures where I can).

By the time dinner was approaching, I felt so gloomy and apathetic, I simply couldn't be bothered to make pie. I sat on the sofa and stared at the wall. Then I sorted out LittleBear's three(!) Rubik's cubes*.

And then I made a conscious decision not to let the Brexit shit-weasels ruin the highlight of my culinary week, so I got up from the sofa and made pie anyway.

It may be my only victory over the Brexiteers, but it was still a victory. I will not allow them to break my mental health.


* I would like to claim that my genius allows me to solve the Rubik's cube with ease. My genius extends only as far as an ability to use the internet.

The depressing side of humanity

Having had a moderately stressful week already, as a series of minor incidents piled on top of each other to make me feel overwhelmed and anxious, what I really needed was another stress-filled encounter.

I went to our local shop last night, while BigBear bathed LittleBear. We'd run out of bread and needed some before morning. It seemed a good opportunity to pop out. While in the local shop, there was what can only be described as a kerfuffle. I wasn't really aware of what was going on, though perhaps someone had tried to leave without paying, or perhaps they'd had an argument with the security man at the door, or perhaps it was nothing. There were a couple of mildly over-excited young women, rushing in and out and squealing to each other in the way young women sometimes do. I stood waiting my turn at the checkout, glancing occasionally towards the doors, along with the cashier and the other customers, wondering what was afoot.

The cashier commented that there didn't seem to have been any theft, and it was all OK. But a new customer had just entered the shop who made the off-hand remark that, "the bigger problem is they were trying to get the girls in the van." And while he rightly saw this as a "bigger problem" he clearly didn't see it as a big enough problem to get involved. The cashier and I saw things differently. She immediately called one of the young women over to find out what had happened and whether they were OK.

The girls were fine. They stayed in the shop, with bright lights and middle-aged women.

The men in the van had been calling them closer, trying to get them to come right to the doors of the van. They'd suggested the girls should, "come with us for a sesh".

The suddenly-maternal cashier and I both encouraged them to report the events to the police, to make sure they'd got the numberplate of the van, to take it seriously in case someone less sensible was approached in the same way. Once I was sure the cashier and the girls were sorting things out, I set off for home. But the van was still there. So I walked round to the front of it, mentally noted the numberplate and went back into the shop to give the cashier the numberplate so she could help the girls with the reporting.

Then I left again.

"Mind your own fucking business, you slut!"

Slut.

Really?

That's the best you can do?

Slut.

I set off for home and the van zoomed past me, obviously giving up on their quest to acquire female company at Tesco.

"Slut!"

I'm a middle aged woman wearing trousers with an elasticated waist and a beige jumper. But I'm a woman, so I'm fair game. And the obvious insult is slut.

I went home. I reported the whole thing to the police. I did my civic duty. But I felt tired, and depressed, and shaken, and disappointed with humanity.

All I wanted was a loaf of bread.

Depression v rage

A week is a long time in politics.

At the moment, a day is a long time in politics, and it is feeling increasingly difficult to keep up with what is happening today, let along imagine what might be happening tomorrow (on either side of the Atlantic).

Anyone who has been reading this blog for any length of time knows that I voted "Remain" in the EU Referendum, and that I would do so again. I looked back today at things I've written before, and it depressed me enormously to discover that on the day of the vote, I saw all too clearly the path ahead. And as we continue to gallop headlong towards a cliff-edge, with no apparent hope of reconciliation in a deeply divided country, I spend my evenings and nights once more wondering if the solution is simply to leave the UK.

I keep thinking of things I could write, emotional outpourings at the insanity that appears to be unfolding one day at a time. And I keep thinking I can't quite be bothered. The emotional effort is too high, the reward too small. It feels like I'd simply be picking a scab - making myself hurt more for no gain. Because, who of you reading this really wants to read yet another polemic? Hasn't enough been written by passionate Leavers and Remainers? Isn't the divide already so entrenched that nobody hears anybody else any more? Won't I just be contributing more to the echo-chamber that is my Remain-supporting circle of friends?

But there are some things that go beyond party politics, and beyond Leave vs Remain, and cut to the heart of who we are and who we want to be. There are things that I've been seeing and reading that are, to quote Mitt Romney, deeply troubling. It is, if anything, a continuation of the idea that I pushed back against previously, that having been on the "losing" side, I should simply put-up and shut-up. Brexit has won, long live Brexit.

Yesterday, I watched the Prime Minister's "special adviser", Dominic Cummings, as he was challenged by Karl Turner, a Labour MP, on the use of the Prime Minister's language in Parliament. Cummings' response to the fact that Turner is receiving death threats, was that he should "get Brexit done".

Stop and think about that for a moment.

If you don't want to get death threats, you should do what I want.

Isn't that in itself tantamount to a threat?

We're all* on board with the idea that women aren't "asking for it" if they wear a short skirt and get raped. Can we not get on board with the idea that nobody is asking for a death threat simply because they think a no-deal Brexit is a stupid idea?

How low have we sunk when this attitude appears to pass without comment? How is it OK for this "special advisor" to be able to say, unchallenged, that death threats are bad, but that MPs have brought the threats upon themselves? No. No they haven't. They really, really haven't.

Someone needs to pull Cummings (and Johnson, and Rees-Mogg and the rest of the toxic cabal who refuse to moderate their language) up on the idea that MPs deserve threats for thwarting the will of the people. Nobody deserves a death threat. Nobody is betraying anybody by seeking a democratic route through this shit-storm. Nobody is surrendering to anybody. There has been no coup.

Our elected representatives have a duty to act in the best interests of their constituents and their country. I am not convinced that all of them always do so, particularly given the nature of our party political system and the use of the party whips. However, the idea that they could be cowed into not doing so by threats of violence directed at themselves or their families is utterly abhorrent in what should be a civilised society and should be a mature democracy.

Meanwhile, in breaking news, an anonymous briefing from "a senior cabinet minister" to The Times newspaper has warned that the country would risk a “violent, popular uprising” if a second referendum overturned the result of the first. This minister allegedly also (helpfully) pointed out that it would only take “a couple of nasty populist frontmen to inspire people”. In case we weren't sure how to organise a violent, popular uprising.

Nice country. Be a shame if anything happened to it.

A cabinet minister apparently issuing anonymous, not-very-veiled threats. And the Tory party alone has a plentiful supply of nasty populist frontmen to fulfill this prophesy, never mind looking to the further right-hand fringes of British politics. What happened to the idea that ministers of the crown had any kind of responsibility towards peace, stability and security? This appears to be an active attempt to, at the very least, legitimise civil unrest, if not actually encourage destabilising the country.

Some days I am filled with rage, wanting to do something, to fight back against the lies, and the hate and the stupidity that are welling up around me.

And some days I am overwhelmed by the futility of one person even imagining they can make any difference when faced with the might and wealth of the press, politicians and power-brokers who are each single-minded in their pursuit of their own agenda, no matter the damage they do on the way.

Depression v rage.

Today the depression is winning.

* When I say "all" I obviously am living in a fanciful Utopia that excludes the depressingly large swathe of people who still seem to think that women are to blame for being raped by virtue of the way they look, or how much they drink or indeed whether they've ever had sex before. When I say "all" I mean "all right thinking, decent human beings". I think I've successfully demonstrated that the world has a depressing shortage of those.

Old friends

For once, I shall be taking a break from writing about football, despite the fact that my weekend featured large quantities of it. Nor shall I be writing about work, despite my week featuring a certain amount of vexation and exasperation. Nor shall I be writing about politics, despite the quite extraordinary quantity of politics about which I could write. (Never mind the quality, the sheer volume is staggering).

No. Because this weekend featured a rather more unusual event. I actually socialised with some of my old university friends. To be fair, I do stay in reasonable contact with Tigger and Piglet and their families, but I have let a great many other people drift away, through lack of time, inconveniences of geography, laziness and then finally an unwillingness to get back in touch because it's been "too long" and I feel bad.

Piglet is more organised than me though. And she invited one of our old friends, plus spouse and children to stay. I haven't seen OldFriend since our average-fortieth birthday party five years ago, and I had a few qualms about how much we may have drifted apart. I needn't have worried. We went round to Piglet's house for an early dinner, and the menfolk took all five children off to play in the clunch pit while me, Piglet and OldFriend nattered as though we last saw each other a week ago. Come dinner and we managed to cunningly seat all the children round one table in the garden while the adults congregated a safe distance away. I had a couple of glasses of Prosecco with dinner, which turned out to be a less than stellar idea after having spent most of the day in the sun undertaking various forms of football-related activity.

Today both tribes came for lunch here. The consumption of Prosecco had led to evening somnolence yesterday, which in turn had led to an utter failure to make the puddings I had intended to make, which in turn meant that despite starting cooking at 9:30, I hadn't exactly finished preparing lunch when they arrived. This wasn't, to be fair, entirely helped by the fact that BigBear was with LittleBear at a party, thus removing both the helping hands and the minor impediment from the house. Nor, to be completely honest, was it helped by the fact that when parboiling the potatoes to roast I overcooked one pan full, many of which duly turned to mush, so I had to peel, chop and cook some more. However, being the kind of friends that they are, I handed Piglet a mixing bowl and after some debate between Piglet and OldFriend about suitable weights and volumes, she whipped up a crumble topping for the apple, while MrOldFriend helped get the extra chairs required to seat eleven for lunch out of the loft.

And mostly our children disappeared off and played, while we sat and carried on catching up. SmallerChild happily settled in to play with one of LittleBear's favourite games, and then begged OldFriend to buy it for his birthday (in three days time). Fortunately, it turns out she already has. Just as it also turns out that we own and play many of the same board games. Just as it turns out our bookcases are heavy with many of the same books. Though, just to be certain, OldFriend took reference photographs of the bookcases to make note of some new authors for future purchases. Because all of the reasons we were friends twenty years ago are still there, and we still enjoy the same things, laugh at the same things, read the same things.

So perhaps I really shouldn't leave it another five years before seeing OldFriend again. And perhaps, if life gets in the way, and we do leave it too long before catching up, I should remember that time doesn't actually erode lasting friendships.

Pathetic delusions

A new school year has started. LittleBear appears to have enjoyed his fist week in a new school*. I was even mostly organised, and mostly had his school uniform ready and named for the first day of term.

As the summer holiday wound to an end, I had a vague sense of control and tranquility. A new school year, a fresh start, a clean slate. When 4th September dawned we would all spring out of bed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to face Year 3 with a spring in our steps. For some inexplicable reason, this sense of positivity about the school year translated in my head to an overall positivity about the rest of my life. Everything would be clean! Everything would be tidy! Everything would be organised!

No, I don't know how much gin I must have drunk to have slipped so far into delusion either.

My to-do list still stretched to three pages.

The pile of clothes that had been waiting to be ironed for two months was still waiting.

I could write my name in the dust on every surface.

There was still a foot-deep hole in the lawn into which the new rotary dryer was not fitted.

The pile of paperwork that needed filing was 6 inches deep and growing deeper by the day. (Do you think I could bribe the postman to stop delivering post until I've dealt with the last six months worth? Not a good idea? No, probably not.)

There were still nose-prints on the windows - IdiotCat's and LittleBear's.

Essentially, the lovely, fresh, clean, new start to the school year, unsurprisingly, extended only as far as LittleBear and his school supplies. I appear to be the only one to have been caught by surprise by this.

And, to add insult to injury, though the new school year seems to be going well, and LittleBear seems entirely happy, the additional mental overload of New Stuff has triggered a return of his nightmares, so the household is desperately sleep-deprived once more. My first conversation with his new teacher was to apologise for sending my small boy to school with dark shadows beneath his eyes. And nothing promotes Getting Things Done quite like being so tired I can barely think.

Is it time for the holidays yet?


* Technically LittleBear has now moved from Village Infant School to Village Junior School. Since his previous classroom was actually located at the Village Junior School, and he had meals, and some lessons, in Village Junior School, it's not a huge change. And since his entire cohort have also all moved from Village Infant School to Village Junior School, the biggest change is he now wears a blue school uniform instead of red.

A holiday in four injuries

I realise, somewhat belatedly, it's been over a month since I wrote anything. I can put at least two weeks of that down to being on holiday in a place with no internet connection or mobile signal, and I think I'll ascribe the rest to the insanity of the end of term - a headlong acceleration through seemingly endless school activities from school plays to sports days and everything in between; plus the plate-spinning miracle that are school holidays - attempting to cling by my fingernails to a job whilst also making sure I'm not actually dumping LittleBear in the woods alone to fend for himself every day. Only four more days to go, and I've not had to resort to abandoning him yet.

And what of the holiday?

Not being the sort to post huge albums of idyllic photographs of my latest five star holiday, I shall simply mention that we went to the Lake District, and remind everyone that there are a great many lakes and rivers there for a reason. The water has to come from somewhere. I could tell you about the fun we had, the games we played and the mountains we climbed, but really, outside my immediate family, I doubt that many of you would be much enthused by an account of a traditional 1950s English holiday. Instead, I shall allow you to laugh at my expense as I recount the more painful episodes.

Let me start with an innocuous car-park in an unprepossessing service station on the M6...

LittleBear and I were walking across said car-park, on perfectly flat tarmac, not hopping, skipping, jumping or otherwise behaving with frivolity or foolishness. And I fell flat on my face, arms sprawling, knees crashing. I have no idea why. I am fairly sure that passers by did not think I was in a fit state to be in charge of a small child, let alone a car. I scrambled hastily to my feet and limped inside, knee bruised and grazed and arm wrenched. The next week involved extreme pain every time I tried to insert my left arm into a sleeve or through the strap of my rucksack.

Moving swiftly on to our first proper attempt on a fell - the Langdale Pikes. For various reasons, LittleBear and I diverged from the remainder of our party, assaulting the peaks while they meandered on lower slopes. This then led to us attempting to descend as fast as possible to regain the main party. LittleBear appears to have legs containing steel springs, and not the custard and leftover bits of polystyrene and putty that seem to constitute my legs. Dropping 1750 feet over 1.2 miles was a challenge. Doing so in barely more than 45 minutes of walking left me shaking, while LittleBear hopped, skipped and generally sprang about the place in a soul-destroying fashion. The shaking at the end of the descent, however, was as nothing compared to my state the following morning, or indeed over the next three days. There were times the only way I could get downstairs was backwards, the pain in my thigh muscles was so excruciating. I used a pair of trekking poles for even the shortest stroll for the next few days.

I had, more or less, recovered from this assault on my pride and legs by the time Friday rolled around. Aware that dear old GrannyBear would be arriving on Saturday, I determined that I would clean the front steps that lead into our cottage. They are smooth slabs of slate, and spend almost their entire time in shade, so develop a nasty slick of vague green across their surface. So, out I went to scrub them clean, and leave them safe for elderly bears to walk on. Never mind that it was lashing with rain at the time. Nor that it was rather cold. Nor, indeed, that I have distinctly sub-standard circulation in my hands. In fact, my hands became so cold while scrubbing I failed to notice that I was repeatedly crashing my knuckles into the rough surfaces of the risers of the steps. It was only when I dripped my way back inside that I discovered that not all the drips were rain. Nearly two weeks later, the final two knuckles still have scabs and holes in them.

And, finally, to my piece de resistance. An injury so impressively incompetent that I have come close to approaching total strangers to tell them about it. While having a family cottage in a beautiful part of the country is an enormous privilege and blessing, it does require that each of us undertakes various aspects of maintenance and DIY on most visits. And thus it was that I sat, tools neatly arrayed around me, carefully marking up where to drill new holes in the front door. I turned to put my pencil down, caught my elbow on the mains lead of the drill and tipped it off the arm of the chair. From whence it fell... landing point first just below my ankle bone. Wood-drill bits are quite sharp. Wood-drill bits pursued downwards by the full weight of a 1kW mains-powered drill are sharp and heavy. At least it wasn't on.

A moment of positivity

Despite my current battle to keep my head above water, there are some moments of light and joy that I am going to focus on.

LittleBear has his future as a professional footballer all planned out. That's as a part-time professional footballer, obviously. The rest of the time he'll be busy being a physicist. However, his footballing plan involves being scouted for LocalTown, then moving on to BiggerClub, before finally stepping up into the Premiership. Simple isn't it? You can imagine, perhaps, my anxiety when one of LittleBear's team-mates got scouted not simply for LocalTown, but actually for BiggerClub. It took me a few days to decide how and when to break this news to him. I feared a crumbling meltdown as he wept at not being scouted. Instead the conversation went something like this...

Me: I've got some awesome news. Guess what? TeamMate has been scouted by BiggerClub, and he's going to start training with them.

LittleBear: That's really good for TeamMate!

Me: I wonder if he'll learn lots of good stuff that will help him in our team?

LittleBear: He probably will. I think he'll be even more solid in defence. And then we'll score more goals.

Me: Why will you score more if TeamMate is better in defence?

LittleBear: Because if I'm confident that we've got a strong defence, I'll score more goals, as I play better when I'm confident.

How can I not swell with love and pride at that attitude to his friend's success?

Meanwhile, LittleBear has also received his school report today. Obviously it's nauseating in its praise for my little angel, especially the bits about needing to be reminded to listen when with certain children. However, I am going to spend the weekend reading, and re-reading these lines, and reminding myself that I have the best and loveliest little boy in the whole world, and that no matter what stresses and strains the world throws at me, I adore him beyond all imagining.

"LittleBear is an incredibly motivated learner who has a thirst for knowledge..."

"It is always a pleasure to have a conversation with LittleBear..."

"It is always lovely to hear about LittleBear's regular trips to different bookshops!"

"We have loved teaching LittleBear and are proud of all he has achieved..."

Still here. Just

I am still here, though barely clinging on to sanity by my fingernails.

What have I been doing? Aside from collapsing on the sofa and weeping you mean?

Mostly, I've been reaping what I sowed. All those good intentions, and that sense of responsibility, and that desire to be wanted and needed and liked that leads me to volunteer for things has come back to bite me.

It seemed like The Right Thing To Do to volunteer to talk to the year two children about science.

And the PTA were so very convincing in their begging for help to run stalls at the school fete.

And it seemed such a good idea to have started helping out with LittleBear's football team.

The science education malarkey was only a morning spent in school, doing the same forty-minute "lesson" four times to four different classes. I feel passionately that children need to see that science is real, and normal, and doable, and that scientists are just people. And, even more importantly, that science is not the preserve of boys and men. That a scientist can just be "LittleBear's Mum", who they see every day, and who plays with them and talks to them.

But I'm not a teacher, and it took me a long time to plan what I was going to say and do to introduce atoms and elements to them. I spent many, many evenings preparing material, making molecular models, writing a powerpoint presentation, drawing on stickers, running trial samples on a mass spectrometer. The day itself was marginally nerve-wracking, as I've spent my life stoically avoiding public speaking of every variety, and children aren't necessarily known for being the easiest audience. In fact, it was all fine, and the science co-ordinator has asked me if I'll come back for another session next year. Which I think is a vote of confidence more than a sign of desperation. That's what I'm telling myself anyway. And I am extremely glad I did it, and delighted with the enthusiasm I got back from the children.

The PTA summer fair was also not overly long, or overly onerous, but I simply happened to be the parent who blinked first in the Mexican stand-off of who would take charge of organising the rota for our class stall, and setting it up on the day, and providing stickers and sweets as prizes, and providing a gazebo and chairs so we could survive the day. And it simply happened to be on the hottest day of the year. And I'd simply promised LittleBear that I would also provide both a homemade battenberg and a Victoria sponge with fresh cream for the cake stall. Simple really.

The football team is not, generally, too overwhelming a commitment. It requires time, and effort, and energy, not least because it involves an hour a week running around with a horde of seven year olds. It requires a certain amount of planning about the nature of the running around, and a certain amount of admin in keeping track of which small people have turned up, and which parents have handed over their weekly £2 for training.

That's generally.

But lately we've been dealing with registering the team and the individual players with the FA for next season, and we've been preparing for (and running) a ridiculously large tournament. Which is how I ended up giving up several evenings to painting white lines all over the local school field to mark out eighteen football pitches so that more than six hundred five-aside matches could take place in one day. Like I said, it was ridiculously large. It does raise enough funds to keep the entire club of twenty three teams running for the rest of the year, but it was also a lot of work.

On top of which, there are Tensions, and occasionally even Ructions, amongst the people running the various football teams. I dislike both Tensions and Ructions, and thus find myself having arguments in my head as I lie awake at night. I wonder if I've said too much, or not enough. I wonder whether I even want to be involved any more. I'm tired of showing up and having the physical equivalent of mansplaining occur - the men simply take over and assume I'm not even present, let along competent or qualified. I'm tired of attending meetings with men who appear to think women don't have a place in football. I'm tired of trying to organise and help and plan in the face of constant obstruction, and secret planning meetings that occur behind my back. But my boy loves his football, and Coach and I are working well together, and I love the little boys I'm coaching (most of the time!) and I can see a point on the horizon where the current clouds will start to clear. I just have to survive a little longer. Just a little longer. Just survive.

Except... there isn't ever really a break. Not really. Life doesn't stop. There's always work, and home, and cooking, and laundry, and housework, and gardening, and Random Things That Stop Working And Need Mending. And then there are all the other things. The phone calls about the things I "need" to do, the duties I "should" undertake, the requests to "just" arrange something. There's always a reason to lie awake, my mind churning with shoulds and what-ifs. There's always a LittleBear who can't sleep in the middle of the night and needs a cuddle. There's always something.

So if you see me on a cloudy day wearing sunglasses, it's because I'm hiding my puffy-eyes and tear-stained cheeks from the world.

If you see me walk past you on the street and I only raise a weak smile, and don't stop to chat, it's because my tank is empty and I have no words left for chatting.

If you wonder why LittleBear's teacher is hustling me quickly into the classroom after school, it's because she's trying to shield me from sobbing in front of the entire cohort of year two parents.

If I cancel our plans, if I don't socialise, if I don't join in, it's because I cannot face any more physical, emotional or social effort. I've given, and given, and given and I'm done.

Adventures in cake making

For many years I have considered making a Battenberg Cake. I am alarmingly fond of Mr Kipling's diabetes-inducing versions of the same, but wanted to have a go at making a "real" one instead. I made use of one of my favourite cookery writers, Felicity Cloake, who tries and tests multiple versions of traditional dishes to find the "perfect" one. Which led to me to the perfect Battenberg recipe.

So I set about making an appalling mess of my kitchen, including making the marzipan from scratch, which was considerably easier than I'd been expecting.

Raw mixture

I felt it was a bold move to simply fill a single cake tin with two colours (and flavours) of cake mixture, though I was pleased at the lovely colour that freeze-dried raspberries provided to the raw mixture.

Still segregated

The "two" cakes did, to my slight surprise, behave themselves and remain in their own sides of the tin.

Cake surgery

Though lacking the virulent pinkness of a commerical Battenberg, the colours were still pleasingly contrasting after slicing up.

Then came the irritating bit. I'd remembered that I owned raspberry jam, required as glue in this particular recipe. I had not remembered that I only owned seeded raspberry jam. There then ensued a tedious process of small ramekins being fed through the microwave and jam hot enough to melt bitumen being pushed through a tea strainer. Look, I know, in retrospect that heating the jam in a saucepan and using a full-sized sieve would have been more sensible, but all the small pans were dirty, as was the sieve, and I couldn't be arsed to wash them. Frankly it would have been easier to go to the shop and buy some seedless jam, but by the time that became a more obvious solution, there was already jam on the walls, and I was committed to my course.

Jam everywhere

However, stupid decisions aside, the end result was pretty awesome.

Triomphe!

My friends, my husband and I all thought it was delicious.

LittleBear, however, informed me that he didn't really like raspberry, and what with the cake and its glue being raspberry, it wasn't a big hit. In fact, he went so far as to inform me that he prefers the bought one.

At this point I should take you back in time approximately thirty years, to an occasion when my beloved great-aunt also made a Battenberg. My little cousin was sufficiently impressed by this confection that he kindly told her that it was, "just as good as shop bought." This particular occasion has gone down in family folklore. I feel quite proud of myself for not even reaching the heights my great-aunt achieved.

Because I love my LittleBear however, and because it's the school fete tomorrow, I have made another Battenberg. This time it is pink only because of obnoxious quantities of food colouring, and it is held together with apricot jam. LittleBear taste-tested it for me.

The non-raspberry version

"It's not just pretty good. It's fantastic. I even prefer it to Mr Kipling."

Dubious long term strategy

Long-term readers may remember my sage words of advice about getting through parenthood - Rule Number 2: do what works for you until it stops working. I may, however, have to slightly modify this advice. Let me explain.

LittleBear has, once again, for what feels like the squillionth time, hit a patch of Not Very Good Sleep. He wakes in the night, either with a nightmare or Just Because. He then struggles to get back to sleep and becomes increasingly overwrought and distressed about never, ever, ever being able to get back to sleep. Obviously, eventually, he does go back to sleep but this has been known to take an hour or more, occasionally also resulting in a small boy curling up in bed with me while his father is banished to a different room.

After a week of broken nights, I am not a terribly good-tempered person. (See also, inappropriate swearing and throwing)

Yesterday evening, BigBear was feeling unwell and didn't want anything to eat for fear of seeing it again, so I didn't bother to cook anything. Instead I poured myself a martini and ate snacks.

Dinner

and a drink

I ended up eating the entire packet of cracker crisps and nothing else for dinner. I then went to bed, read my book for a bit and fell asleep. It was only this morning, when LittleBear scrambled into our bed for a morning cuddle that I discovered that he'd been up three times in the night and been tended to by his Daddy. I had not heard a thing. I had had a full, and uninterrupted night's sleep. I am therefore going to have to drink martini and eat appallingly unhealthy snacks for dinner every night to ensure I sleep enough.

I can't see a problem with this strategy. Can you?

Intimidating? Me?

Picture the scene...

A crowded meeting room, twenty-five or thirty people sitting around a conference table discussing the planning and implementation of a large football tournament. Only three of those people are women, me included.

My fellow manager pipes up with a garbled piece of information about the parent of one of our boys volunteering his firm to be a possible sponsor for the tournament, that he'd forgotten to follow up on. So I nudge him, tell him not to worry about it and make a note that I need to contact said parent.

At this point the Chairman jokes, "I can't believe you've managed to get yourself a secretary."

A secretary.

A secretary.

I am not sure if I am proud or ashamed of the fact that I picked up an empty coke can, and threw it, hard, at the Chairman with an emphatic, "I'm not a fucking secretary!"

There was a combination of shocked silence and laughter around the room.

I don't think anyone who was at that meeting is going to mess with me now.

A summary

I've not been blogging, mostly because I'm tired. And I'm tired because I'm busy. And I'm busy because I keep biting off more than I can chew. And then when I think about writing anything for this blog I feel a bit overwhelmed as I'm not feeling whimsical, or amusing, or informative. And I certainly don't have the energy for any ranting, no matter what I may be feeling about the current state of politics (on either side of the Atlantic).

So, herewith a summary of what's what:

• I had a lovely holiday with Tigger, Piglet and most of their progeny. It rained, but we were happy anyway. I think we came home ten days ago, but it feels like months already.
• I am now lagging several projects behind the mechanical engineer in designing the electronic control systems for instruments at work. He has completed The Indian Job, The Pelican Brief, Portugal-can-fuck-right-off-again and Ocelot Double Plus. I am still stuck on The Indian Job. (Yes, this is how we refer to projects at work. Technically I think they may be project numbers 1729, 2087, 2068 and who-knows-what. See? Names are so much easier. No, I do not intend to explain all those names.)
• We had to "let go" an employee, and now we're trying to recruit again. This is (a) more work as we have to recruit, and (b) more work because we have to do the work of the person we don't have.
• Being involved in LittleBear's football club turns out to involve a tedious number of meetings. These meetings are always on the same evening as my pilates class. I haven't been to pilates in a while.
• Taking LittleBear and his LittleFootballTeam to tournaments is even more tiring than regular matches. They play the same total amount of football, but it's spread across four or five short matches, and three hours. Preventing insanity, injury and sunburn in eight children over that period takes its toll.
• I appear to have tendonitis in my shoulder. I am going to switch to using my mouse left-handed to try and rest my right arm completely. Being in constant pain is tedious.
• I can't be bothered to cook any more. 
• Bread is featuring a lot in my meals. 
• My trousers don't fit.
• I have volunteered to help run a stall at the school fete.
• I have volunteered to spend a day at LittleBear's school during Science Week teaching them about science.
• I have volunteered to help out at LittleBear's football club's tournament.
• I must stop volunteering for things.

Several more milestones

Having had crashing lows and inching highs over the past few weeks, I feel as though I am working my way towards a point where I know my place. And I don't mean that in a Harry Enfield-esque manner. I mean that LittleBear's football coach and I are gradually finding our feet as a working partnership, and I'm feeling more confident about what exactly my strengths are. I'm also becoming considerably more convinced of where my strengths aren't. Though I am prepared to change my mind on the latter given a bit more practice.

I had what can only be considered a baptism of fire on Tuesday, when training rolled around. Fortunately I went out of my way to be sure I arrived early. This was mostly with the intention of having a chance to discuss with Coach exactly what we'd be working on this week, and which part I would be best placed to take on. The best laid plans o' mice and men however... The traffic was abominable and Coach was stuck in it. So there I was, with no plan in place, and twenty-two small boys demanding to know what they should be doing.

With my newly-minted FA training, I did have half a clue of what I should be doing, and attempted to arrange them into mini "arrival activities" as they turned up. Which would have been a great plan if it weren't for the fact that by the time I'd organised three small boys, I turned round to find that another six had arrived. As I sorted those six out, the first three turned out to have no idea what they were doing, and another five were clamouring for attention.

And it didn't get much better. There were tears. There were fights. Occasionally moments of football broke out. Eventually Coach arrived, and a sense of relief washed over me. Except he didn't rush in and take over, despite my expectations and hopes. In retrospect, I am very glad he didn't. He even said, "No, you're doing great, I'm not going to take over. You do your thing." And that alone has done an enormous amount to help me have a bit more self-confidence and a bit more belief that it's all going to be just fine. No, I didn't do a stellar job, and yes, having all the parents watching what felt like a riot rather than training was deeply daunting. But after half an hour, we split the boys into two groups and ran two activities - me running one and Coach the other, with a swap after another fifteen minutes. I can confidently say that 11 boys is approximately five times easier than 22 boys.

But I did it. I didn't have a plan, I didn't have a well-thought out session. I didn't, in fact, manage very many of the things I was taught on my course. But the boys went home happy and (mostly) uninjured, which was top of the list of priorities from the FA, so I'm giving myself a tick for now.

Wednesday presented another challenge, in the form of a match for our new team. Normally Coach would take charge of such an event, except that we needed him as our referee, so instead I took charge.

The stress of trying to decide who should play in which position, if and when to substitute players, and what manner of instructions to shout was almost as great as herding 22 boys around in training. It became hard to tell if the boys were failing to respond to my instructions because they couldn't hear me, or didn't really care what I was saying. I suspect a spot of both. I also discovered the same problem that Coach has always had - you don't have a chance to do more than yell a couple of words as an instruction, so limit yourself to such imprecations as "get up the field!" or "back post!". And it is at that point that I found that that none of them were entirely sure which way was "up" the field, and the concept of "front" and "back" posts was utterly lost on them. The far side of the pitch is also a very long way away, and I do not appear to have a voice which projects well, so I screamed myself hoarse trying, and failing, to communicate with them.

It can't have gone too badly, as not only did they leave the pitch happy, but I even had some parents come and thank me. I don't think they were just being kind to the crazy-eyed lady who'd been screaming at their children, but you never know.

And finally, we came to the weekend, when Coach and I took our boys to their first under-seven tournament. This was yet another whirlwind experience, with the boys playing in a group of five teams, with every team playing every other team once, in a series of twelve minute matches. This took from half past nine until midday, and also involved having to leave the house at 8am to reach The Middle of the Fens.

Keeping the boys under approximate control, without strangling each other, breaking too many things, or getting lost was as much of a challenge as coaching them on the pitch. But between us, and with a lot of support from the parents, we kept them in place, and to my immense joy they played brilliantly. We had a few silly mistakes in the first match as they got used to the slightly different rules being implemented at the tournament, but they didn't let it get to them and even LittleBear played with enormous enthusiasm whether they were winning, losing or drawing. Not once did he collapse in tears, and not once did he give up sprinting after every ball. Nor was he alone. They all played their socks off, were absolutely buzzing by the end, and fully deserving of their participation medals.

So I feel that this week has blooded me as a football coach. But more importantly I feel that there has been a step change in how things are working between Coach and I, and I am much more confident about the coming season. Let's just see how training goes tonight...

Over the finishing line

Tonight has seen my completion of my FA level one training course, and I am now a fully qualified level-one football coach. Given that I've still never played a game of football in my life, there is a large part of me that feels that this is an utterly fraudulent claim, but I am determined to make up in enthusiasm what I lack in footballing talent.

Having been through the doldrums of questioning my ability and suitability for the role, I was overwhelmed by the number of friends who reached out to me, not just with words of comfort, but with practical and sensible advice. I am enormously grateful to have the kind of friends who know both when to be the shoulder to cry on and when to provide solid foundations for me. That advice, and support, has let me step back and think again about how best to be me in my new role, not how best to become the role, and it has lifted a weight from my shoulders. Knowing me as well as I do, that weight will return at times, as will the self-doubt, and the uncertainty and the stress, but I will be a little bit better prepared to handle it now than I was a week ago.

Among the things that I took away from the advice you lovely people gave me was the fact that Coach is just as new to having an assistant as I am to being an assistant, and that we will need to spend a while working together to find out how to make the best use of our abilities. That thought alone has made me stop and think about how I'm viewing our interactions and how much blame I'm shouldering for every occasion where things don't go smoothly.

The second significant point that I am absorbing is that I need to be me more than I need to be anything else. Raw football skills are not my key strength. Physical fitness is not my best area (LittleBear and I ran in a 3km together on Monday. He finished 1min40s ahead of me...) But, in the FA's "Four Corner" model of developing a player, technical skills and physical fitness are only two of the corners. Equally important are the psychological and social development of that player. So at LittleBear's match on Saturday, I made sure I got chatting to my boys when they were on the bench. I found out little bits here and there about their lives. I discovered which school the new boy goes to, and which subject Coach's son enjoys most at school. I discovered that one of my boys doesn't like maths; but he doesn't like it because it's boring and too easy. In increments I am getting to know the little people that they are, not the footballers.

During the match, I found individual things to praise in each boy, and when training came around this week, I tried to reinforce the praise when I saw them doing the same thing well again. I gave two of my boys individual challenges to try to achieve during the match, and was delighted when one of them really worked hard to manage his.

I may not be able to do a bicycle kick or a Cruyff turn, but I can make a reasonable fist of being a caring, interested human being, and I think there's probably a place for that in under-7s football.

Meanwhile I will leave you with some facts and figures.

There are over 70,000 qualified football coaches in England. The ratio of men to women is 91:9 (in September 2018). There are about six and a half thousand female football coaches in England.

There are approximately 2,200 Fellows of the Institute of Physics. The ratio of men to women is 10:1. There are about 200 female Fellows of the Institute of Physics.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the uptake of football coaching among female Fellows of the IOP may be relatively low. In fact, in the Venn diagram of life, I suspect I may be on my own in the middle...

All by myself?

Another step forwards, and four backwards

On Sunday I completed the third full day of my training for becoming a qualified football coach. I now only have a handful of online modules and a "sign-off" session to complete. It was another day jammed full of physical exertion and new information, and in its own right was rewarding, taxing, challenging, interesting and fun. But I spent a good portion of it feeling somewhat unmotivated and demoralised. Not because I kept on landing on my arse when attempting to play against Real Football Players, though I did that a remarkable number of times. And not because our coach was able to find a very long list of areas we could improve in the session we ran, though she certainly managed that.

Among the many areas we were dealing with was the idea of creating individual plans and goals for each member of our team - not simply running training sessions that address a general principle, but working out how to draw some particular learning objective out for each player, whether that objective is a technical skill, a psychological strength, a social skill or a physical one. Not simply aiming to practice "defending" but making sure there is a challenge to stretch the players who are already excelling as well as those for whom defence is not their metier. Oh, and to always remember that we need to be age appropriate, and that it should be fun.

What can I possibly find in that to demoralise me? Other, obviously, from the fact that if I were to actually start trying to do all the things suggested I would pretty quickly end up with a full-time job on my hands. Or, indeed, I would start needing to run training sessions five days a week to try and cover every suggested aspect of football, instead of the one hour a week that we have. And if I did that, it wouldn't be long before there were no players left in the team as they'd be exhausted and fed up, as it would no longer be fun.

Being me, naturally anything vaguely challenging slathered on top of a bedrock of sleep-deprivation is simply Too Much, and my immediate reaction to everything that was thrown at me was to feel inadequate. It all feels too hard, requiring a level of understanding, empathy, clarity of thought, observation skills and coaching skills that I don't have, or don't know how to acquire.

On top of the overwhelming nature of the content, I also have to contend with my own psyche and its inability to function in the real world. Frankly, that's a considerably bigger problem. Let me explain...

For a start, my LittleBear's football team already has a coach, and I am only becoming qualified so I can help him. Coach is, rather alarmingly, young enough to be my son. He is full of youthful enthusiasm and yet possesses minimal tact. He is impulsive and excitable. He gets into a huff easily, and calms down easily. I, on the other hand, require almost constant reassurance that I'm not a complete failure. I don't take criticism well, and I'm more or less incapable of speaking up and saying, "I'm not happy with this situation." We are not obviously well-suited to working together, though get on well as general-purpose human-beings.

However, this mis-match in personality brings us to training and matches, where Coach runs things, and I meekly do as I'm told. And then, because he's young and bumptious, he'll bounce over and tell the boys I'm working with that they're doing things wrong. And in my mind, by implication, I'm doing things wrong. Add to this the fact that every training session and match has a built-in supply of spectators in the parents, some of whom have been Real Football Players, or Real Coaches, in a former life. Nothing engenders confidence in someone who is cripplingly anxious like having a helpful parent wander over and gently say, "Any time you want a hand, I'm happy to help out." Not exactly a vote of confidence is it?

I have, in the past ten days, driven home from both matches and training in tears. I have struggled to write this post, to try to put into words the warring factions within me of loving the kids and loving the football, but hating the responsibility and the self-doubt. It has involved a great deal of introspection to disentangle my own anxiety and low self-esteem from events that have occurred and decide what aspects were entirely inside my own head, and which I need to look outside myself to address. Being me, my initial reactions to any slight setback are utterly dominated by a self-pitying "woe is me" feeling. After several day's reflection I reach a more balanced viewpoint. I do need to talk to Coach about letting me at least try to do things my way, instead of instantly stepping in if he thinks he knows best. I do need to speak up with my own ideas and suggestions from my training, and not simply step back and be passive. But I don't need to take offence at things that are said without malice, or those that are said through a surfeit of enthusiasm and passion for the game.

Most of all, I have realised that if I am going to make any reasonable attempt to both do a good job of helping this little football team and not push myself to breaking point, I am going to have to put some serious work in on my own self-confidence. I can't afford to let volunteering break my spirit - for my own sake and for that of my wonderful bears, big and small. The team may need an assistant coach, but my bears need a wife and mother who is happy in her own skin and enjoying her life. At the moment I feel desperately, tearfully anxious that I will not be able to find the balance required to do both things.

Neither sleep nor food

Last year I wrote about the impossibility of having a child who both sleeps well and eats an interesting variety of food. At that point in time, we were having exciting culinary adventures, but a dearth of sleep, and it was taking its toll. I have mentioned to more people than I care to count that there is at least one good reason why LittleBear is an OnlyBear, and that reason is his mother's inability to cope on reduced sleep levels.

For the past few weeks* LittleBear has been suffering from nightmares again. He wakes in the night in a state ranging from mildly perturbed through to sweating and sobbing, and appears to be only consoled by Mummy. Daddy does his best, but LittleBear generally ends up demanding Mummy as well or instead.

Being me, naturally I am both looking for reasons, so that I can Solve The Problem, and also beating myself mercilessly over the head for my own catalogue of maternal failings that has led to this state of affairs. Because nothing promotes rationality like sleep deprivation. I have tried desperately to spot patterns in good nights versus bad nights. (Hint: there are no patterns; except in the fevered desperation of my befuddled brain).

I think it would be fair to say that some of the approaches I have taken in the middle of the night have not, perhaps, been the most productive. There was the notable occasion when LittleBear summoned me back to his room for the seventh time in the space of a little over an hour. (I forget now whether this was via the mechanism of the pathetic half-stifled sob, or the tremulous cry for "Mummy"). I became, shall we say, tetchy. I informed him in no uncertain terms that there was absolutely nothing I could do. I had cuddled him, I had kissed him, I had offered reassuring things to think about, but he had his bed and I had mine, and it was about time we were both asleep again. Phrases such as "I've had enough of this," were possibly uttered.

And it feels as though I have been making up for this attack ever since. Because, unsurprisingly, getting cross with a distressed, anxious, sensitive small boy does not engender feelings of calm, contentment and security. It feels as though he needs the reassurance that I will come to him at any time, no matter what, because I threatened not to. I don't think he's doing so consciously or deliberately, but I fear that he fears abandonment. So, night after night, I stumble from our room and clamber into bed with him, spend ten to fifteen minutes cuddling him and whispering sweet nothings, before stumbling back to my own bed again. I have persuaded him that he is allowed to come and find me if he needs me, rather than crying alone in bed. And I have persuaded him that it is always better to call me than to be sad on his own.

This has, mostly, worked for the past week or so. LittleBear feels better and goes back to sleep. I feel more confident that he will call or arrive by my bedside, so I no longer strain to hear him. And, miraculously, after a few nights of him actually going straight back to sleep, I began to relax enough to believe that he would do so, and thus I too went back to sleep. In total we were perhaps losing no more than twenty minutes sleep each. Prior to this, it didn't matter how quickly he fell asleep again, I would lie awake, straining to hear his little voice. Just in case. I was losing anything up to 2 or 3 hours sleep on the worst nights. But, as I said, we got into a system. It was working.

Except.

A couple of nights ago, the night before going back to school after the holidays, we had another session of needing a cuddle every ten minutes for a large chunk of the night. Five times? Six times? I lost track.

So last night, when I woke for no apparent reason at 3:30, I then lay awake until LittleBear did have a nightmare, which wasn't until 5:15 on this occasion. Thanks brain, you're not doing me any favours.

Here we are then, going to bed every night, assuming LittleBear will wake in some level of distress at some point between 10pm and 5am.

Does he do so more when he's been told of for something during the day?
My self-recrimination tells me he does.

Does he do so more when he's over-tired?
My doubt at my own parenting skills tells me he does.

Does he do so more when he feels neglected?
My anxiety tells me he does.

Is it just one of those things, and he'll grow out of it, and really I should just chill out, love and cherish him, and wait for it to pass?
Probably.

Am I going to?
Almost certainly not.


* I say weeks, but it feels like months. I have lost the ability to be rational and objective about this. It may even be years by the time I next talk to anyone.

Outside my comfort zone

As previously reported, I have now started training to become a football coach. I spent two solid days alternating between being run ragged by young whippersnappers who turned out to be Real Football Players and being bombarded with information by a Real Football Coach.

I drove to the sports centre where we were due to be trained feeling vaguely sick as the anxiety ramped up inside. I'd managed one slice of toast for breakfast. (Note to self: one slice of toast is not adequate to fuel a middle-aged woman through two hours of classroom education plus two hours running around an astroturf pitch). I did know one person on the course, and despite the fact that we don't know each other well, it was a relief to find a friendly face as I walked into an unknown classroom to see ranks of strangers before me.

From then on I was left with mercifully little time to dwell on any of my own fears and anxieties, because we launched straight in. And it was extraordinary.

It sounds trite to say that it was inspiring, but that's the closest word I can find.

I realised that it has been a very, very long time since I've formally learnt anything completely new. My professional life has allowed me to incrementally expand my knowledge of the rarefied field in which I work. At home I've taught myself to make and do various things, from icing cakes to calligraphy and from making cuddly toys to drawing dinosaurs. But I haven't sat in a classroom and been taught something for nearly quarter of a century.

My brain was filled with a boggling array of new terminology and new ideas; a new way of looking at football and of breaking it down into its constituent parts. I was challenged to think about why I was becoming a coach and what my core values are. I had to consider different ways of coaching ranging from issuing commands through to allowing players to learn by trial and error and everything in between. The kind of things that would be obvious to most teachers, but not to those of us not accustomed to such things. And I had to run around trying to put it all into practice and trying not to be too incompetent when facing a Real Football Player*.

It was completely and utterly exhausting. I came home barely able to speak, think or function, but with my head buzzing with ideas. I sat down and made notes to try and get everything straight in my head before I had to throw myself into the next day and risk forgetting the first day. It was genuinely one of the most rewarding things I've set out to do in a long time. I may never be a great coach. I may never even do a huge amount of coaching, but I've taken the first steps towards getting involved and I've loved it. I've loved being challenged. I've loved doing something so enormously different from anything I've done before.

So maybe football coaching should now count as part of my comfort zone. But even if it doesn't, I have had a salutary reminder that learning new things is definitely something I should be doing more of.




* It remains a point of pride that I did, occasionally, manage to get past a young lady who plays for Watford FC.