But what about the others? Part 3 - Nicholas

Nicholas and Magda arrived on the ward sometime after ten. Lights had been dimmed and all visitors had left, but there was nothing quiet or subdued about our new room mates arrival. Nicholas was crying, Magda was crying and Magda's husband, Paul, was flapping like a mother hen with a brood of unruly chicks.

Every time Magda moved, she groaned and called to God for help. Nicholas was tightly wrapped in a hospital blanket but managed to buck around in his cot like a maggot on the end of a hook. Paul would not stop giving advice. Advice that, as a first time father, was based loosely on things he had picked up in books and things his mother might have said.

Nicholas was the only boy on the ward and if there was a ever a male who proved that it was NOT good to have a man about the house, Nicholas was it. Next to my own sweet and easy going Amy and Hyacinths' adorable Hope, he was a horror. After just a day on the ward he brought to mind the children's nursery rhyme, "What are little girls made of?"

Amy and Hope were indeed sugar and spice and all things nice. They fed efficiently, made no fuss when  bathed and changed, and gazed into the eyes of anyone who held them, pulling cute little faces and waving with their tiny fists.

Nicholas, on the other hand, was frogs and snails and puppy dogs tales in the form of projectile vomiting, exploding nappies and snot. He cried if held, cried when put down. He screamed when he was changed, and howled when he was bathed. We all tried to calm him, if only to give his mother something of a break.

The first time I held him Nicholas I was shocked. The boy was huge. He had entered the world already weighing 13lbs (5.8kg). I was used to holding Amy who had been born at a reasonable 7.12oz. Nicholas felt simply enormous.

We all remarked upon it.
 "I shood 'av known," Magda told us in her thick, southern mediteranean accent, "my 'usbands' farder, 'e weigh 20lbs."
"Wow" The rest of us murmured, appalled at the thought of having to give birth to such a child. "That must have been awful for his mother."
" She dye-ed". Magda told us, swiping a hand through the air for emphasis. "She never see baby. She dead on bed. She reeeeep apart -  and blood, blood, blood." Magda mimed a river, a flood, pouring from between her legs. We all nodded our heads to show we understood. None of us were surprised. And we were all glad we hadn't heard the story a couple of days before.

On the day of the bomb scare, Nicholas wailed the whole time.  Whilst we sat parked in the lobby, he opened his gummy mouth and bawled. New borns generally attract oos and ahhs, but Nicholas was grating on people's already fragile nerves. A few of the more able bodied elderly women who were sharing our small corner suggested things to do. "Fold him in half." "Rock him harder." "Lay him on his tummy." Magda put her head into her hands and sobbed. "I have c-section. I can not leeeft him. He so beeeg."

Nicholas had colic. Magda had mastitis. Both of them sobbed when it was time to try another feed. He needed changing at least once an hour making us wonder how it was possible for a baby to expel so much fluid when he took in so little. The greenish- black meconium soon giving way to yellow streams of diarrhea and he was almost permanently leaking a dribble of sour, milky spit-up from the corner of his cavernous mouth.

A midwife reluctantly suggested a bottle and things began to improve. Not least because Nicholas' father could now help out. As soon as Paul arrived on the ward, Magda would hand the squirming bundle over, close her eyes and go to sleep.

I saw Nicholas and Paul a couple of years later. I was visiting my doctor to confirm that I was pregnant again.

Paul and I knew each other immediately and the children, though physically unrecognizable, had not changed at all. Amy sat quietly, swinging her legs as she concentrated on a book. Nicholas shouted for attention and flung bricks across the room.

"He's a bit under the weather," Paul told me when I asked if everything was O.K.  As I watched Nicholas scale a sofa and jump onto a coffee table, I wondered what he looked like in full health.

"And Amy?" Paul asked. "She's O.K"
"We're here for me", I told him. "I'm pregnant again."
Paul was very sweet. He congratulated me and wished me well. But then he sighed. "No more for us," he said, "Magda say 'theeees fac-torree close!' " He sighed again. "He broke the mold did that one." We watched Nicholas empty a box of farm animals into a box of cars. "But he's lovely sometimes." Paul laughed ruefully. "Like when he is asleep."

I think Nicholas is probably doing well. He was at least lively and enquiring (for want of a better word) and he certainly knows how to assert himself. As long as Magda and Paul have been able to channel his energy, he is probably O.K.  I picture him running marathons or whacking a ball around a squash court. He would, I'm sure, be excellent at free running and parkour. I try not to picture him vandalizing his surroundings and generally causing chaos wherever he goes. But I'll never know for certain. Nicholas is the question mark.

But what about the others? - Part 2. Hope

Hope was the eldest of the babies on the ward. By the time Amy and I arrived she was curled up in a cot and her mother, Hyacinth, was propped against her pillows, half dozing and half flicking through a copy of  "Hello.".

As we were wheeled in, Hyacinth raised a hand and smiled. I smiled back, but neither of us spoke. A nurse settled me into the room. I was shown the baby changing station, how to operate the emergency button and where to put my things. Hyacinth concentrated on her magazine and pretended she couldn't overhear every single word being said.

My husband went off to the canteen. I was starving after such an active day, and I needed chocolate. NOW.

Once we were alone, it seemed impolite not to speak, so Hyacinth and I introduced ourselves.
"Boy or girl?" She asked after we had exchanged names.
"Girl. Amy. You?"
"Girl. Hope. She's My fourth."
"Fourth baby?"
"Fourth girl."
"Any boys?"
She shook her head. "Just girls." She touched the bundle lying in cot at her side and we both returned to our thoughts.

There is an etiquette to sharing a room with a stranger. It's like sitting next to someone on a 'plane. Just because you are going to be in close proximity for an extended period of time doesn't mean you have to become best friends. Polite but distant is a good way to start. Get the measure of a person before you strike up conversation or you could be in for a very long ride. I could see that this woman shared my approach and I liked her just for that.

The door to the ward opened and a man came tiptoeing in. His coat was damp across the shoulders and his face was dark and shiny from the rain. He was carrying a plastic bag in one hand and in the other, a great bouquet of flowers.
"For my girls." He whispered, bending to kiss his wife. He let his coat fall from his shoulders and rubbed and blew on his hands. When he was satisfied that they were warm, he reached to scoop his daughter from her cot.
"I've only just put her down," Hyacinth whispered, reaching out and touching him on the arm. "Let her settle. Just a few more minutes and she'll be good and asleep. You can hold her then."
"O.K" The man sat down. He noticed me for the first time.
"Hello". He was still whispering, but he made sure I could hear. "Congratulations."
"Thank you."
"Boy or girl?"
"Girl".
He turned to the bouquet, pulled a pink carnation free and came across the room. With a little bow he placed the flower across the end of Amy's cot. "She's beautiful" He whispered. "Just like her mother."
Hyacinth laughed and shook her head.
"What?" he asked, looking innocent.
"You're in maternity ward. Stop flirting, you old dog." She looked at me and smiled. "I apologize." She said.

"Can I get her out now?" Hyacinth's husband hovered over Hope's cot. Hyacinth nodded. He gently lifted the baby into his lap and stroked her bouncy, black hair. He curled her fingers round his own.  I  wondered if, after three other girls, he wished Hope had been a boy. But judging from they way he held and rocked her, kissed her cheeks and whispered in her ear,  he truly did not care.

The next day when he visited, three girls followed him into the room. They were dressed identically in green and red plaid skirts and navy tights. Their hair was immaculately twisted into neat and even cornrows, the ends of which were adorned with tiny bows.

The girls crowded round the cot, taking turns to kiss their sister. Then they removed their shoes and climbed onto the bed. Hyacinth took them into her arms. They whispered and giggled together, telling stories or news from outside. And all the time, Hope's dad held her, gazing into her velvety eyes and kissing her fingers and toes.

Each time he visited, he sat in the chair holding Hope, his youngest daughter, as if he couldn't bear to put her down. Her sisters brought her cards they had made, and pictures they had drawn.

The older girls, Grace, Faith and Joy, were always quiet and well behaved. They read books with their mother, played cats cradle and noughts and crosses. They said "Hello" when they came in and waved goodbye to us all when it was time for them to leave.

When we were moved to the new room to make way for wounded soldiers, they were full of questions and concern. They asked questions about the war, asked when it would be over and would their daddy have to fight.

Before evening visiting time on the day of the afternoon bomb scare, Hyacinth made a request. Could we please not talk about the incident while her daughters were in the room. She didn't want them to worry or to be afraid. Nothing had happened. We were all safe. There was no need for them to ever know.

  I didn't see Hyacinth or Hope once we had gone our separate ways. But in those brief few days, I felt I'd had a glimpse of how they lived their lives. It was easy to see how much they all loved and cared about each other. They were a strong family.

When I think about Hope, I am certain she is doing fine.

But what about the others? Part one.

On February 22nd 2011, my daughter will be twenty. She has grown into a confident, generous, smart and beautiful woman. I am sure she will reach her full potential and go on to lead a happy and meaningful life. She is everything I could have ever hoped for in a daughter, and I couldn't be more proud.

Amy was born in Kings College Hospital, London. We shared the room with six complete strangers. Three other mothers and their babies. The children had been born on the same day.
We were a mismatched group; different ethnic, cultural and socio economic backgrounds and the mothers ages ranged from 16 to 45. Me and Amy. Magda and Nicolas. Shelly and Francesca. Hyacinth and Hope. In normal circumstances our paths would never have crossed, but for a few intense days, we were thrown together and shared an eventful and intimate time.

It was warm inside and we felt cloistered. We could see the winter raging through the windows and smell the cold on the coats of visitors when they came in from outside. But we had no reason to care. If the pavements were slick with ice we did not have to walk along them and if the wind was bitingly cold, we did not know. We had our babies and our new routines. We were protected from the world. Or so we thought.

During our brief time together we shared more than just the experience of giving birth or being born.  Wars and conflicts did not stop just because the centers of our lives had shifted focus, and although newspapers and television held little interest when there was a baby to coo over, we could not avoid events unfolding in the world outside.

On February 22nd 1991, George Bush Sr. issued an ultimatum. Iraqi troops were to be withdrawn from Kuwait by midnight. If Iraq did not comply, he said,  the USA and its allies would step up military action. Iraq did not comply and so the ground assault in region began the very next day. As mothers we wondered what this would mean for the world our babies would grow up in. There was talk of escalating hostilities; attacks on our won shores. This was all speculation. We did not think it would affect us quite so soon.

On February 24th, when the babies were barely two days old, we were told to gather up our things and transfer to another room. Orderlies arrived to help. Nicolas and Hope had been delivered by c-section so Magda and Hyacinth were in great pain. The move seemed so unnecessary, as well as ill advised.

"What's going on?" we asked. It seemed ridiculous to expect new mothers - two of whom had had major surgery- to pack their suitcases and move.
"They want to paint these rooms." The orderlies told us. But the story didn't fit.

 We pressed for more information and soon learned that the upper floors of the hospital were being prepared for casualties of the ground war. It was happening all over the county. Seriously injured British troops would be flown from Iraq and travel, via airbases in Germany, to hospitals throughout the UK. We packed our things in silence.  It made the situation real.

At the same time, London, was still a target for the IRA. On February 18th they had exploded two bombs. The first, in Paddington Station, had caused damage but no casualties. The second, planted in Victoria Station, injured over fifty people and one of the victims died.

The day after we had settled into our new room, we were visited again. A doctor explained, in quiet but serious tones, that there was a bomb threat. The hospital was being evacuated. We were to put clothes and coats on over our pajamas and wrap our babies up in hats and as many blankets as we could manage. This time we were going outside.

Wheel chairs and staff arrived to ferry us downstairs. The lobby was full of  police wearing body armor and leading German Shepherds. Through the doors the car-park looked like the set for a disaster movie. It was full of people dragging drips, hopping on crutches, or nursing plastered limbs. The sky was leaden and grey. Flurries of snow swirled about in the frigid air.

 The eight occupants of our little room joined other mothers and new babies. We were moved to a cordoned off area that was also full of the very old and frail. We were to wait inside for as long as we could. The bitter cold was such a threat to the new borns and elderly that we were not to be taken outside until much closer to reported 'detonation time'. Shelly began to cry. We waited.

 Either there was no bomb or it was successfully defused. An announcement was made; we could all return to our rooms.  Magda and Hyacinth thanked the Lord and prayed. Shelly, who was just a child herself, shook uncontrollably and continued to weep. I made a mental note of events. I would write about all this one day.

The ground war ended on February 28th and there were no more IRA attacks in London until, (coincidentally), February 28th the following year. This time London Bridge Station was the target and twenty nine people were hurt. I remembered the bomb scare of Feb 25th 1991, but by then Amy was a happy and healthy one year old. She was already chatting up a storm. Our lives were full. There was no time for looking back.

But every year, when her birthday approaches, I think about them all.

Nicolas, Francesca and Hope will also turn twenty on Tuesday and I wonder how they are.

 I can only speculate based on what I saw during that long weekend two decades ago. I think one of them has probably done well. One is a question mark. The other, I fear may have become a victim of the circumstances into which she was born.

I am very glad that Amy has turned out so well. I m delighted that the bomb was non-existent or at least that it did not go off.

I just wish we could do something to stop this latest war....

(To be continued).

The Whining Woman and the Elderly Couple - another blog about love.

I was at the hairdresser's yesterday, waging war against my grey. As I and waited for the colorant to work, I half read and half tuned in to conversations between other people in the room.

"Did you have a nice Valentine's day?" I heard a stylist ask.
"No I did not." Her client snapped. "I am still really pissed off". 
"Oh dear." The stylist tried to laugh. "What did he do?"
"It's what he didn't do. He totally forgot. No flowers, no chocolates. No card."
 "But it's all O.K again now? Right?" The stylist sounded hopeful.
 The woman sniffed "Well, let's just say he learnt his lesson. He won't forget again."

 I studied her out of the corner of my eye. She wasn't young. She must have been at least thirty.  Not a great age it's true but definitely old enough to realize that relationships are about more than an over looked Valentine's day and words on a shop bought card. It was February 16th and she was still whining?  It was a miracle that such a high maintenance and unforgiving woman had found anyone to marry her at all. I saw another customer staring, we raised our eyebrows, shook our heads and and turned back to our books.

Six months ago I witnessed a very different scene. Here, in the exact same chair, I had watched someone who could have taught that princess a thing or two about true love.

I had been doing pretty much the same thing that day;  sitting, reading and waiting for the color to soak into my hair. Suddenly there was a commotion at the door. Everyone looked up. One of the stylists jumped forward and ran to the front of the shop.
"June...." she cried. "Hello, June"
"NO! NO!" I heard somebody shout. A frail, elderly lady was clinging to the door frame, refusing to come in.
"Hey, June" the stylist repeated. She spoke slowly and quietly this time, as if addressing a child. "Remember me?"

The owner appeared from somewhere out the back.
"June." She exclaimed and offered out her arm. "It's good to see you again. Come on in. I've got a chair already waiting."

It was impossible not to watch. As you would expect in a hairdressing salon, there are mirrors everywhere. From my seat in a cubicle at the front I could follow the proceedings without needing to turn round. I could see an elderly man now, he was holding June by the elbow and urging her to come inside. After a few minutes, June stopped repeating "no,no, no" and allowed him to help her over the threshold.

"This way, June," the elderly man said. "This way."

The man was probably eighty years old. His dress was formal, almost dapper. But his carefully pressed trousers were scrunched at the waist by his belt, and hung loose around his hips.  It was clear that since the man had bought them, his muscles had begun to disappear. As he stood by the door with the trembling shell of his wife, it must have seemed as if his whole life was wasting away.

The couple shuffled forward. There was fear and confusion in June's eyes. They paused next to my chair.

"We're going to get you looking beautiful." the man told her.

"No!" she shouted. "Don't want to." And she rooted herself to the spot.

Close to, I could see that her slip on skirt was pressed and clean. Her sweater was neatly buttoned and her brown leather sandals were polished to a shine. He had done all that for her, I was certain, and it had probably taken him all day.

  June's hair was the only thing that let her down. Although it was neat and held back by a clip, the white was turning dirty yellow and it was so greasy that a comb had left tracks across the tops and sides of her head.

"Sit here. " The man gently suggested. "She'll wash your hair and make it pretty again."

"NO. NO. NO"

"I can sit next to you."


"NOOOOO."

The rest of us studied our books and magazines; our stylists feigned deep concentration as they snipped and straightened and brushed.

June was crying now, sobbing into her shaking, wrinkled hands. "NO" sob. "NO". sob. "NO"

The old man looked sad and defeated. He turned to the stylist. "Sorry" he mouthed, and slowly shook his head. He turned back to his wife.

"It's OK, June-bug." He whispered. "We'll try again another day."

Love and Heartbreak

 On a day when so many people are talking about love, the word heartbreak seems inappropriate and out of place. But love is many things and a heart isn't always broken because love is lost or unrequited. Sometimes love is the very thing that helps us heal.

Yesterday my brother, John, updated his status on Facebook. He wrote that my nephew had gone to bed in tears. Apparently, after spending two days working on a Lego model, Isaac had been re-docking the satellite onto the space shuttle when one false move had resulted in nothing but a pile of plastic bricks.

Comments began to go back and forth. At first things were relatively light hearted. Surely he could do it again?  After all, building the model is half the fun. My daughter was wistful, longing for the days when all there was to worry about was a broken toy. Even my brother made a "Houston we have a problem" type joke. The story was sad and sweet, but Isaac would recover. Tomorrow was another day.

But a few minutes later my brother added another comment. This one completely changed the tone, John wrote (and I quote), "He managed to sob, "I'm more than heartbroken", before finally going to sleep."

At that point, my own heart seemed to twist and break, a lump rose in my throat and my eyes filled up.
For a nine year old boy to declare that he was 'more than heartbroken', meant that he must have been feeling very, very sad. In addition to this, Isaac is not a crying kind of boy. I remember the last time he suffered a loss that had ended in tears, and it was several years ago. He'd been on a roller-coaster and, while traveling at high speed, the wind blew off his favorite hat.....

I pictured him, tears rolling down his face as he watched the Lego spew across the table and the floor. I felt helpless. There was nothing I could do.

I was curious to see what is was that he'd been building and, thinking I might be able to offer John some long distant advice, (don't ask me what),  I looked the model up on line.

It was not a straight forward affair. Rebuilding it was going to take up lots of time. Isaac is an incredibly bright kid (and that's not just a proud Auntie talking), he doesn't give up easily and he is a Lego genius. Watching him build something is like watching a film clip from the 1920's. His hands fly about so fast,  his movements are unreal. But the space-shuttle looked detailed and complicated. I also notice it was targeted for age 16+.....  No wonder Mr. Lego himself had been so upset. Imagine, all that work ending up as nothing but a sorry mess. I wished I was five minutes and not five thousand miles away. I wanted to  race round and and help my brother repair the damage. I wanted to make Isaac feel better. To help heal is broken heart

  John did indeed spend the evening working away.  He loves his son and he is a fantastic dad. Instead of relaxing and preparing for the week ahead, he crouched over what must have been complicated instructions and scrabbled about for pieces in the pile and on the floor. Those things are tricky enough when the parts are neatly packaged up in little bags. Searching for miniscule lights and levers, some of which may have skidded and spun every-which-way across the room, took devotion and a lot of time.

But it ended up being worth it. I contacted John today and he told me that the first thing Isaac asked when he woke up was if the model was repaired. When John told him that it was, Isaac beamed, his face lit up, and he ran downstairs to see.

Sometimes we have to let our children find away to get over heartbreak by themselves, and sometimes we can't do anything practical, just let them know we're there.  But when they are young, there is no better way to make them feel supported and secure than by taking positive steps to heal a broken heart.

 I am happy because Isaac is happy. And I'm happy that, because Isaac is happy, John is happy.

And so, on a day when we are talking and thinking about love and what it means, this sums it up for me........

"Love is the condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own."
 (Robert Heinlein. 1907 -1988)

Happy Valentines Day.



P.S A huge thank you to John and Isaac for allowing me to share.

The Incredibly Annoying Salesman.

A well known American department store. Feb 11th 2011

  My 16 year old son belongs to a school group and their spring trimester conference is this weekend. The dress code includes 'business attire'. The suit and shirt were all sorted, but he needed a new tie.

 Being the kind hearted, push over mother that I am, I agreed to get him one this afternoon. He assured me that there was nothing to it; the shirt he'd recently bought had been displayed on a mannequin and the mannequin had been wearing a tie.  "Just get that one," he told me. "It's a kind of dark purple. Plain. It'll be fine." It seemed like a simple enough task, only slightly complicated by the fact that an old back injury has flared up and I am finding it difficult to sit. Or stand. Or walk.

  I drove to the shop, parked as close as I possibly could, swung the car door open - and gasped.  I had only driven for fifteen minutes but the muscles in my back spasmed and twitched as if I'd been on the road for days.
I took a deep breath.  The entrance to the shop was no more than thirty feet away. The men's department was close, and on the same floor. I would shuffle in, grab the tie, throw cash at the assistant and hobble out. I wouldn't even have to stop walking, and motion was good. Driving home might be a problem, but at least by then I'd have the tie and could text one of my neighbors to help me back into the house.

  I tried to make my walk look casual and unhurried rather than tottering and pained. Old people with frames and orthopedic shoes raced past. Once inside the shop, I moseyed over to menswear and found the shirt almost at once. But it wasn't on a mannequin and there was no sign of a tie. I carefully inched around the display, as my back screamed out for help.

 The sales assistant must have heard it.
"Can I help you?"
The poor man looked terrible. He was ashen and wan, faded and worn out. His taste in clothes was appalling, and did nothing to improve his sickly looks. But he worked here, so he should  be able to help.
"I'm looking for the tie that was on display with this shirt. Do you remember which one it was and could you show me where it is."
He shook his head. "Sorry. This was never displayed with a tie. I have a similar shirt over here ....."
My back began to cry.  It was as if someone was playing with the muscles like children playing with Plasticine.
"I need a tie for this shirt. It's for a sixteen year old boy. He's not too fussy. Something plain in a matching or contrasting color. He mentioned purple...."

 The man raised a finger and cut me off. He wrapped his left arm around his body and placed his right hand on his cheek..
 "Describe him."
"I'm sorry?"
"Your son. What does he look like."
"Um. Six foot two, medium brown hair, green eyes." My back gave an impatient twinge. "Why?"
"Because we're not just matching a tie to a shirt here. We're matching it to a person. Take me, for example," he waved a hand up and down in front of himself, like a magician performing a trick. "I chose my shirt to compliment my skin tone; my tie brings out the color in my eyes. "
 His shirt was chewed gum grey and his tie was an insipid pink.

"I .... see......" How could he not hear the distrust in my voice?

"What kind of kind of green are his eyes?"

"Um..."
"Are they the same as yours?" At least leaning back to look in the mirror gave me a chance to stretch.
"No. His are more grey/green. Greenish/grey."
"Like sea glass?"
"If you like. Look. Honestly. I don't want to bother you. I think I'll just...."
"Fair or tan?"
"What?" My back was clenching even harder. If I didn't get the chance to touch my toes soon, I was going to go mad.
"His complexion? Fair or tan?"
"You know what, I'll  just take a look around." I tried to move away but all I did was creak. I was the Tin Man. There was no oil can in sight.

 He grabbed my arm. "Come. Follow me".
If he hadn't pulled me along I may have never moved again, but my legs jerked into action and he propelled me between the socks and pants.

 "Suit color?"
"Grey"
"Charcoal? Steel? Smoke? Dove."
"Err. Darkish."
"Charcoal?"
"Yes." Oh please shut up.
He slid some suits along a rack.
 "I bet it's something like this?
 "Well..."
The salesman placed the shirt inside the suit. I waited, resisting the urge to assume The Downward Facing Dog. The Salesman stepped back to admire his handiwork. He clasped his hands beneath his chin.
"Now for the ties!"
 The Salesman set of, flapping his hands and urging me to keep up. He minced along up ahead, I dragged along behind. My left leg jerked like an artificial limb and I had to stoop forward to alleviate the pain. We looked like a wacky gender reversal of Esmerelda and Quasimodo. A cross-dressing take on Beauty and the Beast.

The salesman selected six boldly patterned ties, and flamboyantly flicked them back and forth.
"None of them are plain". I pointed out as he examined their effects.
Salesman shook his head. "Boring" he said.
"But that's what he wants".
He shook his head again and carried on, switching paisley for check and tartan for dots.
He picked up a wild, indescribable print. "This one picks out the shirt, and his skin tone,"
"You've never met him."
"And this one has the green, to pick out the color of his eyes."

 On a normal day I would have been firm, thanked him for his help, and high tailed it off to somewhere else. But I was in pain and could literally, barely move. I didn't have the strength, or ability, to escape his over zealous attentions. Fortunately I came up with a plan.
"I'll take photos, and text them to my son. Then he can choose."
 My son would hate them all and I would be able get the heck out of there as fast as my seized up legs would carry me.

 The Salesman was back on board. He clapped his hands with glee and began arranging the shirt and ties. Anyone would have thought I was holding a top of the range Nikon not an iPhone, and that the photos were going to appear in Vogue. The Salesman hovered close to me, peering over my shoulder as I mms'd the pictures to my son. There was, of course, no reply. We waited a few minutes, I looked at the hard, flat floor. I longed  to lower myself onto the stripy carpet tiles, put by bag under my head and stre........tch.

 "Call him?" the sales assistant suggested.

 Just as my son picked up, the Salesman was summoned to help with a long queue forming at the till. Under normal circumstances, this would have been my chance to run away. But the best I could hope for was to furtively bury my way into a rack of trousers and hide until his shift came to an end.

 "Hi." I hissed into the phone. "Help me. There is no specific tie to go with that shirt you bought. I'm being railroaded by a lunatic and I am in real pain. I can't run away. What exactly do you want? Paisley? Stripes? Tartan?  Dots? Or plain?"

"A PLAIN one"
"That's what I thought."
I had no choice, I had to get away. Salesman was coming back.

 "Well," I exclaimed cheerfully holding out the paisley tie. "Your first choice was spot on."
Salesman flushed and beamed. He took my card, punched in numbers, and made a great fuss with tissue paper and tape.  As he wrapped and scribbled, he jabbered on about his years and years of experience. He told me how he could read any customer, even if they were "channeling through their Mom". I paid up, made sure that the receipt was safely in the bag and slowly hurried away.

 I  limped pathetically towards another department store. I told the assistant that I wanted a plain, dark purple tie. She showed me two, I picked one and BINGO, I was making my agonizingly slow trip back to the car.....


 And now, just five hours later, my son has picked the tie. Was it the plain, dark purple one you ask?

 NOOOOO. He's gone for the paisley. And very handsome he looks too.

 So the anemic looking,  badly dressed, incredibly annoying salesman was right.  Which only makes him even more annoying.

 And to make matters worse,  now I'm left to  wonder.... Do I really channel my son.........?

 (P.S. The picture really doesn't do the ensemble justice.)

The Little Girl with the Huge Crisp.

The Crown and Greyhound. Sometime back in 1990.



      The Little Girl was sitting at a table with her parents and several of their friends. She was  eighteen months old, more or less.

      The day was warm. Cardigans and sweaters had been shed and were piled in a limp and tangled heap upon the bench. The men rested their elbows on the rough wooden tables and curled their hands round pints of amber beer. The women drank from tall slim glasses, the ice tinkling against the sides, as they played and teased with their straws. The Little Girl  was drinking from a juice box and picking raisins from a small, white, tuppaware box.

Another friend joined the group. He was carrying three fresh pints, and he gripped the corners of several packets of crisps.between his teeth  When he reached the Little Girl's table,  he placed the drinks in front of his friends and threw the crisps into the center, instructing the others to help themselves.

The Little Girl pulled her legs up underneath her and, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself, she rose and stood. Little Girl reached out for a shiny bag. Her mother gently took her hand and shook her head. But her father said. "Alright, Just one."

Little Girl's mother sighed and rolled her eyes but she picked up a packet and tugged it open. The Little Girl dipped a hand inside.

The crisp she pulled out very, very big. In fact it was huge. As she held it up, the sun shone through it and it glowed like a disc of pale gold. Little Girl's mouth fell open. Her eyebrows disappeared up, underneath her fringe. She bent her knees and bounced. No one looked. She shouted something but her vocabulary was limited and the word she chose expressed delight, but in a non specific way. Her mother half turned, reached out and patted Little Girl's behind, but she wasn't paying close attention and failed to notice the awesome crisp.

The Little Girl shouted again. This time her father looked up. Little Girl thrust the crisp forward. "Daa!" she shouted. The father laughed and told the others to look. The whole group were delighted and impressed. Little Girl pushed the crisp towards each one in turn.

"Wow". They exclaimed. "It's huge. It's amazing." They praised the Little Girl, as if she peeled the potato and cooked the slice herself.

Her mother began to clap. When you are eighteen months old, and a grown up claps, there's only one response. You clap too.

And that's exactly what Little Girl did.

We all watched in horror as the huge crisp shattered and fell onto the bench and floor. The flakes were papery and ordinary. The magic was immediately gone.

The adults exclaimed a collective "Ahhhhhh", and pulled sad and sympathetic faces.

The mother took her daughter into her arms, but Little Girl's tears could not be stopped. Her anguish was absolutely real.



                                                    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


I dedicate this to Katie, the one year old daughter of a special friend of mine.

When I was visiting them a week ago, something Katie did reminded me of this incident. It came back with such clarity although it happened over 20 years ago.

Katie is at that special age when everything she does is utterly enchanting. When she manages to scoop a spoonful of dripping yoghurt into her mouth, it elicits a round of clapping. When she bashes out a tune on her baby sized piano, everybody cheers and breaks into applause. And of course, we clap Katie claps and we clap even more. Generally this routine is completely harmless. Unfortunately, in some cases, it is not....

So, thank you for jogging my memory Katie Mac. You're one of the sweetest Little Girls I've ever known.