Dear Florence Nightingale

A little over three years ago, my husband and I got 

married. We had a beautiful day, church wedding, all the trimmings, said our bit, signed the register and became man and wife.

But let’s backtrack just slightly. We ‘said our bit’ - apologies for this rather thrifty approach to the marriage vows. The words that in one short moment bind us together for life possibly deserve a little more gravitas.

Now ‘these them vows’ are incredibly important of course, and although some may sound somewhat antiquated (the whole ‘to love, honour and obey’ thing has feminists the world over with their knickers in a right twist doesn’t it?!) they are as relevant today as they were way back when God was a lad. None more I feel than that old chestnut, ‘in sickness and in health’.

Over the past week I have had these vows ringing around in my head as I have marched on (on automatic pilot with lots of under-eye concealer) while the Hitchings household crumbled slowly around me in a sea of sickness.

My little Erin (bless her) caught a bad cold from her first week at nursery which, combined with teething, resulted in a variety of outcomes. There’s what I will always refer to as ‘the night of 45 minutes sleep’, followed by a subsequent five days of coughing, spluttering, sniveling, refusing to eat and general slumber. Like all first mums with the first ever illness, this was worrying, stressful, tiring and at times, rather trying.

But it’s what you do isn’t it? It’s what you sign on for when becoming a mum.

And talking about signing on. Clearly when I signed on that dotted line in that church on that cold Winter’s day, I had not read the small print.

I had always assumed the ‘in sickness and in health’ thing wouldn’t really kick in till we’re old and grey (if my hairdresser raises one eyebrow at this point, she knows where her next tip is going!). I think I thought this refers to that time in your life when you sit anxiously at a hospital bedside when something terrible has happened.

I guess I never thought about the dreaded flu.

Along with most women I’m sure, when my husband started with a snivel and a ‘really sore throat’ last week, I showed a relative amount of sympathy and support, but inside was assuming that this was, in the worst case, Man Flu.

We all know what a terrible affliction the Man Flu is. There is almost no cure, and it is destined to return frequently.

But I have to say in this particular case, old hubbykins wasn’t displaying symptoms consistent with a Man Flu diagnosis. It became more apparent the slower his walk got, the more he ached, and the less he spoke, that this really was the real thing. He’d got real, actual, full blown flu.

For me, the deciding factor, and what I believe will always be the benchmark for future illness, is his lack of interest in his computer.

In all our five and a half years together, I have never once known Mark to go longer than a couple of hours without the company of his good pal, the Macbook. But this week I could almost have dusted off the lid, it was so lonely sat on its own in our spare room.

So on realising that I had an infirmary on my hands, there was nothing else I could do but soldier on, attempt to find small moments in the day to sit and stare mindlessly into the ether, and the obvious solution – call my mum!

Now I’m not one to admit defeat. In fact I will rarely ask for help, I tend to wait till someone sees me keel over and then graciously accept it.

I hadn’t quite hit the floor this week when my mum offered to come over and help me out for the afternoon. I didn’t want to mess up her plans, but at the same time I really did want her to come over just so I could sit. Even if it was just for a couple of hours.

It’s amazing what those couple of hours did for me. It was a bit like being a few miles from the end of a marathon and you don’t think you can finish, when someone gives you a bottle of Lucozade and a pat on the bottom and says “come on, you can do it, it’s not far now!” (not something I am totally familiar with, but I’m just imagining what running a marathon must feel like – I’m shattered just thinking about it.)

I found my second wind (all those sniggering at reference to wind, please continue as I did the same!)

Once the second wind had kicked in, I was away – I could see the finishing line and I was ready for any soup making, Lemsip stirring, brow mopping and tissue collection that was required (and those tissues seem to show up everywhere! I found one down the back of the radiator!).

I’m very pleased to report - much like a surgeon standing at a podium outside the hospital where he’s just successfully separated Siamese twins – that the Hitchings household is out of the woods. There are rooms in the world again that don’t smell like Olbas oil, and there are babies that eat their porridge and husbands that can sit upright and have in fact opened the lid on their Macbook.

It was touch and go there for a while, but I feel that my stint as Florence Nightingale has been successfully completed.

The whole week just made me realise that although you make vows literally when you get married, you make them metaphorically when you become a mum. Mums essentially vow to be there regardless of anything else, whenever, wherever and for however long – but we never actually say this, or write it down.

So even when you’re nearly 30 years into motherhood like my mum (she was obviously very very young when she had me, I mean practically a child herself, she is definitely not over 50) your metaphorical vows still kick in.

It might not be the everyday making sure your children are fed and watered, making sure they’re dressed properly and learning all the time, but it is for those moments when they say (either literally or you just know) “I need you mum!” and without question, you’re there.

Of course dads are the same. My dad is known in our family as the fourth emergency service, and never fails to do anything he can for his girls (whatever generation they’re in, and even the furry ones). But for the purposes of this week, and this blog, I praise mums.

For all of you who are currently holding your eyes open with matchsticks cause you haven’t slept in five months, or those who are battling with a teenager who hates everyone but the bare chested, oil covered pop star on her wall, and those mums and grandmas who are helping their little girls become mums themselves, I salute you. Every one of you.

Here’s to the next thirty years, and being there regardless.

Dear Saint Valentine...

Well it’s ‘that’ time of the year again. Let’s face it, it’s been ‘that’ time of year ever since Santa delivered his last present and settled down to a cup of hot cocoa with the Easter Bunny (it happens!)

I’m convinced that at 0.01am on Boxing Day morning, the shops were full of Valentine’s’ elves, dispersing helium into a variety of heart and cupid-shaped balloons, covering the shelves with cards of every variety and size, and increasing the cost of flowers by 200%.

So by the time we reach February 14^th, surely we’re tired of hearing about it? Well if you are, please bare with me, I’m not sponsored by Interflora.

I hope you’ll be proud of me as there’s been some research going into this week’s musings. This isn’t just a veritable outpouring of my thoughts and feelings on the subject - I know how you enjoy my verbal diarrhoea, but this week at least it will be slightly better informed.

I had always believed Valentine’s Day was merely another commercially exploitative event, designed to make money for card shops, florists, choclatiers (is that a word?!), restaurateurs and condom manufacturers the world over. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m necessarily wrong, but there is some history that it’s worth knowing just to help soften the blow a little.

Valentine’s Day shockingly doesn’t date back to 1968 (the year Clinton Cards was founded), it goes back as far as 249 AD, which makes it (and bare with my maths here) 1,764 years old (that’s even older than Bruce Forsyth!)

They say (and I don’t know in this context who ‘they’ actually are, but I’m quoting Wikipedia, which I trust these days more than my own education) that Saint Valentine was a third century Roman priest. The poor lad was imprisoned and eventually executed for marrying soldiers (or should I say ‘officiating over the marriages of soldiers’ – I’m not suggesting he was a gay bigamist who liked men in uniform!)

Apparently at the time there was some emperor, Aurelian (sounds like a lovely chap), who persecuted the church and didn’t want soldiers to marry or priests to minister to Christians. But our hero in this story, plucky old Saint Valentine, continued to do so.

However. He may be our hero, and he may have been a good priest, but he must have been terribly indiscreet, and would never win at Hide and Seek, as he was caught and killed for his actions.

Legend has it (always wanted to have cause to say that) that while in prison, Saint Valentine healed the daughter of his guard, and before he was taken away for execution, he left her a note that read: ‘From your Valentine’.

Ever since then, there has been a celebration of this day. Marking the love he had for this girl.

But it wasn’t till the Middle Ages – those damn Middle Ages, they caused so many problems, what with the plague, barbarians and the pesky ‘Black Death’ – that the event became a romantic celebration.

In fact, its not just the era of the Middle Ages. We can actually pinpoint the blame directly to Chaucer and his cronies – at this point I would like to pledge my historical playwright allegiance to Mr Shakespeare. Big fan.

Apparently Geoffrey and his pals, decided to start expressing their love for the ladies in their lives with hand made cards, flowers and confectionary – which I’m assuming is when Cadbury’s Milk Tray was first invented!

History lesson over – I hope I didn’t lose any of you. I have to say although I feel so much better prepared for an appearance on University Challenge, I was starting to bore myself there a bit.

But what that little trek through the ages has proven to me, is that Valentine’s Day isn’t the curse of the card and gift industry over the past few decades, it’s been here longer than Coronation Street and even Sir David Attenborough.

However. That doesn’t change what it has become.

When you look around you between December 26^th and February 14^th, you can’t help but be bombarded by the subject of love, romance and sappiness.

As part of my new ‘research-based’ approach, I did a quick straw poll on Facebook and Twitter to find out whether I am surrounded by Valentines ‘lovers’ or ‘haters’.

If you haven’t already gathered, I tend to air on the side of ‘hater’, although given the option I may just state indifference. I think I may be in good company too. Aside from one ‘ambivalent’ (great word by the way), a ‘later’, which I’m also putting under the category of ambivalence, I have had just two ‘lovers’ from my respondents.

Clearly there are far more Valentine’s lovers in the world, or there would be far more florists going out of business this Spring. But I have to ask myself, how many of us actually enjoy, look forward to, or even like Valentine’s Day? I would estimate a small percentage of those who make the effort, actually have any interest whatsoever. Often it’s just because we think we should.

My husband and I have never once sent each other a Valentine’s card. Now, I don’t feel that has been in any way detrimental to our relationship. In fact, if he ever did pay the day even the slightest bit of interest, I would have to assume something was very wrong, and I may as well instruct a solicitor.

I have always believed that real romance comes in small packages. Not actual small packages, I’m not a diamond hoarder or anything. I mean those small little things we do every day, that shows we love each other.

It’s the squeeze of the hand when you’re in public when you feel nervous, anxious, upset, or even when something’s making you both laugh inside. It’s the buying of a sausage roll, or an iced bun for each other, when you’re passing the bakers. Just because. The sympathetic ear after a hard day, and the ability to make you smile, however bad things are. Or even the blind eye when you know they’re crying at a film and you don’t want to embarrass them.

Surely it’s the day-to-day that makes love worth it? Not the large teddy bear carrying a love heart, the romantic meal out that you do every year, just once a year, along with what seems to be the rest of the country. I don’t believe the most romantic person in the world is the person who buys the biggest card, or the one who buys the most fireworks for a Valentine’s Day proposal. I don’t think you’re more likely to fall in love cause your Valentine has brought you an expensive handbag or jewellery they can ill-afford. Are you?

Don’t get me wrong, if you’re one of those couples ready to don your best outfits and head out for a romantic meal on Valentine’s, or you have just spent your month’s salary on a big sparkler, ready for the big proposal, please don’t be offended by my cynicism. Have a great time, but while you do, just spare a thought for that old lad Saint Valentine.

The man who is the reason for this day believed in love beyond measure and gave his life for it.

I think if you ask a couple sitting together on their Diamond Wedding Anniversary how they stayed together all those years, they’ll tell you it was hard work at times, there was a lot of compromise, and it’s not all flowers, chocolates and romantic meals out. But I’m sure they’d also tell you that the person they’re with, is the person they’d always want to be sat next to, the person they share everything with, and who will be there at their funniest, saddest and final moments.

So this Valentine’s Day, maybe forget the hype and the commercialism and just let your other half know you care by sitting next to them, and letting them know you plan to sit there for a long time. I think that’s all any of us need to know.

And as I don’t want to end on a soppy note, cause I’m not really that sort of gal’, I will end with some advice. If any of you even consider getting down on one knee in a restaurant this Valentine’s Day, always remember to:

-       Look left and right first

-       Check for elbow room

-       Don’t knock over an unsuspecting waitress

-       And whatever you do, don’t put the ring in her pudding. Major choking hazard.

Dear life's little changes...

I think Gary, Mark, Howard, Jason and Robbie (yes he was still there at this point) were right when they said “Everything Changes But You”. You never would have had them down as philosophers would you? But I hope I’m right in saying they hit the nail on the head.

I’m facing 30 and am realising that in my head I’m still the seven-year-old who wanted her mum when she fell over and grazed her knee, the 15-year-old geek who wanted to be so much cooler than she actually was, and the 21-year-old who thought she could dance so much better than she actually can after a few ‘cheeky milks’.

So when is it you change and feel your age?

I was told that when you get a ‘proper job’ you’ll grow up fast and “never be the same girl again’. Well my first ‘proper job’ as they put it (and by ‘they’ I mean my head of sixth form) came somewhat sooner than I had expected.

At 18 I was working as a journalist for a huge regional paper, spending most of my life either at my desk frantically typing copy for scary news editors, lost in the outskirts of Nottinghamshire in a pool car staring at an A to Z wondering where the hell I was, or sat in a bar after work waiting for the phone to ring and request my return.

As you can imagine this was a real shock to the system, and forced me to grow up in many ways very quickly. However, at every turn, I still felt like that same girl who used to be too nervous to pay for her own ticket on the bus, or even catch a bus in the first place.

The only difference now was, I was forced to knock on a stranger’s door and get them to speak to me. I had no choice but to sit in a council meeting and behave, not snigger when the funny words were used, or point and stare at the ageing councillor in the corner with a jaunty wig. I had to be an adult on the outside, even if I was a blithering wreck of a teenager on the inside.

So for me, the ‘proper job’ didn’t do it.

The next in line of big changes has to be leaving home, buying your first house and being independent - well as independent as you can be with the fourth emergency service (dad) five miles away on the end of a phone.

Lots of people said at this point that this would be ‘it’. The thing that changes you beyond comprehension - living on your own. Not having to shut the door gently and tiptoe up the stairs when you arrive back from a night out, not having to get up at the weekend cause your mum’s ramming the hoover against your bedroom door at 8am cause “you really should be getting up by now”. And of course there’s bills to pay and manage, food to cook without killing yourself, laundry and ironing to do, and not to mention a lawn to mow.

Surely. Surely this is the turning point. This is the point when it all changes and the girl becomes a woman. In this girl’s case, I’m afraid not.

The jobs of looking after myself, being on my own and organising my feeding, watering and clothing needs, seemed to come quite naturally. But I’m afraid while there’s still ‘cheeky milks’ in the world, I will still dance like a toddler on a sugar rush, believing I look like an extra from Fame.

So when does it feel ‘right’ to be an adult? Do you suddenly hit 35 and realise you’re grown up?

In the past six years I have met my now husband, moved in with him, got engaged, married, fallen pregnant and had a baby. However in my head I am still 19 years old and have no idea what I’m doing.

Recently I had a fantastic morning with two old friends in the house me and my husband now own – but which used to belong to my grandparents. As youngsters, me and my two friends had many after-school teas, lunches and school holiday visits in this house. Sat here altogether in the same room where we’d watch ‘The Box’ and try and learn the latest Steps or Backstreet Boys dance routine, we were sat with our collective six children, being on the face of it ‘adults’.

I sat there for a moment and couldn’t understand what had transpired over the past 14 years since we last all sat in this room, chatting together. Everything around us had changed, our lives and responsibilities are dramatically different, but essentially, despite being married, mothers, professionals and a whole decade and a half older, I couldn’t see anything different about us.

Maybe we are incredibly different, and the changes that happen are so subtle and prolonged, that we fail to notice. Maybe my memory has faded and altered history as it’s gone on, or maybe Take That was in fact right, that ‘Everything Changes But You’.

When I first started to think about this, I was a bit concerned that for some reason I was behind everyone else, and perhaps I should be now feeling like a near 30-year-old, grown-up and operating with a different mindset.

But then, in consultation with my 85-year-old grandmother-in-law last week - who said she still considers herself a glamorous 21-year-old, but every morning finds herself in the body of someone four times her age  - I came to realise that I’m not alone, and maybe I’ll never feel truly ‘grown up’. In fact, I hope I never do.

Don’t get me wrong, life throws things at us all that require us to be strong, make the ‘adult decision’ and be grown-up. But who says this has to come naturally? Why shouldn’t this scare us at first, throw up challenges and be difficult? That’s life, I (and Frank Sinatra) would say.

I just hope that while dealing with all these things, I can still snigger when someone says a rude word, jump up to dance like a lunatic every time the B52’s Love Shack is on and still be desperate to write in the sand on the beach, build a snowman and feel that excitement when I first see the Coca Cola advert with Santa’s lorry every Christmas.

What do you say readers? Are you with me? Shall we make sure everything changes but us? Oh, go on then!

Dear Children's TV Presenters...

As a new mother (despite being six months in to motherhood, I use this term in the hope that it compensates for the fact that I still regularly need to reapply the ‘L’ plates) I have been recently re-introduced to the world of children’s TV.

The last time I watched children’s TV was (with the exception of some brief babysitting encounters) when I myself was a child (all jokes about how long ago that was are not forgiven). And I have to say, it has proven to me the true innocence of a child’s mind.

Watching this inane sequence of life lessons - enacted out by farm animals, motor vehicles or odd-looking alien type characters that speak an inaudible, yet apparently, educational language – has taught me that over the years our minds are warped to believe that the simplest of things are in fact wrong, seedy or sexual innuendo.

I have to hope I’m not alone as an adult in questioning the intent of those creating these programmes. After all, children’s programming is not put together by a gathering of unassuming four-year-olds is it?

Behind the scenes surely there’s a bunch of whisky-drinking, Marlboro Light-smoking (because of course the word ‘light’ makes it healthier) former RADA rejects, who spend their time resenting the casting directors of Eastenders and Coronation Street, who once offered them the role of ‘Cab Driver Number 1” or, even the shining lights of the one-line talking part that was the ‘Doctors’ receptionist’.

Now, I don’t want to declare this as fact, as it is purely based on my assumptions, but every year there are probably thousands of young people leaving stage schools, even the heights of RADA, looking for their ‘big break’ in showbusiness. And let’s face it, we’re not all Billie Piper or Denise Van Outen are we? (don’t worry I checked, they were both at stage school!)

So I am guessing the West End, TV or the Top 40 is not the fate of every stage school graduate. You may well think that these poor souls have to put themselves through years of waiting tables or stacking shelves before finding their ‘big break’, but I have a different theory. They’re all working in children’s TV!

Watch the likes of Milkshake, Cbeebies, Cartoonito, Nick Jnr - yes, I’ve sampled them all – and you will find wide-smiled tan-tastic overly enthused individuals who, if you look closely, are clearly the same people who the night before were undoubtedly hanging off a podium and pouring Vodka into their eyeballs in the best drinking emporiums in London town.

Don’t get me wrong, these folks do a very good job. When those Cheshire Cat grins appear on the screen, wishing every five year-old in the country a Happy Birthday, our little lady is transfixed. She literally stops what she’s doing (those important tasks of biting her fists or throwing a stacking cup across the play mat) and will sit still, hanging on their every word.

However. I am absolutely convinced that the presenters, producers, cameramen and anyone else involved in these shows, is having a giraffe (that means ‘laugh’ for those of you who didn’t learn Cockney at school!) – and I’ll tell you for why.

The other day I actually paid attention to what the presenters were saying on Cbeebies. Erin was settled on my knee and, without the aid of my phone, computer, or another soul to talk to, I was trapped and destined to become Chris and Jamelia’s (the smiley-faced presenters) audience.

They were doing an entire ten minute feature on ‘blowing and sucking’. I tell you no word of a lie! In fact I hope one of you has actually seen this programme, just to make sure I haven’t imagined it!

Now I appreciate that to a child, Chris and Jamelia were literally teaching them about how to blow bubbles and suck drinks through a straw (a very suspicious-looking banana milkshake was their choice of aperitif). But. I would say the songs, actions and activities involved in conveying this message, were – although perfectly innocent to an innocent mind – riddled with sexual innuendo, surely for either their own entertainment, or as a joke to parents.

I can’t go too much into it, as I’m still a little concerned about my own mind, if this is how I interpreted this innocent attempt at children’s programming. But there was one situation where the lady involved (Jamelia) sat blowing bubbles and sucking water out of a paddling pool. She was doing this to a rhythm set out by Chris’ song, insisting rather vigourously that she “blows and sucks, and blows and sucks, all day long”. Now hang on?!

We’re all adults, so I don’t need to explain to you where I think they were going with this one, but surely there’s a group of people behind that camera laughing their heads off?

I had to run this by my husband when he got home, just to try and make sure I wasn’t just being unnecessarily smutty (perhaps not the best candidate.) But he agreed, that this must be a conspiracy.

Maybe they have a bet on as to how far they can go, and what they can get away with? And of course, this is a subject that most people wouldn’t consider raising with Points of View, or possibly even other humans, but here I am, I just hope as my beloved reader you understand my thoughts, and don’t think less of me.

The worst resulting factor of this whole episode is now I am looking at all children’s programmes differently. I am wondering if, when Fireman Sam asks Phyllis if she could polish his pole for him, whether there’s some writer or producer somewhere with a wry smile.

There’s always been innuendo I suppose in children’s entertainment. I still remember my mum and dad laughing to themselves at the Dame’s jokes in pantomimes, that I didn’t get – and the mortified look on my mum’s face the year I did start to understand.

So maybe this isn’t something new, and I shouldn’t be so shocked. Perhaps it’s something that’s been happening for years, as a sort of unspoken agreement between children’s entertainers and parents, so everyone can have a laugh. But I have to say, I’m still not sure how I feel about it.

Next time you watch Thomas the Tank Engine, Postman Pat or Fireman Sam (yes, they’re all still on!) put on your smut spectacles and join me in this world of confusion that is parenthood.

I vow my next blog will be far more tasteful. 

Dear Snowmageddon...

You’ve got to love Britain haven’t you? The moment the snow arrived at the start of this week it becomes ‘the news’. Whatever world news there is, whether it be a hostage situation in the Middle East, a big court case or the Prime Minister ‘on Europe’, it pales into insignificance.

Make way for reporters in North Face jackets and unnecessarily bobbly bobble hats, stood shivering in snowy villages in the outer Hebrides, or at the side of the M5, reporting on the fact that it’s snowing. And let us not forget the ‘traffic chaos’ (cue lanes of traffic moving at reasonable speeds in the background, and planes taking off in the distance).

And I love the general public’s reaction to this ‘world event’. I believe there are three types of people when it comes to snow. You have ‘snow fans’, ‘snow haters’ and – and I say this with the utmost respect and love for all those I know who have chosen this occupation – teachers!

I myself am a ‘snow fan’. Always have been. I think for me it’s what snow brings with it. You have the options to go out and play in it (real thick and soft snow is playing snow. Snow that you can build a snowman with and make snowballs with – not the icy stuff that cuts a hole in your cheek on impact!)

You can also watch snow from inside. That fantastic feeling of being warm and cosy, but knowing on the other side of the glass how cold it actually is.

I also love the way snow makes everything beautiful. Anything qualifies if you think about it. For example, a wheelie bin with no snow, is a black rubbish receptacle on wheels. In snow, it is a snow capped mini-mountain that robin red breasts choose to perch on. See? Anything. I challenge you to name anything that doesn’t look pretty with snow on.

But then, as would be my nemesis if I was a comic book character, we have the ‘snow haters’. I find the ‘snow haters’ tend to also be the people who hate Christmas. A ‘snow and Christmas fan’ myself, I struggle to understand this mentality, but I’ll try and break it down for you.

Snow haters I find, are those that instantly see a snow forecast and let out a big attention-seeking sigh. The sort of sigh that says, “go on innocent bystanders around me, ask me what’s wrong!” When someone eventually, and often reluctantly, asks what’s wrong, they instantly regret it, as invariably what follows can only be described as a tirade. And, in the words of Run DMC, (anyone born after 1990 will have no idea what that reference means, but I leave it for those who enjoyed the wonders of MTV and The Box in the 90’s) ‘it goes a little something like this’:

“Well, there we are then. That’s my year ruined. How on earth do they expect me to get to work in that? I hate driving in snow, and what about my shoes? I don’t have wellies or ‘snow boots’. And don’t even get me started on my pipes, what’s going to happen to them if it gets too cold?”. I vow to you, that while working in an office, one lady – mentioning no names – actually said that.

If we unpick this tirade, I can prove that it is, in fact, ridiculous. How has snow actually ‘ruined’ her year? There are people in the world with cancer, people losing their jobs, people who can’t afford to feed their children, people who have lost loved ones, who I would heartily support when they state that their year has been ‘ruined’. But a sprinkling of the white stuff which, let’s face it, doesn’t happen very often in this country, and is never exactly Armageddon proportions, does not qualify as a ‘year destroyer’, not even a ‘week destroyer’ really.

We then have to look at the driving. This woman lives less than half a mile from the tram stop, a method of transport that never stops, and I believe would be the only thing still moving following a nuclear holocaust. It never once occurred to her that she could (heaven forbid) walk to the tram and sit still, maybe read a book or listen to some music for half an hour, while someone else drives her safely to the city.

I don’t even want to talk about the shoe situation. I am not one of those ‘50 pairs of heels and one pair of indescribably useless ballet pumps’ sort of gals. I spend most days in flat shoes or boots with good wide soles, and choose practicality over style (your mental image may now be of a home-knitted cardigan-wearing Doc Martin enthusiast, but fear not, my cardigans are all shop-bought and not a heavy soled army boot in sight!) So you can understand why the thought that my colleague didn’t even have a pair of boots with a thick tread, or some ‘emergency wellies’, was somewhat unbelievable -and an effort to sound more girly than she really is.

Her final reference to her pipes fills me with dread, and conjures up way to many rude jokes that I can’t even start to discuss it. I say keep your pipes to yourself, and we’ll all be happier human beings.

No, I’m afraid, the ‘snow haters’ – just like ‘Christmas haters’ – must rethink their mentality. They will all be happier people if they just take note of the following:

Snow, like Christmas, will happen at some point every year (Christmas is always the same. Always the same.) If you know it’s going to happen, be prepared and embrace it. You wouldn’t prepare to be fed up and grumpy about anything else in life, so why this inevitable event?

Finally readers - and I apologise for the length of my thoughts on this matter, but I have long since observed behaviour in this field and I just felt it required reflection – we arrive at teachers.

While at school, I remember sitting by the radio on a snowy morning, eating my toast (or coco pops, depending on my mood) waiting to hear whether my school had closed. To no avail. In my 13 years of schooling, never once did a snow day result in a day off. Every morning during a snowy week, I would hear that thousands of kids were about to wrap up, grab the sledge out the shed, and head off to ‘call for’ their friends because their school was closed.

But, despite living in an area of reasonably high ground, where snow really can be quite monumental at times, there my sister and I were, heading out in our wellies for a day of educational stimulation. Dreadful.

However, with hindsight, I have to say a big fat: “Bravo” to all my teachers, the caretakers and governors who turned up at 6am to clear the paths and driveways, and to my mum who would trudge with two reluctant young ladies for a mile’s walk, in what can only be sometimes described as rather adverse conditions.

Sadly in recent years, I believe this ‘Dunkirk spirit’ has passed. The number of school closures in snow – or sometimes even just ice – has escalated dramatically. Maybe this is symptomatic of the dreaded ‘health and safety’ debacle that plagues so much of our existence these days. Or maybe teachers have just cottoned on to ‘snow days’ as some sort of form of annual leave. I do have to sympathise with them, I mean 13 weeks is such a small amount of time to have off during the year, how do they cope?

I really want to believe that every teacher in the country does their utmost to get into work during snow, to make sure the children have their educational needs fulfilled, and parents don’t have the inconvenience of attempting to arrange childcare, at the last minute, as (and you’ll be surprised to hear this NUT) other workplaces don’t allow for ‘snow days’.

I am sure there are many teachers who actually are ‘old school’. Who believe children can get in to school and carry on as normal, and if they fall over in the snow, or injure each other with a snowball, it’s just character-building and will make them much more well-rounded individuals. To those of you who match this description, I applaud you.

But I’m afraid, my faith in the majority has been severely impaired, by the arrival of social media. I have a number of ‘friends’ on Facebook and people I ‘follow’ on Twitter who are teachers. I enjoy many of their anecdotes about lesson planning, marking during half term and ‘what on earth will they do with that big six week break?’

However, I’m afraid ladies and gentleman of the teaching profession, you expose yourself to scrutiny, when the night before a snow forecast, the day of a ‘snow day’,or in fact just the week before a ‘cold snap’, you post comments resembling the following:

“Come on snow! Let’s have a snow day tomorrow!”

“Amaze-balls, just had a call from the Head..roads just not passable. Roll on duvet day!”

“Has anyone seen the forecast for next week?! I’m buying me a sledge!”

And the list goes on. Now I know what you’re thinking, surely teachers fall in to the ‘snow fans’ category. But I’m afraid they don’t. As they are also the people who moan about said snow when it falls on a Friday night, which means their weekend is again ‘ruined’ cause they can’t get out and they didn’t get that extra day off – a comment I heard while stood outside the chippy the other night, in my sensible wide soled boots.

So there you are readers. A ridiculously in-depth look at snow. Of course not as deep as the BBC will delve the next time there’s a sign of Frosty the Snowman paying us a visit. But some thoughts to conjure with the next time you see that large white mass approaching us on a weather map.

Phew! I think that is all I have to say on this subject (she declares 1,600 words later!). I’m off to build me a snowman!!

Dear Snowmageddon

You’ve got to love Britain haven’t you? The moment the snow arrived at the start of this week it becomes ‘the news’. Whatever world news there is, whether it be a hostage situation in the Middle East, a big court case or the Prime Minister ‘on Europe’, it pales into insignificance.

Make way for reporters in North Face jackets and unnecessarily bobbly bobble hats, stood shivering in snowy villages in the outer Hebrides, or at the side of the M5, reporting on the fact that it’s snowing. And let us not forget the ‘traffic chaos’ (cue lanes of traffic moving at reasonable speeds in the background, and planes taking off in the distance).

And I love the general public’s reaction to this ‘world event’. I believe there are three types of people when it comes to snow. You have ‘snow fans’, ‘snow haters’ and – and I say this with the utmost respect and love for all those I know who have chosen this occupation – teachers!

I myself am a ‘snow fan’. Always have been. I think for me it’s what snow brings with it. You have the options to go out and play in it (real thick and soft snow is playing snow. Snow that you can build a snowman with and make snowballs with – not the icy stuff that cuts a hole in your cheek on impact!)

You can also watch snow from inside. That fantastic feeling of being warm and cosy, but knowing on the other side of the glass how cold it actually is.

I also love the way snow makes everything beautiful. Anything qualifies if you think about it. For example, a wheelie bin with no snow, is a black rubbish receptacle on wheels. In snow, it is a snow capped mini-mountain that robin red breasts choose to perch on. See? Anything. I challenge you to name anything that doesn’t look pretty with snow on.

But then, as would be my nemesis if I was a comic book character, we have the ‘snow haters’. I find the ‘snow haters’ tend to also be the people who hate Christmas. A ‘snow and Christmas fan’ myself, I struggle to understand this mentality, but I’ll try and break it down for you.

Snow haters I find, are those that instantly see a snow forecast and let out a big attention-seeking sigh. The sort of sigh that says, “go on innocent bystanders around me, ask me what’s wrong!” When someone eventually, and often reluctantly, asks what’s wrong, they instantly regret it, as invariably what follows can only be described as a tirade. And, in the words of Run DMC, (anyone born after 1990 will have no idea what that reference means, but I leave it for those who enjoyed the wonders of MTV and The Box in the 90’s) ‘it goes a little something like this’:

“Well, there we are then. That’s my year ruined. How on earth do they expect me to get to work in that? I hate driving in snow, and what about my shoes? I don’t have wellies or ‘snow boots’. And don’t even get me started on my pipes, what’s going to happen to them if it gets too cold?”. I vow to you, that while working in an office, one lady – mentioning no names – actually said that.

If we unpick this tirade, I can prove that it is, in fact, ridiculous. How has snow actually ‘ruined’ her year? There are people in the world with cancer, people losing their jobs, people who can’t afford to feed their children, people who have lost loved ones, who I would heartily support when they state that their year has been ‘ruined’. But a sprinkling of the white stuff which, let’s face it, doesn’t happen very often in this country, and is never exactly Armageddon proportions, does not qualify as a ‘year destroyer’, not even a ‘week destroyer’ really.

We then have to look at the driving. This woman lives less than half a mile from the tram stop, a method of transport that never stops, and I believe would be the only thing still moving following a nuclear holocaust. It never once occurred to her that she could (heaven forbid) walk to the tram and sit still, maybe read a book or listen to some music for half an hour, while someone else drives her safely to the city.

I don’t even want to talk about the shoe situation. I am not one of those ‘50 pairs of heels and one pair of indescribably useless ballet pumps’ sort of gals. I spend most days in flat shoes or boots with good wide soles, and choose practicality over style (your mental image may now be of a home-knitted cardigan-wearing Doc Martin enthusiast, but fear not, my cardigans are all shop-bought and not a heavy soled army boot in sight!) So you can understand why the thought that my colleague didn’t even have a pair of boots with a thick tread, or some ‘emergency wellies’, was somewhat unbelievable -and an effort to sound more girly than she really is.

Her final reference to her pipes fills me with dread, and conjures up way to many rude jokes that I can’t even start to discuss it. I say keep your pipes to yourself, and we’ll all be happier human beings.

No, I’m afraid, the ‘snow haters’ – just like ‘Christmas haters’ – must rethink their mentality. They will all be happier people if they just take note of the following:

Snow, like Christmas, will happen at some point every year (Christmas is always the same. Always the same.) If you know it’s going to happen, be prepared and embrace it. You wouldn’t prepare to be fed up and grumpy about anything else in life, so why this inevitable event?

Finally readers - and I apologise for the length of my thoughts on this matter, but I have long since observed behaviour in this field and I just felt it required reflection – we arrive at teachers.

While at school, I remember sitting by the radio on a snowy morning, eating my toast (or coco pops, depending on my mood) waiting to hear whether my school had closed. To no avail. In my 13 years of schooling, never once did a snow day result in a day off. Every morning during a snowy week, I would hear that thousands of kids were about to wrap up, grab the sledge out the shed, and head off to ‘call for’ their friends because their school was closed.

But, despite living in an area of reasonably high ground, where snow really can be quite monumental at times, there my sister and I were, heading out in our wellies for a day of educational stimulation. Dreadful.

However, with hindsight, I have to say a big fat: “Bravo” to all my teachers, the caretakers and governors who turned up at 6am to clear the paths and driveways, and to my mum who would trudge with two reluctant young ladies for a mile’s walk, in what can only be sometimes described as rather adverse conditions.

Sadly in recent years, I believe this ‘Dunkirk spirit’ has passed. The number of school closures in snow – or sometimes even just ice – has escalated dramatically. Maybe this is symptomatic of the dreaded ‘health and safety’ debacle that plagues so much of our existence these days. Or maybe teachers have just cottoned on to ‘snow days’ as some sort of form of annual leave. I do have to sympathise with them, I mean 13 weeks is such a small amount of time to have off during the year, how do they cope?

I really want to believe that every teacher in the country does their utmost to get into work during snow, to make sure the children have their educational needs fulfilled, and parents don’t have the inconvenience of attempting to arrange childcare, at the last minute, as (and you’ll be surprised to hear this NUT) other workplaces don’t allow for ‘snow days’.

I am sure there are many teachers who actually are ‘old school’. Who believe children can get in to school and carry on as normal, and if they fall over in the snow, or injure each other with a snowball, it’s just character-building and will make them much more well-rounded individuals. To those of you who match this description, I applaud you.

But I’m afraid, my faith in the majority has been severely impaired, by the arrival of social media. I have a number of ‘friends’ on Facebook and people I ‘follow’ on Twitter who are teachers. I enjoy many of their anecdotes about lesson planning, marking during half term and ‘what on earth will they do with that big six week break?’

However, I’m afraid ladies and gentleman of the teaching profession, you expose yourself to scrutiny, when the night before a snow forecast, the day of a ‘snow day’,or in fact just the week before a ‘cold snap’, you post comments resembling the following:

“Come on snow! Let’s have a snow day tomorrow!”

“Amaze-balls, just had a call from the Head..roads just not passable. Roll on duvet day!”

“Has anyone seen the forecast for next week?! I’m buying me a sledge!”

And the list goes on. Now I know what you’re thinking, surely teachers fall in to the ‘snow fans’ category. But I’m afraid they don’t. As they are also the people who moan about said snow when it falls on a Friday night, which means their weekend is again ‘ruined’ cause they can’t get out and they didn’t get that extra day off – a comment I heard while stood outside the chippy the other night, in my sensible wide soled boots.

So there you are readers. A ridiculously in-depth look at snow. Of course not as deep as the BBC will delve the next time there’s a sign of Frosty the Snowman paying us a visit. But some thoughts to conjure with the next time you see that large white mass approaching us on a weather map.

Phew! I think that is all I have to say on this subject (she declares 1,600 words later!). I’m off to build me a snowman!!

Dear Charlie and Dexter...

Last year was a year that will be ever etched in my brain, as 2012 was the year I gave birth to our beautiful daughter (in our spare room in rather a rush might I add!)

But sadly, it will also be the year that, just four weeks after our little girl being born, we had the horrible news that our beloved cat, Dibble, had been run over and killed.

Before becoming parents, my husband and I were already parents in some way. Dibble had, for three years, been the object of our affection and, having no human competition, was essentially our baby.

Devastated by our loss, we quickly made the decision to have another cat. On advice from friends, we made the rather rash decision to take on not one, but two little furballs. An odd move. Particularly for new parents.

A week after losing our boy, an old school friend put a message on Facebook about some kittens she had to give away – it was either us, or the RSPCA. Our grief did the talking, and we instantly offered to take two. A girl and a boy. Or so I thought.

On bringing the little bundles home and discovering they were both living, breathing, flea farms, a trip to the vets quickly ensued. And it was there that we discovered our Charlie and Dexter (girl and boy respectively) were in actual fact, as the Polish lady vet put it, “you ‘av a Charlie girl and a Dexter girl”. Ah. That’ll be two girls then.

From the look on my face, clearly the vet thought I needed proof. But what I didn’t need was the ‘vulva curveball’ that she threw in to help me understand how to sex a kitten (something I hope I never have to do again, without the aid of a vet. Or in fact at all.)

So my poor husband was now a lone stag in a house full of hens, and we had two potential kitten-making machines, who were definitely not leaving the threshold until they had been sterilised to within an inch of their lives!

Having never had two cats, we were relying on the advice and good will of our friends and neighbours, who insisted we doubled up on the feline front.

Well. What can I say? I mean don’t get me wrong, the plus points outlined by said friends did come to fruition: “They’ll keep each other company”, “They love to play together”, “They’ll be sooo cute.” Granted.

However, what they failed to mention was the fighting, the endless running (which sounds like a herd of mini elephants rampaging down your hallway, generally at 4am when you’ve just put your daughter back to bed!) And don’t even get me started on the sporadic urinating and knocking over of vases, mugs and standard lamps.

This, FRIENDS, was not indicated in the sellers guide to purchasing more than one cat. We are still awaiting a full explanation..answers on a postcard please.

The clever thing the rascals manage to pull off with pinache is the regular snuggles and looks that say “I’m really sweet and never naughty honestly mummy”. This results in complete forgiveness for their indiscretions and a memory that can only remember quiet moments, sleepy furry babies, and cute ‘head tilting’ expressions. Clever.

This isn’t to say I’m not totally desperate for the cat flap to again be put into use again, I’ll be prepraring it with a can of WD40 weeks before they get ‘fixed’ - a word we try to avoid in this house, just in case they hear.

In fact, instead of the nervous edging outside that was permitted with ‘our Dibble’, and the anxious waits until he returned from next door’s garden 15 minutes later, I believe I will send ‘the girls’ off with a flask and a packed lunch and expect them back later that afternoon!

Yes Dear Charlie and Dear Dexter, you are very much loved by your non-furry parents (if I’m honest I think your furry parents had about as much interest in you as a Jeremy Kyle contestant). But please be aware that I am very much looking forward to your cat adulthood, and for the sound of pattering small feet to slow down, simmer and become gentle, silent adult stalks, interspersed with hours of sleep and endless purring.

Off to bed now. Kittens, start your engines!