Blog posts past: Slummy mummy

Urgh. It’s the end of a week’s holiday from work and I’m exhausted. Pre-child, five days annual leave were a chance to do very little indeed, but this being half-term, the week has been a social whirl of visits to London (involving a fun new game called Avoid the Congestion Charge Zone), swimming (twice), Basingstoke (it’s been a wet week) and Stoke to see the stepdaughter. We considered Legoland yesterday, but even George was complaining that his legs were too tired. Quite a relief, considering the £33 adult entry fee (even Alton Towers is a pound cheaper).

I know that it’s not the law to fill every precious second of the school holidays with relentless fun, but my current job/training involves so much multi-skilling that I’ve forgotten how to relax and just do nothing. There’s also the fact that the average four-year-old needs more entertainment than can be provided in a small house for more  than a few hours at a time. For a start, George doesn’t do creative activities out of choice. I did suggest that he made a Victorian paper doll, an activity on offer at Milestones, but he informed me that was a “school thing”, and he didn’t want to do it during half term. Anyway, it’s my holiday too, and even if I’m spoiling George with too many days out, I want to have fun as well.

The week’s reminded me why I don’t mind being a working mum. Going to work all day is so much less tiring than staying a home with a young person. It’s true that the housework is still undone when I get home in the evenings, but I’ve got the solution for that. I just don’t do it. Ever. The dust will still be there when I finish my training in autumn 2008 and I can hopefully work part-time again. Some of my fellow trainees say that the problem with study days is that they’re distracted by all the things which need doing around the house. For me, it’s the other way round. I only have to plug in the vacuum cleaner for an essay idea to pop into my head, and the housework is abandoned for the computer once again.

The other reason I’d be a rubbish full-time mum is that I’m no good at making small talk with other mums at the school gate. I really struggle to recognise faces (I think there’s a medical name for this, but I’ll just call it “laziness”). So there’s all these mums and all these kids, and I have no idea which one belongs to whom, or who is in George’s class. I even have a problem recognising the kids and mums who came to George’s birthday party. It’s not just a school thing (although how you’re meant to process any sort of face-recognition information or make conversation at 8.50am is beyond me). It hasn’t been unknown for me to walk past my own husband in the street. And when George brought home him class photo, it took two attempts to pick him out.

Luckily it’s never caused me a problem at work because I can usually link someone to the job they do, and where they sit. Although there is a team on my floor who hotdesk. That left me floundering for weeks. Obviously remembering names help, although I’m not great at that, either, which is why I rarely use them when talking to people. I know this is meant to give the appearance of being cold, but I make up for it by smiling a lot. And it’s better than calling someone by the wrong name (although this is something I grew up with: my mum used to regularly call me by the name of my sister, dad, our four cats and the dog before hitting on the right one). *

The only time I find the face-recognition thing a real problem is when I bump into someone I used to know from school (I grew up round here, so this happens quite often). While I don’t have a clue who they are, they always seem to recognise me. While I would like to think this is all because they are devoted readers of my blog, I’ve been told that it’s actually because I haven’t changed a jot since primary school. I guess I should take that as a compliment, but it's probably because I'm still a (speccy four-eyes).


* 2012 update... and this is why Sophie, my daughter, is named after Sophie, the family dog.

• First published on www.newburytoday.co.uk in 2007

Blog posts past: Rubbish student jobs

IT'S been 11 years since I left uni, and those hazy, happy summer breaks, starting in late June and running all the way through to early October, are just a nostalgic memory. There are many things about university I miss. The student bar. The vodka jelly parties. The atmosphere of academia that pervaded the hallowed corridors inspired the urge to learn within me. Honest. But it’s the long, long summer holidays that I miss the most. Even now, I spend the entirety of August feeling like I really shouldn’t be at work. It’s just wrong.

Mind you, it doesn’t take a lot to make me feel that I shouldn’t be at work. On returning from honeymoon, there was a strange sense within me, call it ancestral memory if you will, that I should be throwing in the towel on my career to become a homemaker. Didn’t last long - I’m rubbish at housework. And cooking. And keeping up any reasonable standard of household hygiene.

Of course in reality I didn’t spend the whole of the summer holidays lazing in bed (I had the term times to do that). In fact, I worked quite hard. Well, some of the time. I spent several summers as an office junior for one of Berkshire’s biggest companies (no, not THAT one) which made me vow never to follow a profession where I’d have to work in an office. Unfortunately, offices are quite hard to avoid if you’re vocationally no good with your hands (and 10 years at the NWN confirmed that journalists don’t spend most of their time in pubs. Not during working hours, anyway).

And then there were my waitressing stints, most of which were spent in the pub kitchens enlightening the chefs with the rudimentary basics of Descartesian philosophy (vegetables are a great prop for demonstrating Descartes’ theory about the intangibility of colour).

There was also several youth camp holidays, as a leader, which were fun but challenging, particuarly as my little sister was one of the delightful scamps under my care.  She and her mates obeyed my every command, as you can imagine. One year, the hunky leader who everyone fancied was a guy called Chris Simmons, who went on to be Mickey in The Bill. It’s not a big claim to fame, but thought I’d share it with you anyway.

Oh yes, and I almost forgot the one day I lasted in a refrigerated dairy factory. I had to stick six-for-four barcode labels onto yoghurt pots. My hands were so cold that most of my labels went on wonky. The nice thing was, I was able to go into Sainsbury’s the next day and identify which labels were mine from their rakish angle. Lovely (and hardy) co-workers, though, and they let me take home some bottles of Yop.

So as I drag myself to my desk tomorrow (early mornings are another thing I haven’t got the hang of since leaving uni) I will remind myself that August has never been a month of complete rest and recreation. It’s not as if the weather’s nice outside, anyway. Think I might buy some jelly cubes, though. And some vodka...

• First published on www.newburytoday.co.uk in 2007

Blog posts past: I discover the joys of Facebook

I’VE been traipsing around the country a bit this week, so really I should tell you about our climb up Mount Snowdon  (on a train), trips to Chester Zoo and Legoland, and an overnight stay in a motel where a name badge for a certain “Shag-able Sue” was found in the wardrobe.

But instead, I’ve decided to write about the new obsession that is taking over my life - Facebook. Or www.facebook.com, to give it its full world wide web URL. Set up in the USA three years ago as a social networking website for college students, it now lets everyone and anyone join. And indeed, it appears like everyone and anyone has now joined - or if they haven’t, they will do very soon.

Unlike Myspace, where most members aged over 25 felt like interlopers in a world that was just a little bit young and cool for them (unless you were a band member, DJ or Teen Spirit It Girl), Facebook embraces the geek in all of us. Whereas with Myspace your chosen wallpaper, font and general page design reflects how “with it” or not you are (and confirms for me that most young types have way better eyesite than I do - some of their pages are illegible), the look of Facebook is clean, functional and designed not to baffle those who grew up with BBC computers at school and Sinclair ZX81s at home.

The result is that although I was introduced to Facebook (as I am to most latest crazes) by someone 10 years younger than me, many more of my generation appear to have signed up to Facebook in recent months than ever dipped their toes into the world of Myspace. I am back in touch with old school and uni friends, workmates and exes that I haven’t seen for years; several of whom I am unlikely to meet in the real world ever again (they thought they could shake me off by moving to another country - they were wrong).

So what do we do on Facebook, apart from write endless cryptic messages on each other’s walls with the main aim of baffling other readers who aren’t in on the joke? Mainly poke each other. “Poke” as in “prod across cyberspace”, that is. And when we tire of that (which is rarely), we resort to the superpoke (tickle, irritate, defenestrate, use the force, throw a sheep at, etc). It’s extremely satisfying, and great for finally resolving those frustrating unspoken issues that have rankled for years, such as “why did you dump me in 1993?”.

And once all energy is spent, we can buy each other drinks; send flowers; replenish friend’s aquariums; turn people into vampires, zombies and werwolves, and compare people’s various traits (apparently I’m the second best dancer in my network of friends, which is a bit worrying. There can’t have been much competition). None of it is real, of course. But then, what is reality?

There are various interest groups to be joined, but most of them tend to peter out pretty quickly into a list of comments such as: “I love Derren Brown!”, “Me too!”, “I love him more!”, “Well, I’m going to marry him!”, “No, he’s mine!”... you get the idea. Facebook isn’t a forum for great thoughts or philosophical discourse (I’ve got the Digital Spy website for that).


But if you’re procrastinating over the commencement of your homework, housework, commute to work or the fact that you really ought to get dressed at some point today before it gets dark, Facebook could be the distraction you’re looking for. It’s changed my life. And my ability to meet deadlines, communicate with family members and maintain reasonable standards of household hygiene and personal grooming. Doesn’t matter though - I look always great in my Facebook profile photo.

* Actually, I will mention Chester Zoo, just for the amusing incident (for everyone else) where I got buzzed by a massive fruitbat in the bat house and fell over a rock in the dark. Bats are amazing, but a bit scary when they’re heading straight for you. And yes,  I know they’ve got sonar systems and would never get tangled up in your hair, but I dare you not to duck.

• First published on www.newburytoday.co.uk in 2007

Blog posts past: My writing - a health warning (aka why I can't spell)

THERE are a few things that you’re probably going to notice about my blogging style over the coming weeks, so to save you the trouble of spotting them for yourselves, I thought I’d make them clear from the start.

The first is that I have a surprisingly limited vocabulary. This was highlighted the other day when my son George was looking in a children’s cookery book, and said to me: “Look at this bicycle made from vegetables Mum, it’s ingenious”. Now, I do know what “ingenious” means, but I don’t think it’s a word I’ve ever used in everyday conversation. I’m more likely to say: “Ooh, that’s a bit clever”.


He was right, though. The verdured velocipede (don’t panic, I’ve just looked it up in Roget’s Thesaurus) was indeed extremely impressive. Not that poor George will ever get to see what it looks like in real life. In addition to using more long words than I do, he has been hampered with a mother who can’t cook. And the recipe involved courgettes, which I can’t stand.

The second thing you will soon realise is that I have no strong opinions about anything. Ever. Politics, popular culture, sport - if there’s a fence to sit on, you’ll find me happily perched on top of it. I am the ultimate neutral zone. I’d be rubbish on that Room 101, because there’s nothing that I truly hate. There’s very little that I feel passionate about either way.


Ambivalence (I’ve just checked the dictionary) isn’t the right word, because that implies that I’m torn by conflicting ideas on issues, but I’m not. I’m just... vague. I suspect that my head is too full of perfume and kittens for facts to spend enough meaningful time in there to allow personal judgements to form. Anyone who has seen me wandering aimlessly around Newbury town centre attempting to make purchases will have seen this in action. I’m not a shoplifter, honest. I just take a really long time to make up my mind.

The last point I really have to make - and this is a bit of a major confession - is that I  am a really bad speller. It’s terrible, I know, but the day they introduced PCs with spellcheckers - American or otherwise - into the NWN  newsroom, I felt that my career was on the up. I really don’t think it’s that unusual among journos. A lot of creative writer types are left handed like me, and I’m sure there’s a connection.


Plus there's the fact that I cheated in spelling tests throughout my entire schooling. A very old mate of mine is now a primary school teacher herself, and she holds me up as an example to her class of why it’s a really bad idea to copy off friends during tests. I suspect she doesn’t conclude: “... and then she became a journalist”, though.

Anyway, armed with an extremely good grasp of punctuation and grammar (I feel I have to point out that I’m good at something) I have now thrown off the shackles of journalism, and am able to venture into the wide world of writing for fun, safe in the knowledge that the wonderful Newburytoday web team will rid my copy of the worst excesses of bad spelling before publication. Who knows - I may even come up with some opinions along the way.

• First published on www.newburytoday.co.uk in 2007

Blog posts past: Why I no longer play netball with boys

Friday the 13th? The one you’ve got to watch out for is Thursday the 12th, as I discovered for myself last week.

I’d been persuaded to play in a charity netball match, with the assurance that there would be loads of people (male and female) playing, so I’d probably only be on the court for 15 minutes, tops. I turned up to find out that in fact there were exactly 14 players, and with seven per team, that meant I’d be playing the whole match.


After 45 minutes, I’d come to the conclusion that having me as goal defence was marginally more effective for my team than being a player short. Just about. If I learnt to stop shrieking every time the ball came anywhere near me, I might have even made contact with it a couple of times. At least in netball it’s pretty near impossible to score an own goal.

The match was surprisingly competitive, and extremely physical. This came as a shock to me, as I’d last played netball as a 16-year-old at St Gabriel's (I found it quite depressing to work out that how many years ago that was). I’m not sure I ever actually played a full match at school; my natural position was as a reserve. And certainly I never played on teams that included men. Not at St Gabs. We were nice girls.

Not that I noticed the male players that much, since I was too busy hiding behind the goalpost, until one (a rugby player, I have since learnt) decided that I was clearly a threat to him reaching the ball (I was probably trying to run out of the way of it at the time) and flew into me. I presume that was what happened, anyway, as the next 30 seconds or so are a bit hazy. All I know is that my head collided with the Tarmac. Ouch.


The result was a lump the size of a grapefruit, and lots of concerned players gathered round. It turned out that I was the only person on court with any First Aid training, so after telling them that trying to put me into the recovery position wasn’t the right way to deal with a head injury, I realised that my faculties were at least still working on some level, which was a relief.

Now, if you have an accident, it’s always best to have it just round the corner from a hospital, so I was packed off from Reading University Sportspark to A&E at the Royal Berks. The rest of the evening was spent having my head prodded, my pupils checked, and being asked questions like my name, the Queen’s name, the year, and the dates of the Second World War (I guess they get a lot of old people in casualty).


My favourite one was: “Who do you think I am?”, asked by the nice doctor, as he pointed at his stethoscope. I really wanted to say “a nurse”, as I know how much that irritates doctors (Bill has only just stopped asking a female doctor friend of mine “how’s the nursing going?” after 10 years of knowing her), but as I really didn’t want to be kept in overnight, I gave the correct answer.

After several hours of observation I was allowed to go home as long as I had a responsible person there to look after me. If not, Bill being there would do. I was given a wonderful leaflet that explained I may have suffered “bruising to the brain” which could cause symptoms for a few days or weeks. These include tiredness, feeling miserable, trouble with memory, difficulty concentrating and loosing my temper easily. Nothing new there then, says Bill.


I should also “avoid getting involved in stressful situations and should not make any major decisions” until I’m better. Which explains why I found it so difficult to decide which Easter Egg to eat next. The only answer was to eat two. At once. Well, the leaflet also says I should “allow myself to rest”. And for me, resting always involves eating chocolate.

In lieu of a bandage wrapped around my head a la Basil Fawlty, there is no sign of my trauma, so I’m milking the accompanying elbow graze for maximum sympathy with a lovely big dressing and a slight groan whenever I need to lift something heavier than a Creme Egg. And I have made one major decision -  I am never ever going to play netball again. I’ve always said that sport is bad for you.

• First published on www.newburytoday.co.uk, 2007

Blog posts past: Popmaster and pillow talk with Ian Anderson

I’ve been a bit poorly this week so have mainly been stuck at home, gleaning most of my entertainment from hubby Bill’s ongoing obsession with the BBC Radio 2  daily quiz Popmaster.

Bill was a competitor the other week - he didn’t even know he was definitely on it until DJ Ken Bruce said: “...and next, Bill from Newbury,” and then he got a call from a producer, saying: “You’ll be live on the radio as soon as this track ends.” A Lindsey Buckingham song has never sounded as long, he told me afterwards. Quite clearly he has never listened to Tusk in its entirety.

Anyway, Bill trounced the competition, winning himself a ‘Space’ radio (so-called, I assume, because it looks like one of those rocket ice lollies). But having got one question wrong, the dreaded ‘3 in 10’ round stood between him and a guaranteed place in the coveted Champions League finals at the end of the year.

“In 10 seconds, name three hits by... Pink,” pronounced Ken. Bill got two. Come on, could you have done better? Really?

So, ever since, Bill has been coming home of an evening to test me on that day’s ‘3 in 10’ (and it turns out that not many contestants can manage it). 10CC? Morrissey? No, you can’t count Smiths songs. The Three Degrees?

I think that a few Radio Two listeners would have been a bit jealous of my week’s highlight. Being really quite poorly that day, I was asleep at 2pm when my mobile rang. I didn’t pick up in time, but checking my voicemail, I discovered that Ian Anderson out of Jethro Tull wanted me to ring him. And who could blame him?

I had totally forgotten I was meant to be interviewing the Tull frontman for NWN2. I could blame this on being ill, but to be honest it’s not the first time. I once had to do a telephone interview with a slightly annoyed Gina Yashere while she was waiting in line at airport check-in to go on holiday, because I had failed to ring her the previous day. Irritated comedians do not make the easiest of interviewees.

So there I am sitting in bed, chatting to Ian Anderson, with a slight temperature and sounding like Bonnie Tyler because of my laryngitis. Soon as I ring off, I go straight back to sleep.


As a result, the next day sat at the computer to write up my interview, I’m staring at shorthand notes that appear to translate as: “terrified by big breasts”, “Auntie Het used to clasp me to her ample bosom”, and “Pamela Anderson”.


Now, while I don’t doubt for a second that these are direct quotes from the mouth of the Jethro Tull frontman (although my shorthand is truly awful), my memory of our conversation is a little hazy, and what I can’t figure is: what on earth was I asking him to elicit these responses?

Best answer wins a Popmaster ‘Space’ radio. (No, not really, Bill).

• First published on Newbury Today (www.newburytoday.co.uk) in 2007

Competition time! Life is Sweet.

Today I am celebrating - this blog has had 10,000 hits since I started it in April 2010. Thankyou so much to all my visitors, those who have visited it intentionally or otherwise (sorry to have disappointed several people who apparently hit on the Frankie Howerd piece having Googled "big titters").


To mark this momentous occasion, those lovely Dodgy boys are giving me a signed copy of their seminal 1996 album Free Peace Sweet. How fab is that?


And you, wonderful blog visitors, can win it. To be in with a chance, please comment with something (nice!) below, or alternatively tweet me @MrsRives with the hashtag #IloveTheSmudge.


(Or, for those who can do neither, please comment on the FB link).


Closing date in about two weeks or so.