Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Happy Hallowistmas)

What? Has the computer gone funny? Alas, no. Confused and bewildered?
You and my son both. Once again it is THAT time of year, when with unscrupulous determination and skill, the shops and supermarkets begin their dirty tricks campaign, desperate to unburden us of our hard-earned pennies one way or another.
I warn you now, you parents of those too young to be seduced by shop windows laden with plastic broomsticks and flashing pumpkins, fake christmas trees and 'Santa Stop Here' signs.
Your time will come, so prepare yourself now.
Why, in September, when innocently popping into the supermarket for a cooked chicken and a bag of mixed lettuce, should we want to see vampire costumes snuggled upon the shelves next to mince pies and tinsel? Try explaining to a four year old that it will not be Halloween tomorrow, nor even the day after, and that Father Christmas is not loading up his sleigh as we speak.
It makes me grumpy, and yes, I will confess, slightly panic-stricken.
Logically I know that there will not be an unexpected pumpkin shortage, but deep, deep down, like a grumbling appendix nestles the nagging fear of failure. For as a Mother, it is my duty to ensure that the 31st October will not be the anticlimactic non-event of my own dusty and distant childhood, when the most I had to look forward to on Halloween would be the 'Blue Peter Special', in which I could be inspired by demonstrations of 'How to create a witch's hat and a broomstick out of a washing-up liquid bottle, the inside of a toilet roll and some double-sided sticky tape'. Ah, the pressure, the pressure - our parents had it easy, didn't they?
Other than Christmas and birthdays, all they were obliged to provide was an egg at Easter, and a sparkler or two on Bonfire night. We, on the other hand, have created a ridiculously high standard which we struggle to sustain. Was my Mum a bad parent for not taking me Trick or Treating? Of course, it didn't actually exist then - not in Essex anyway, but even if it had, I expect she would have had more sense than to encourage her child to wander the streets on a dark winter's night, knocking on the doors of strangers, demanding free sweets.
More sense than me anyway.
Yes, I have finally given in to all the pleading, the whining and the emotional blackmail (pleeeease, ALL my friends are going........). So if you happen to see a pathetic, embarrassed, premenstrual-looking 41 year old on your doorstep Friday week, have pity. And give me chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
Happy Halloween! Roll on Christmas?!

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (It's A Wonderful Life)

It occurs to me that from this financial meltdown, this CREDIT CRUNCH, good may come in surprising ways. Bear with me, I am not totally mad, just verging on the marginally insane - I am a Libran after all. It is in my nature to keep my options open.
Having lived with the uncomfortable thought that in the next ten years or so, more people will be suffering with, or kicking the bucket from obesity-related illnesses, perhaps this Credit Crunch will make many of us have to rethink how and what we eat.
Perhaps when we can no longer afford to indulge in regular chip/chinese/curry/pizza/fried chicken takeaway fests we will start to realise what we have been missing - a rib cage for one thing, and pert buttocks for another.
For me personally, having to 'tighten my belt', has in fact meant I really can now tighten my belt.
So on a brighter note - I may be poor, the job centre may be beckoning, but my surgically attached jeans are now loose, verging on the baggy, and so, I must admit, just like one of my favourite films ever, "It's a wonderful life".

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Happy as a Dead Cat)

I once read a book called 'Happy as a Dead Cat'. It was very funny and made me laugh.
I once had a cat who died last week. It was not very funny and made me cry.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (An Oxymoron - The Joys of Parenthood)

Ah, the joys of Parenthood – the worry, the sleepless nights.
From the day they arrive into the world, it is the sleepless nights which are the horribly recurring feature of those early weeks and sometimes months. Exhausting and unexpected, no matter how prepared you think you may be. Tell your friends you are with ‘Bun in the Oven’, and predictably at least half will alert you to the fact that you’ll never have a good night’s sleep again. Ignore them at your peril, it’s absolutely true.
I don’t just mean the nights of feeds and nappies and wind, of pacing the house and even the streets – no, I am talking about the nights of fitful sleep or none at all when you lay in bed simply worrying about the things you can no longer control.
Snip, snip go the apron strings, and so the gut-wrenching anxiety begins; when they take their first steps into the school playground, when you are no longer there to hold their hands to keep them safe, or mop away the tears when knees get grazed – Ah, the joys of Parenthood.
Having gone through it twice with my twelve year-old, from the first day of Primary school to the first day of Senior school, you’d think I’d be getting the hang of it all by now, wouldn’t you?
Funny thing is, today was my youngest son’s last day of nursery, and come September, I don’t imagine that sending him off in the world will be any easier than on previous occasions but at least this time I know for sure I will be better prepared with a family sized box of Kleenex to wipe that snotty, tear-stained face – after all, at my age it’s starting to become embarrassing.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Anyone For Tennis?)

The Men's Final, Wimbledon.
Decisions, decisions.
Who should I support?
Federer? - Nice cardie, embroidered initials on the pocket.
Or Nadal? - Bit of a chav, sleeveless vest, white sellotape around his legs (?!), and Nike logos over absolutely everything; from sweat band to socks and probably pants but I have no proof - Mmm, Nice.
Two sets in I was firmly behind Federer. He was losing badly but looked no more perturbed than if he'd just discovered the battery had run out in his Cuckoo Clock - what a gent.
Nadal on the other hand, grunting like a pig in labour, muscles bulging out of his vest, with baggy nylon-looking shorts waggling about in the wind (is it me or are the girls' skirts getting shorter while the boys' shorts are getting longer?). No wonder he was sweating so much.
And not a flicker of a smile, not once. Just a permanent sneer - it wasn't nice and it certainly wasn't pleasant. Just very stressful. So stressful I couldn't bear to watch. So I went to do some ironing, and pondered, like you do, when engaged in some mindless, pointless, domestic activity.
And then it struck me. With horror I realised my allegiance was totally and utterly misplaced. If I had to choose between Switzerland or Spain, which would it be?
Or to put it another way,
Paella or Chocolate?
Definitely Paella (unless I was premenstrual, in which case I'd probably have both) - the juicy, succulent prawns, the squid, the tangy pimientos, some chicken, perhaps a little spicy chorizo, the glowing, yellow, saffron-infused rice. I just can't drool over chocolate in the same way, sorry Roger. It was at this point that I took a sneaky peek at the match, which by now had Roger fighting back heroically to win the third and then the fourth set, making me feel slightly less guilty for abandoning him. I also discovered that watching on widescreen upstairs made Nadal's muscles far more bulbous and his sneer far more evil than on the old box I was now watching downstairs - I think he was probably just really concentrating. Which was just as well.
And so jubilant was I when he did finally win, that I immediately went out and bought a Toblerone to celebrate - well they'd hardly be selling paella at the petrol station, would they?

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Is it a government conspiracy or is Life really so depressing?)

Someone tell me please, because I would really like to know, who invents the phrases that wiggle their way into our daily life as if they'd always been there? Credit Crunch, Weapons of Mass Destruction, Carbon Footprint?
Is it the Press? Maybe the Government? Whoever it is, I'd like them to stop.
One minute we've never heard of it, the next we're all saying it with such confidence and alarming regularity that we can barely remember a time when we didn't say it.
Is Credit Crunch a nicer way of saying RECESSION? If we call Nuclear Bombs weapons of Mass Destruction will it hurt less when they go bang?
And Carbon Footprint?
For goodness sake, let's just spit it out and be honest. We're not just leaving dirty marks on the new carpet, we're killing the planet!
I've had enough, really I have.
And anyway its all so depressing. If 'they' are going to carry on making up these silly phrases, how about some nice ones for a change? Life's hard, we could all do with a bit of cheering up. Who wouldn't rather hear some good news than some bad? So never mind the dying housing market, unemployment, war and famine and ask yourself this;
As my four year old son enquired this morning, "Daddy, do you prefer Credit Crunch for breakfast or Cheerios?" I know which I will be choosing.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Who Killed the Tooth Fairy?)

First I should explain one thing. In my family we have a tendency to be a bit behind with our dental development. My Mum tells me it's a trait which comes from her side of the family. The fact is, we get our teeth late. My wisdom teeth didn't appear until my thirties, and I think my Mum is still waiting for hers. At primary school my son still had a full shiny set of baby teeth long after his friends had grinned proudly with gaps and then ridiculously large teeth that sprouted from their gums at peculiar angles. It is for this reason that we continued the tradition of the tooth fairy; squealing with delight and 'surprise' when shiny coins were discovered with awe the morning after a visit from said magical being (long after it was perhaps sensible). But it is always easy to be wise after the event, as I found to my cost.
This morning I did a terrible thing.
My eleven year old son who is in his third week of secondary school told me he didn't think he believed in the Tooth Fairy anymore. (He had come out of school yesterday, carrying his toothy 'trophy' with delight, after it had wiggled it's way out in geography). Last night we had carried out the normal childhood deception of leaving the coin under the pillow, expecting to hear the usual delighted cries this morning of, "She's been!" (it's a pound these days, even for little teeth - god knows how much we'll be forking out for our three year old when his time comes - I expect we'll be leaving a crisp tenner on the bedside table by then - I'd better start saving now).
However, this morning was a little bit more low-key and I sensed a change. This is to be expected after all. He's an eleven year old boy who's suddenly feeling extremely grown-up, having learnt how to tie his school tie last week, being reminded constantly that he's a 'High School Bloke' now, and no longer a little boy (except in my eyes anyway, but I am his Mother, and moreover a Jewish Mother which (trust me) is even worse.
So when he casually declared his sudden revelation I was partly relieved and partly saddened by the end of this little bit of his childhood. After all, I was getting slightly anxious that if he now went to school and announced proudly that the tooth fairy had visited him last night, at best he would be teased relentlessly for the next five years until he went to college, or at worst would be beaten up, resulting not only in more visits from the tooth fairy, but also the dentist and the plastic surgeon. I was therefore totally unprepared for the reaction I received when I admitted that perhaps he had good reason for his doubts, and then, after eleven years of creating this wonderfully convincing myth, with one sleepy but cautious confession I crushed his world - I killed that poor, innocent, kindly giver of joy and money - I killed the tooth fairy!
But worse was to come. He now doesn't believe in Father Christmas either, and that, I think , is harder for me to come to terms with than him, for come Christmas Eve this year when I am merrily creating trails of Santa foot-prints in icing sugar, and leaving tea-stained thank you notes for the mince pies and carrot offering, he might just go along with it for the sake of his mad, sentimental mother - but then again, he might not.