The Gate

Now that Toby is at school, I have to go to The Gate every day. Twice every day. More if I've forgotten Toby's library book, or the permission slip for the Reception outing to the Toddington Outdoor Centre where he will be building a bivouac for his teddy (problematic on two counts: one, he doesn't have a teddy. He has a beloved red Power Ranger that has been chewed to within an inch of its life and is missing its left arm. And two, the bivouac is likely to be both more robust and more attractive than our house, where we are in the middle of building work.)

The Gate is terrifying. Imagine your worst nightmare, the one in which terrible demons force you back to school for an examination you've forgotten about and haven't revised for, upon which not only does your life depend, but the lives of everyone you care about? Well, there it is. The Gate. The place where you have to stand and make conversation with people with whom you have less than nothing in common. People who decide which children will get to see Santa at the school fair and who's going to get a place in after school art club. People who scrutinise your clothes and hair and timekeeping and your child's packed lunch, and get together to dissect it all. Are you reading, Constance Fish and the PTA committee? I know I've had the same clothes on three days in a row. I know my grey roots are showing. And I can't remember the last time I put makeup on either. But there's no need to say so. 'Oh, Clementine, you're so contented as a stay at home mum. It's lovely.'

Isn't it just? And as soon as I've been to the supermarket, taken Beatrice for her latest set of vaccinations, picked up Steven's suit from the cleaners, been to the builder's merchants, bought a present for the party Toby's going to at the weekend, taken Steven's smartphone back to the shop (long story involving Toby, Steven and a light saber app) and ascertained that it is physically impossible to buy pink shin pads, I'm going to stay at home and think about it.

And Toby likes his bananas a bit brown, so there.

Christmas

And I hope you all had a jolly happy one. Ours was very traditional. I chose and bought presents for our children, for our friends' children, and for Stephens' friends' children, learning from previous years not to engage in a discussion regarding these choices, which increases the workload and pressure on me whilst giving Stephen the comfortable feeling of having contributed in a meaningful way (for the record, Stephen, 'I don't think that's a good idea, why don't you get them something else?' is a contribution neither meaningful nor constructive). I organised the delivery of said presents in spite of the snow. The snow. Oh, oh, the snow. I attended - or arranged attendance - at the nativities, the end-of-term-concerts and the Christingle services. I even managed to get through the morning of Toby's Christingle, Beatrice's nativity and a rehearsal with the little group I've got together (all over 70 and very very keen) without letting anyone down. I planned the menus and shopped and cooked and made beds. When Stephen said it would be nice to take some cantucci into work, I made cantucci. When Beatrice wanted to take pink iced fairy cakes with glitter sprinkles to her nursery party, I made pink iced fairy cakes with glitter sprinkles for her nursery party.

And it's been magical. No one has screamed or lost their temper. The children have played beautifully. The huge pile of presents has been opened gradually and appreciated. Stephen has put down his iPad at least twice since he opened it on Christmas day.

And I made that Christmas.

The thing is, I used to be someone. Now I'm just everyone else.

Life goes on...

...long after the thrill of living has gone. That's how the song goes, isn't it? I can't stop thinking about it. Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living has gone.

I'm not suicidal. I've just got that song on my brain.

It happens to me sometimes. It's a condition my sister Florence, currently on a permanent holiday in the Middle East making the occasional appearance in Hello! magazine, calls Song Tourettes. It has only one symptom - a propensity to burst into loud, inappropriate and often inaccurate song without any provocation or prior warning. And, contrary to what Stephen might think. loud sighs and eye rolling are not a cure. There is no cure. One day, you're a respectable woman buying a dozen pork chipolatas in the village butcher, the next you're singing I'm a dingle dangle scarecrow with a flippy floppy hat in front of the vicar's wife. The poor woman had only popped in for a pound of mince. It might have mattered less if I'd actually had the children with me at the time.

Beatrice has started in the nursery class of Toby's school. We are, thank-the-Lord-in-heaven-above, no longer expected to attend Toddlers. I think this is why my Song Tourettes has moved beyond the scarecrow song to obscure scraps of pop songs I don't even remember knowing. Although why the vicar's wife couldn't happen along when I'm busy thanking-the-Lord-in-heaven-above rather than singing inappropriate songs in the butcher's, I don't know.

This latest manifestation of my Song Tourettes is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in almost six months. All together now - Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living has gone.

Birthdays

We watched the election results come in until far too late. I stayed up in the hope that Stephen would remember to say Happy birthday darling at midnight. Stephen stayed up in the hope of witnessing a change in government. We were both disappointed when we finally went to bed.

I dragged myself out of bed when the children got up at six thirty. We ate toast (all three of us), listened to the imminent post-election collapse of the world as we know it (me), and made a space station out of three empty boxes, a reel of Sellotape and a packet of dried spaghetti (Toby and Beatrice). Stephen came down at ten and expressed disappointment that we'd already had breakfast. He didn't say happy birthday. He asked for scrambled eggs. I scrambled eggs. Toby saw Daddy eating scrambled eggs. Toby wanted scrambled eggs. I scrambled more eggs. Beatrice saw Toby and Daddy eating scrambled eggs. Beatrice wanted scrambled eggs. I scrambled more eggs. Stephen asked whether I was going to have any scrambled eggs. No, I wasn't. I asked Stephen whether he intended to go to work, as it was half past ten.

Stephen asked me whether, as it was indeed half past ten, I intended to take Toby to school.

Why does he always, always win?

Invest! Invest!

Although I am not generally celebrated for my knowledge of stocks and shares (Stocks: flavoursome fluids generated from the remains of our roast dinners and used to make soups and casseroles. Shares: a futile, obsolete concept of something that only happens among other people's children, viz: But Beatrice, Lily shares her toys with her brother), I've got inside information for anyone able to benefit from it. The Bailey family are currently on holiday in Cornwall, in a small self catering cottage. And chicken pox has hit. Big time. Instead of being mother to two beautiful children who turn heads in the street, I am mother to two variants of the Creature from the Black Lagoon who would send people screaming from the streets if only I could take them out.

So, guardians of the nation's wealth, I say this: Invest in calamine lotion, Invest in aloe vera gel. Invest in bicarbonate of soda. Invest in children-friendly antihistamine syrup (although beware of that one, I intend to prosecute under the Trades Description Act on the grounds that the packaging says 'may cause drowsiness' and neither child has slept more than two hours for the past three nights).

We are going through all of the above with no regard for expense. And the Calpol goes down pretty quick in these circumstances too. It would be good to think that our chicken pox break might bring good fortune to someone else.

Steven, meanwhile, helps by taking long coastal walks to the fishmongers in the next street and bringing back dinner.

My top lip and other sorry tales

I have two cuts on my top lip. Literally, on my top lip, just above my canines, like vampire teeth in reverse. To complete the Twilight look, they keep opening up. I know I should keep my top lip still until they heal. But have you ever tried saying, ‘Beatrice, remove your teeth from Toby’s arm,’ without moving your top lip? Or, ‘Yes, it would be a pleasure to bake a cake for the PTA sale,’ or, ‘Of course you like vegetables,’ or, ‘When was the last time you saw it?’ or indeed any of the eight phrases that make up the bulk of my social interaction. (For the record, the others are: ‘We’re not getting a dog,’ ‘What‘s the magic word?’ ‘Is this a marketing call?’ ‘and ‘Of course I don’t mind.’)

A lip wound that bleeds whenever you speak has its advantages, of course. Constance Fish, Chair of the PTA and Minder of All Business, School and Otherwise, couldn’t wait to get away from me this morning. Mrs Leyton, Beatrice’s nursery teacher, took one look and clearly decided that I didn’t need to be burdened with whatever variant of the ‘Beatrice is a dear, dear girl but she really oughtn’t to bite the other children’ lecture I’d been due to receive. Perhaps she thought Beatrice had finally got round to biting me.

But the truth is more prosaic. I’d just got the children to bed last night. Stephen was late and I needed a glass of wine. I wrenched the cork out of the bottle, leaving the jagged edges of the foil. And then, dear readers, inspired by generations of gin-swilling mothers, I lifted the bottle straight to my mouth. Ouch, I thought, as Stephen walked through the door.

‘I’ll have some of that,’ he said cheerfully.

‘What, the wine or my life blood?’ I asked, wiping the latter from the floor.

‘The wine,’ he said, looking vaguely puzzled. Of course he wanted the wine. He’s got my life blood already.

Nine months later

Clementine, I hear my vast audience of readers cry loudly, Clementine, where have you been? Why oh why have you posted nothing of your domestic exploits since last March? Are we to be left for an entire year with no news of your jam making, cake baking, husband-placating existence?

Thank you, I whisper shyly behind my demure, wifely veil, you're too kind, but my husband really doesn't like me writing about our lives in a public forum (meanwhile, women in hijabs have full-time jobs outside the home and write books about how free they are. Am I missing a trick here?)

Don't worry, the vast audience replies, there are only three of us and we all know you're only a fictional character.

Indeed, I say, and I know all three of you personally and see you quite regularly, so this thinly veiled fictionalisation of my mundane life has slipped down the list of my priorities. In fact, it's buried in the garage freezer underneath last year's blackcurrants.

Good lord, we thought you'd made those into jam long ago.

No, my friends, neither blog nor blackcurrants have morphed into life-sweetening miracles. Both became unappreciated chores, hence the garage freezer. However, the last nine months have seen developments that leave me with a stark choice: go raving mad, develop an expensive shopping habit (Sarah tells me it's very therapeutic), or resurrect the blog.

Thank you for reading. I'm off to make some jam.