Happy New Year thus far. Argh. Covid-boredom trigger warning also

Firstly, apologies if I’ve cornered you IRL or otherwise in some way over Covid. I can’t seem to help it and it is becoming a bit…problematic. Annoying, probably, or boring at least, and certainly for me it is the closest I’ve come to feeling overwhelmed by anxiety and righteous fury and deadened despair. I’m normally so robust! So mild-mannered! So Guardian-y and leftish and gently, nervously tiptoe-y ‘hope-I-don’t-offend-anyone’ when it comes to politics. I always thought the papers were smart and that governments were quite sensible, on the whole. Maybe even a little interchangeable. But OH I don’t feel like that any more. The schools won’t open after the Christmas break and I doubt they will open effectively until Easter, which would make it a year that kids in this country have had seriously disrupted, half-arsed education. The remote learning is a sad little substitute at the best of times, the quarantining of perfectly healthy kids frequent, teachers spread thinly as their colleagues are sent home after PCR tests tell them (and everyone they’ve been in contact with) that they are positive.

My kids are pretty much fine. We have a small flat but enough old laptops and spare phones to facilitate five of them accessing online lessons although the quality of that (and the so far complete absence of actual teachers popping up on screens in a facsimile of a classroom situation – something that has yet to happen) is not convincing at all. It seems every school has done things a little differently and I am sympathetic to that but OH MY GIDDY AUNT there is very little learning being done this way. And I say that fully aware of my luck and privilege to be able to be here, present, physically in the flat, monitoring the ‘learning’ (hollow laugh) and not having to split my attention by doing paid work other than my usual freelance odd hours that can fit in with the round robin of shared tabletop time. (I don’t actually have any paid work and haven’t had since the beginning of 2020, that bastard of a year, but I count my nearly-finished novel as my ‘work’ because if you discount that, I am just a very bad housekeeper).

My family is functional, my flat is warm, we have snacks in the fridge. But there are many children who do not have comfortable home lives and the school closure condemns them to staying locked in there. Kids with unsafe homes and unsafe carers and no access to remote learning. We know there are those kids out there. Of course, we know the government has opened the schools up to them, the vulnerable children, but we also know that many of those kids will not be turning up. They didn’t turn up in vast numbers last time, and that is probably because vulnerable kids slip through the cracks because they are vulnerable. It’s hard to picture those kids if you don’t really know any. I suspect the people campaigning to close schools do not know any. I also suspect most of them have been able to complete their own education in relative peace and security and have somehow forgotten what that means. Being safe, being able to learn in an appropriate, supportive environment, being surrounded by teachers and friends who are all in the business of helping everyone become their best selves, socially, educationally, and otherwise. When did that become a privilege afforded just to the lucky ones in the olden days?

Then there is the hideous gap between the luckiest kids and the rest of them. The luckiest kids will have a school that manages remote learning well. There will be accountability and regular check-ins, face-time with teachers, enough devices to go around. A space that is quiet. Some will have online tutors to help them with gaps and to give them an advantage. The rest of them will find themselves somewhere on that spectrum between wealthy and lucky and poor and unlucky. And what does all that do after a ten year Governmental effort to close those gaps? It destroys all the work done. It opens the gap wider, creating a bloody great Grand Canyon of inequality. We we never equal, right? But this…this finishes off even the illusion and the hope of equality good and proper.

Before the latest school closure, a friend of mine who teaches says that when the kids got back to school in the Autumn, her staff were astounded by how much knowledge the kids had already lost. Big red crosses next to most of the kid’s names. And the Government, alert to those losses, threw the equivalent of about £20 per kid to help close that gap again.

I mean, I despair. And I despair that kids are retreating into their phones even deeper, sat around their flats and in bedrooms (if they are lucky enough to have a bedroom of their own – five of mine share theirs), finishing netflix and finding online girlfriends in other countries so they can’t actually meet them IRL – instead texting them all the time in their best approximation of what a big boy might write (I speak from experience here *wink*). I despair that they aren’t able to sashay down a school corridor like Marianne and Connor could do, brushing past someone they fancy and getting that rush of teenage swooning lusty feeling that is rare and short-lived and ephemeral and magical. That they can’t meet up legally with their dorky mates and hang out, talking who knows what kind of shit to each other and learning from all that boisterous loutish showy-offy stuff. Instead, they are growing up inside, told to be scared, told they are likely to make someone sick. That avoidance of risk trumps everything. That they are super spreaders. Might kill a grandma. Act like you are sick, says Matt Hancock.

I’m in the business of kids so this stuff matters to me. I am in the business of trying to raise fearless, good people. I thought we had a system that wanted to support me in this, that sought to nurture the best out of all kids, no matter where they came from and what they had to offer. But now, in the pursuit of saving the NHS, we are dismantling the education system. Children are being punished and they are making sacrifices they can’t conceive they are making and it is rotten. Ugly. Immoral.

So. There is that to think of on this first day of the new year. We did as we were told and didn’t celebrate with anyone. We did what we usually do on any locked-in evening which is watch TV. I tried to get the kids to watch Little Miss Sunshine but the husband gave up and went to bed, Barnaby started deep diving into his phone again and Casper fell asleep. I sent them all to bed at 11:27pm (so close) in a bit of a rage (‘why don’t you guys TRY HARDER?’) but came out again into the living room with Barnaby so I could show him what happened at midnight.

Nothing happened at midnight. I sent him up the stairs to watch the few fireworks being lit and one nearly landed on his face, so I guess that happened. He came back down the stairs and we looked at our phones – him to one of the girlfriend threads he seems to have many of and me to rage on Twitter about Covid things and then I tried to go to sleep but it didn’t come. The baby, usually so good at sleeping, usually waking at 6:30am-ish, went for a new year, new him early-riser 4:30am thing and so I struggled out into the living room with him to find the dog had gone through the rubbish, tin foil and chicken bone shards everywhere.

I slept on the couch a little with the baby, trying to fob him off on Sesame Street music clips, hoping that the kids would wake up and sit with him and relieve me but those little sleepy buggers couldn’t wake up after their exciting night of distracted uncommitted movie-watching and so I gave in and made Remi and I bacon and eggs. Two coffees later, kids awake, husband out of bed, I went for a run (good) and then came home and ate eight Ferrero Rochers (less good).

Now I am tired. I am expecting nothing from this year but an insidious backsliding into an unrecognisable, unimaginable new normal. God help us.

Photos to sift the sombre tone.

Noah had a little role in a documentary about a brilliant watchmaker, playing him as a 70s child. Here he is being filmed by Nigella’s DOP in a rambling enormous house in Crouch End one weekend. He was clearly a cinematic star:

Baby goes to Wagamamas before the last lockdown:

Otis looking joyful and in need of a haircut:

Christmas earrings. I kind of forgot to write about Christmas but because of the Tier system our holiday to Devon was cancelled. Christmas was reduced to a greyish sock found under the couch covered in dog hair. But these earrings were lovely:

Something we are allowed to do – go into the park and spend some time in there but not with more than one other person. Thank God for the park:

Here’s to better times, eh? While that sentiment feels as hollow as my sense of humour lately, let’s hope it all comes good somehow.

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You might remember me from Facebook

Hi. I tried to leave Facebook last month but it turns out it is really hard. Mostly because I didn’t do a very good job of it. I did a sort-of slap-dash exit which involved some general “How To Leave Facebook” googling, the downloading of old photos and terribly embarrassing twelve year old posts where I have written little missives (which I thought at the time were comic and now, just, KILL ME with the cringiness), and then I got bored with the next steps which required more of a deep-dive, committed, computery fiddling. Something to do with third parties. Unnecessary and dull said my naive, giddy-with-a-newfound-false-sense-of-freedom inner voice and so I skipped the third step and went on to babyishly imagine I was finally one of those people who had broken free.

Of course, I know – I KNOW – that Facebook owns Instagram and so I also know that a real, proper Facebook-Leaver would delete Instagram too, and also WhatsApp if we are being thorough, but I felt like those were steps too far. I love a little (long) scroll through the Instagram world which I fill with interiors/babies/friends/foodie worlds. It is like I have my own TV channel and I am the boss of it. Also I am the star, and the presenter, and the HR hiring and firing person who makes decisions about who gets airtime and who can piss off and so I couldn’t give it up. Not my Instagram joy. Especially not now, when everything has the sheen of sadness on it and joy requires a bit of work to first uncover and then to hold on to for dear life. But I was prepared for a little Leaver-compromise and no one would know that I hadn’t done it perfectly well, and how deep should one really have to go and isn’t it too late for us all to really break free and why can’t I just treat Facebook leaving like I do folding the washing – do it for a bit and then chuck everything into a hallway cupboard and walk away before it all falls back out onto the floor to become part of someone’s cushion and blanket soft-toy upholstered den?

So it turns out that I’m still on Facebook. I can’t get into it to mindlessly scroll though and while I miss that a little, all the checking in and seeing what people have been up to, all the photos of birthdays and sunny days in New Zealand, I do not miss the aggravation I was feeling over people who do not agree with me. Which is a whole problem in itself. I would sometimes wade in and argue with people and then feel weird about arguing and then rant IRL about it and sound, once again, like a nutter. Now I do not have to argue with people online because I am blind to them. BLIND. Also wholly uninformed about whose birthday is coming up. It’s a bit hard to get used to.

I have effectively left but it turns out you can still find me listed on it and WORSE is that my Instagram stories are still there, posted whenever I post some dumb little video about us walking along the canal or eating Korean chicken wings in buffalo sauce. And so here I straddle – one leg in the Leavers and one leg in the Remain. I have failed. I am a social media slave. Weak, blind, missing Messenger quite badly and yet never again able to write someone a short birthday message on their page as though I had actually remembered and not just been spurred on by the social pressure of everyone else doing it after being reminded duly by that Zuckerberg.

Also. There had been more auction house stalking and bidding and ‘winning’. ‘Winning’ at an auction is a funny phrase because you haven’t really ‘won’ if you absent-mindedly put a bid on another vase/chandelier/table lamp/Taschen coffee table book/wall sconce and then forget about it but later discover you owe an auction house somewhere deep in the country quite a bit of money plus hammer price plus VAT. We have been having couriers turn up frequently and we don’t even know what will be in the boxes. I mean, things are getting very crowded in here again. I will show you a little sample of the delights that are now put back into cardboard boxes and shoved into corners and wardrobes and under beds and behind the doors. They are all a bit mismatched but if there was a theme, it would be mid century Murano glass with a bit of Hollywood Regency and a dash of 50s toleware. All for the house we don’t currently live in, of course. The house in New Zealand we will one day visit (me for the first time) and that we will one day live in and that we will furnish in this multi-era interior design mashup of ABSOLUTE DREAMS:

We are expecting any day now for the courier to deliver a thick 70s gold chain necklace, two Art Deco club armchairs, another toleware chandelier, another Murano pink 70s waterfall chandelier and a green velour walnut framed early 20th century button back sofa. Mark has also bid on a small brass statue of a gorilla in a baseball cap. He ‘lost’ it last time but is trying again because, out of some Christmas brass gorilla-shaped miracle, another one turned up at the auction house. He is quivering with hope and excitement and I am, well, I am hoping the auction gods let that one go to a more gorilla-appropriate dwelling.

In other news, someone asked me (again) if I was expecting another baby yesterday. I was wearing navy corduroy dungarees but, like, still…it was a bit sobering. Also sobering was the lovely night on Wednesday in celebration of us all being allowed out again – we went for cocktails at the Connaught Bar but could only afford one drink and a shared pizza because it was expensive in that way that you think it might be an in-joke, and then you realise it is not. Still, good for my rather pickled liver to have to stop at one.

This is me trying to look fetching, not freezing, with the cutest baby in town. I think the photo has been squeezed, so ignore that. See instead those parched lips, crepey neck and crispy fringe! Lovely new Emilia Wickstead coat though – new with tags, usual price 2000 pounds (oh yes!) but bought for a song (well, 200 pounds) on my old faithful friend eBay:

And finally, the oldest and youngest of our clan, having a cuddle and cheering us all up:

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Tin Foil Hat

I’ve turned into a bit of a squinty-eyed, suspicious person of late. I hesitate to call myself a ‘conspiracy theorist’ because those people are nuts but I am increasingly sounding a little like one. It is boring everyone, especially me. I left Facebook without a word because I wasn’t sure the world needed another post declaring that someone was ‘taking a break’ from social media because WHO CARES but if you are looking for me on there and I am absent, it’s because I’m sitting with the conspiracy theorists in our tin foil hats, warmed by the light of obscure alarmist websites and sweating a bit with all the collective anxiety.

It’s a cold odd world out there and apparently that’s the way I am finding my way through it all. I’m listening to scientists on podcasts I had never heard of, stomping through the park in the bright cold sun throwing the ball for the dog and patting the baby’s head while becoming enormously worried about faulty PCR tests and the inefficacy of vaccines. I can’t read The Guardian anymore. Admittedly, I am also intermittently fasting every day until 1pm so maybe some of all this is just that I’m hangry.

Why are you fasting, I hear you say? Well, you’re more likely actually spending a moment worrying about my descent into paranoia, but if you have skipped that bit, I’ll tell you about the fasting. The fasting is because I can’t quite fit my shirts around the upper arms. Before I had that delicious baby I had intermittently fasted and I lost that pesky 3kg that ruined the line of my jackets and silk blouses. It worked that time and it was quite…addictive. You stop eating at 9pm and don’t have anything else food-y until 1pm the next day. You feel a bit hungry when you wake up and at 11am-ish, but then you go all manic and clear-eyed and kind of twitchy. You get shit done at warp speed until you collapse into a bowl of softly scrambled eggs on buttery toast with slices of truffled brie at 1:02pm on the dot. Those Clarence Court orange yolks are what I live for. Them for lunch and a glass or two of some sort of wine in the evening post-dinner while lying on the couch with a kid at my side and a kid at my feet and a dog stealing food scraps from the bin. That’s my jam right now in these uncertain, dull, stressful times. And that’s how those shirts began to fit me properly without the fabric getting its own kind of stretchmarks. Upper arm fabric stretchmarks.

But this time around the fasting isn’t doing much and that might well be because of my advanced age. And the bars of Sea Salt Green & Blacks that I stuff into my gob at 8:58pm every night in another manic frenzy before the food curfew kicks in. I don’t know. The fasting feels a bit fruitless but then you have to do something, right? Perhaps it’s the scales that are just not telling me the truth about my fasting results. Perhaps I am very muscly from the Saturday yoga classes that my dear husband and I are doing. That could explain the stubborn 81kg situation that oscillates only slightly one or two kgs over the week.

Now, is there anything more boring that reading about someone’s weight? There isn’t and for that I apologise. It’s just that with this second pseudo-lockdown there isn’t much else to report. I can’t tell you about restaurants or cafes or shops or outings with friends. I can’t tell you about exciting job opportunities or school concerts or any new exciting floor-length frock purchases because no one does that now. We have nowhere to go. It is quiet and gentle and boring all at once.

I’ve started baking a bit more than usual because of Bakeoff and because of general malaise. We’ve made babka, coconut and almond cake, Dorset apple cake and Barnaby made biscuits. Actually we got all of the buggers baking over halfterm which was close to being a triumph. Each of the kids except for that delicious baby had to choose something to cook and something to bake; they had to make a list of ingredients, shop from them, bake and cook by themselves and then feed the whole family.

Then I ruined it by making it a competition. Everyone had to vote but it got complicated because there were two categories and Otis teamed up with bigger different brothers each time because he is only seven which made the winners kind of fuzzy and then the prize, which should have been a lovely trip with me to Ottolenghi to buy loads of very expensive cakes, turned into some sort of order-your-own-individual-takeaway and it blew the budget. It also erased the joy because there is very little joy in watching someone eat ten Korean-fried chicken wings when you were envisioning an Autumnal wander down Westbourne Grove with your big DIY Cook-off and Bake-off winning son/sons with you, talking about Important Stuff on the way to buy little cakes and lattes while peeping into the closed-down shops which used to be fun and now probably won’t ever reopen. I mean, those kids stole my tart and pastry dreams from me. Deliveroo stole them from me too.

The kids made sushi, tacos, spicy chicken wraps, dumplings, lentil soup and cornbread and for the baking they made pancakes, chocolate chip cookies, banana bread, babka and Victoria Sponge. It was *quite* the week. The washing up sucked, but I didn’t have to think about that infernal question of what to have for mother-truckin’ dinner for SEVEN WHOLE NIGHTS.

Here are some photos of the Victoria Sponge made by Ned and his friend Anna (yes, we had emergency baking expert child ring-ins) and a masterful babka by Noah:

Here is our baby feeling very Autumnal and joyful in our garden (and in a very wonderful jumper knitted by Loretta’s mother Lynne that has passed through about seven kids):

Here we are in between Lockdowns #1 and #2 on halfterm swimming at 7:30am in the Serpentine. It was extremely cold – so cold that it hurt and made breathing difficult for about a minute and it made us very pink and sort of frisky afterwards. It was a joy – but a shortlived joy as now the Serpentine Swimming Club has closed in case we all spread Covid to one another like mouth-breathing infected monsters. There were about four people there, in the open air, but still. One mustn’t be too complacent:

Do I sound fed up and cranky? I think it’s because I am. But even in the midst of a pandemic, there are delicious things to be found everywhere – like oversized chesterfield sofas and a husband who loves online auctions as much as I do. Just this weekend we have bid on and won a Scandinavian three piece set of leather and bent wood armchairs by Oddvin Rykken – kind of awful but maybe cool if I figure out how to make them look stylish and not just…really ugly…and a 1970s Murano pendant light which is PURPLE (I hate purple) and a four bottle champagne ice bucket thing which seems a bit hefty and ill-thought-through. Mark got excited about a brass sculpture of an ape wearing a baseball cap and bid on that but THANKFULLY we were outbid. I think our downfall might lie in auction houses.

More lovely things though…babies who are beginning to talk and all these teenagers and boys who spread on the couch and talk amusing rubbish to each other all day. Sometimes they do kind things for each other – Ned has been helping Otis with his handwriting and Casper has been walking the dog at least twice a day. I tell them that they must never leave as I will die of the grief and then I realise how creepy that sounds and I tell them that it is ok to leave as long as I can visit a lot. How are we supposed to disengage from our children who keep growing up? I am hoping that having a bunch of them might make it easier but imagine how weird it will be when I lock the baby in a small room when he reaches 18.

Luckily the aliens/climate change/covid vaccine/robots will have gotten us by then. PHEW.

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Jumpers for school boys

I did the move to my winter wardrobe a few weeks ago, after reading the writing on the wall. AKA getting a bit cold. It turns out that not listening to your mother about washing your wool jumpers in a kind of…careful way renders them unwearable. She is a clever lady, my mother, and she did an excellent job of mothering and one example of that is she told me to hand wash your woollens in a special mild liquid soap and then you gently stretch them back into place and lay them on a towel to let them dry. I heard her, I did it a few times, then I got bored of it and thought ‘If They (The Man, that is) can send a bloke to the moon then surely They can make washing machines and detergents work in a harmonious way to not ruin my Bella Freud jumpers’.

Reader, it seems that They have not managed to work out this particular sartorial sweet spot and so if you chuck your jumpers into the wash with all manner of pissy boy’s pyjamas, muddy rugby socks and diaphanous silks then some things don’t survive. My jumpers are now very small. They can only fit the boys aged ten and under. I remember with a bit of wide-eyed shame that last winter these jumpers were just as ruined and just as tiny but I wore them anyway. I was either very thin (unlikely) or I was so pleased not to be postpartum anymore with that lagging inability to fit things that I reckon I probably just shoved those tiny jumpers on anyway and to hell with the red welts around the elbow joints where your arms sort of refuse to bend and the accidental crop top situation every time your arms venture higher than your ears. I mean, all power to me.

But now, the jumpers look just a bit wrong and so what is a sustainably-minded lady to do? Particularly when the weather in this country is all nice and mild for so long and you just wear flattering dresses and t-shirts until one day it changes and you only have about a three day window to wear your eclectic and carefully-curated-from-eBay-and-sample-sales-over-a-long-time jacket/blazer collection and then BAM it’s time for coats and jumpers.

Coats and jumpers. Great, sure, yes. There is magic in a leopard print coat (I am still relying on my Stella McCartney £1250 coat which was reduced to £150 in a magnificent Selfridges sale triumph) or my dusky pink Whistles dropped shoulder cocoon coat or my vintage rabbit fur number or even my boring but quite useful leather biker jacket worn with a scarf. (I don’t own any proper scarves really because they make me feel like I am asphyxiating and/or itchy but in my mind I have a lovely collection). Anyway. What do you do? Long time readers will know I am a terrible clothes snob and cannot just buy any old jumper. It needs to have something expensive about it. A cashmere element or a high price tag or some quirky zhoug about it. And of course you can’t go to the High Street for jumpers in the correct size anymore because:

a. All the local shops in Queensway have been picked off over the years: sacrificial lambs to the Westbourne Grove curse, then to the bloated Westfield down the road and then to a tortured, loud and never-ending development/gutting of the former department store Whiteleys which used to have a Zara, an H&M, a movie theatre, an M&S, a greeting card place, a book shop, a jewellers, a fountain, cafes and which is now a literal block of rubble with the heritage-listed original facade still barely in place. When they first started demolishing it you could hear deep drilling into survivalist-level storeys below ground and it sounded just like an unbalanced washing machine. Like an unbalanced washing machine that happened to be HAUNTING YOU, a distant ‘thump thump thump’ all the time. I quite liked it. It was like having my cheerful noisy companion which is perfect for people like me who get lonely in their own company after fifteen minutes but it did drive many of the neighbours mental.

b. Covid makes it very boring to go into shops now, but ordering online seems to be very lazy and is often full of similar potential incorrect sizing hazards. The mask thing is understandable but it is horrible when you are wearing glasses or lipstick or if you want to communicate in a nonverbal way with another human being – even if you want to communicate in a verbal way the masks make it all a bit joyless. BUT I’M STILL WEARING MINE OK? I do what I am told, like.

c. The High Street jumpers are not designer-y enough for me and more importantly are most likely made by a small boy in a terrible factory somewhere and then, of course, end up in landfill. I’ve seen the Attenborough film and so I know.

It leaves me with the charity shops (the ones that are still open, that is) and Portobello Road on a Saturday which is very good for ivory woollen cardigans and vintage Fair Isle ones.

That’s what a sustainably-minded lady should do.

In Other News

I turned 43 in the beginning of October. We went out for brunch at Honey & Co on Friday, had unlimited pizza and drinks with the very lovely primary school fellow parents, then out for dinner and a movie (On the Rocks) at the Electric Cinema.

On Sunday I slept in and we ate all the small cakes we bought from Ottolenghi – all eight of them. We were going to share them magnanimously with the children, honestly. When we bought them, squeezed into the tiny Notting Hill deli with our masks and the awkward socially distanced queue which snaked outside, pointing and shouting and arching our backs to let the staff past, we were all: “Let’s have that one and yes, I’ll take that slice of carrot cake too and I think the boys will like the look of that raspberry cheesecake thing”, etc etc. Plenty for all. But when we got home we realised children have no real appreciation for expensive lemon and polenta cakes or blueberry clafoutis or flourless mousse chocolate cakes and so we hid them and scoffed them later.

It was short, that birthday suspension of normal rules and normal aggravations and aggressions. There was a definite half-day where my Birthday Princess-like Self was venerated and adored by all. Where people treaded softly and wished me the happiest of days and where small hands drew balloons with lead pencils and wrote my name with lashings of curlicues. By afternoon the goodwill was nearing its natural end and there was squabbling and a husband who had tired little piggy eyes and who really deeply desired an afternoon nap but I said NO!

NO! It is my birthday and so you must not let yourself slip into unconsciousness, even for a minute because then I would be doing all the boring childcare and for this day, THIS DAY ONLY, please spare me from the drudge of that.

And he said yes, he would cheer up and shake off his afternoon lethargy and so we went out into the driving rain with our masks on and fogged-up glasses and had a birthday date featuring chilli pisco sours and Bill Murray. And it, and they, and he, were good.

Cute baby wrapped up in a blanket on the couch. Nothing much to do with my birthday except that he is a gift that keeps on giving (except when he screams and when he pretends to be in a boxing match with you with balled-up chubby little hands that hurt a little). I’ve no idea why his body and head are so squashed in this photo but be assured, he has normal girth for a baby his size:

An apple with quite rude bits, as delightedly found by Otis:

Portobello Market Spicy Korean Chicken birthday lunch complete with a Moscow Mule so that we can sit at the open air bar tables for free:

Honey & Co Birthday bun:

Birthday earrings and 43 year old face:

And there it ends. I am now 53,000 words into my novel which has so far had two rejections from agents. I also have to try and work out where the baby is going to sleep now that he has outgrown the hallway cot.

Wish me luck.

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A Video That Might Play (Also Might Not)

I have a cold sore right now; I am stricken with the (herpes) virus. Luckily no one sees me except for the school run and then no one gets close and obviously I am masked everywhere else I go. Oh, who knew that masks would turn out to be quite brilliant for the days when a cold sore takes over your top lip like an evil scabby parasite. The whole half of my top lip gets huge and sore and the blister weeps and crusts over and then bleeds. No one wants to kiss you, but then – no one ever does usually anyway.

Except last night. I had a dream where a really kindly looking man (he looked a little like the genius Professor in Money Heist) had some sort of shared parenting situation with me (we had a cute but forgettable and nameless baby son together). Anyway, we were just friends staying at a hotel with our nameless baby and he came downstairs for breakfast and not only declared his love for me in the hotel lobby but also asked me if I had any usable eggs left in my womb to make another baby. I was swept away by his romantic request and I kissed him. It was lovely, like starring in a modern day inclusive romantic comedy. I felt wanted and desired by the gentle genius Professor. I remember those feelings fondly although historically they have never been attached to queries regarding my geriatric remaining fertility.

And I say this, because last week I had a really properly scary dream where some hooded shrouded demon people came to the side of my bed to incant terrifyingly undeciferable spells’o’evil into my ear and I couldn’t shout at them to go away because I had that middle-of-the-night dryness of the throat. So I breathed my foul just-woke-up breath of the dead all over them in a recurrent aggressive ‘hiss’ many times (in real life, no less) and I woke myself up.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Is the covid -despair entering my unconscious? Do I just want another baby? Am I watching too much TV? Should I drink more water in the evening? I just don’t know.

Anyhoo. Schools are back and so I have some time in the day to write my half-written novel. I try to write it, but this flat is like a run-down community centre with endless visitors and deliveries and workers and friends and dogs coming in and out and constant cups of tea being made and half drunk, left to be tipped over by an errant toddler. My office is the kitchen table and my chair is next to the kettle because that’s where the cord is to recharge the laptop and so I cannot run from the kindly throng. Also I like the kindly throng. It is fun but it is hard to write my novel.

So I tried 1000 words a day which weirdly worked when I had all six kids at home. I think that’s because they had to babysit the baby. Now, it is me who has to babysit the baby and he is one demanding customer – I can only manage 500 if the stars align.

Take me to the PARK! To the GARDEN! Give me your lipsticks! Play with me! Watch Christina Aguilera YouTube clips pinned to the couch with me to chart her facial transformations! These are the things the baby would say if he was more verbal which he is not. He has 20ish words which he rarely uses because screaming works much quicker. He screams, we all scream. We scream to ourselves about having a room, and some time, to one’s own.

Here’s a clip (quite long, but apparently fairly engaging to watch though I haven’t because I am TOO SHY OF IT ALL) of me discussing motherhood things with the brilliant Emma Beddington as a part of my publisher’s online mini-festival to celebrate The Best, Most Awful Job. She is a Guardian writer among other things like a proper, enormously successful blog, a book, lots of excellent features in magazines and papers. Here is it, if you fancy a little 17 minute respite from whatever it is we all do these days. https://www.instagram.com/tv/CFO07UmAFOY/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

It might not work.


Forgive me if I have written about this before, but I went to Peter Pilotto socially distanced sample sale where you couldn’t try anything on. There was a one way system around the Music Rooms and you couldn’t double back so you had to pile dress after nutty dress onto your weak little arms until you arrived at the end of the embellished labyrinth where a lady in a visor measures your armpits and boobs to see if the dresses would fit. It seemed a bit bananas, but I went with it and bought a runway dress which must have been worth thousands of pounds for one fifty. Here I am on my way back from Soho House (because I’m quite ‘member’s clubby’, ya know?) in the dress which looks like a bridesmaid’s concoction circa 1983 and it makes me the happiest lady alive:

The baby steals my lipsticks and sits in wheelbarrows – all strategic wiley ways to make me stop writing:

Our lovely clever photographer friend Chris took these with a 35mm film. How cute, though, eh?

Otis turned seven and we went to GBK where I had a cranky mother humourless meltdown because we couldn’t figure out how to order on the app and the baby fell off his chair and Otis spilled his milkshake and I ended up not ordering anything for myself so I had to finish about seven lukewarm servings of chips which weren’t even very good and it all cost 170 quid:

Otis is a fan of a pink sequin, any time of the day – here he is with some birthday treasures. Note the scratch on his nose which was actually a tear through his nostril from a stick that one of his brothers was brandishing about. It’s all fun and games until someone spears someone else’s nose with a bit of tree:


We are watching This Is Us and I do like it but I also think it is a bit sappy. We have started Better Things for later and it is funny but a bit….crass? I am feeling very old and moralistic as I write this.

I have bought the latest Ottolenghi book Flavour and I think it is not very good. Too faffy, too cheffy. Sad about that. I’ve only made the avocado and pea cold soup and it tasted like it sounds.

The dog has been on holiday with our other friend Chris while he has been self-isolating and while I love the dog, it was very nice not having to worry about him running out of the gate and down the street, causing strangers to berate me for my terrible dog-owning skills. But I also missed how he cleans up spilled cereal and flicked rice, so on balance, we are glad he is back.

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Turkey in the time of Corona

I don’t really know how to talk about a holiday right now.  I think any little recap makes me sound like an irresponsible selfish monster who takes global pandemics quite lightly. But there hasn’t been much going on other than my holiday and so needs must.

We did eat out at Honey & Co and Honey & Smoke to get the Rishi Sunak discount and we went swimming in the Thames at Henley one day, to our utter delight. I got my feet and fingernails fixed in preparation for the holiday and bought two bikinis because I am too old to care about whether or not I should wear a bikini. There was a nether-region waxing situation and I got my eyelashes permed to look like Bambi in my holiday photos. I bought a Batsheva skirt that transforms into a dress and I tried to do that neckmess thing – you know, the thing where you wear multiple necklaces of varying lengths to look a bit Rich Bohemian. I bought fabric masks for everyone to wear so we can shop at Waitrose without incurring the wrath of anyone. That’s about it.

So covid/holiday politics aside, getting on a plane two weeks ago was the most extraordinary and yet most ordinary thing I have done all year. Travel anxiety about suitcase weight, panic over getting to the gate on time, me squashed into a too-small seat, the baby screaming and furious at being attached to his baby seatbelt, squirming and kicking the guy in front of us – it was all the usual travelling woes, pandemic or not.

Masks are obviously the new travelling thing; from setting off for Turkey into the cab until we exited the airport in Dalaman nine hours later, we were all required to wear masks the whole time (except for the lucky baby and except for when we ate or drank). The baby spent quite a bit of time trying to rip ours off and we spent time with fogged up glasses and the feeling that we would soon asphyxiate and die. My masks did unspeakable things to my hair and were either way too tight or loose and slippery. They also seem to be responsible for deep reddish spots in unlikely places (bridge of the nose, near the ears), but whaddaya do?

So we did it – we went on a plane, we flew into another country, we had two weeks of unbounded joy and freedom, we swam and ate and jumped off a boat and picked figs from a tree, we got back home on a plane and we didn’t get quarantined. We are bronzed and rested and we have faith in the world and in future plans again.

It was a proper risk when I booked the tickets way back when summer looked cancelled, but it felt like a worthy one. The tickets were cheap and Turkey really is the most wonderful place in the world. The villa where we usually stay was available and our Turkish friends kept reassuring us that things were pretty calm over there. The country opened up to tourists in June and so I was emboldened, sick of the sight of the flat and the heat and the home-schooling and the general joylessness of life since March. Our return flights were cancelled in July for about one minute but then rebooked almost exactly the same which was the only real wobble. The rest was pure loveliness.

Please look away if you get bored of endless holiday photographs filled with smiling brown people having enormous amounts of fun.

This is where we stay, in a stone villa with a treehouse, an inbuilt barbecue, a glorious pool and an outdoor shower that comes out of an old tree and which lies at the bottom of an abandoned village:


The baby very much approved:


Here’s the village we walk through on our way to the clutch of little restaurants set up in old ruins:


A camel:


Vegetables which were so cheap they were practically free:


A pancake, chips and fresh pomegranate juice restaurant in the Fethiye markets after we bought spices and yoghurt and cheese and nougat. The baby thought the hand sanitiser was lemonade and squirted quite a bit into his mouth. He went red and blotchy for a bit but soon returned to his holiday shade of nut-brown:


Saklikent Gorge, the freezing rapids, the fresh barbecued trout, the rafting tube rides, the ceramic bird whistles which drove us nuts:


Cold Water Bay where the water switches from freezing to bath-like in currents:


Treehouse afternoons, obligatory knee shot:


St Nicholas’ Island, swimming over submerged ruins:


Batsheva dress, ruins and lovely baby:


Amanda and golden hour #1:


Late night BBQing with hot braziers and hot Gus:


A day on the boat:


Bikini days. Didn’t wear knickers once:


Pancakes on the shore:




Amanda and golden hour #2:


Bought us a few rugs:


Brunch under the grapevines:


See? See how life-affirming and normal and natural and necessary it is to be open to the world? How important it is to stay curious and brave? To spend? To keep learning about how other people live?

Anyway. We are back now and even though I an insisting on short shorts, the darkness has crept in and there’s a slight chill in the air. And so it goes.


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Evenings Right Now

It really is time for an update, though there continues to be little in the way of exciting events to dazzle you all with. There was a time that I would go out on my own a few times a week to meet my sparkling intelligent sassy girlfriends at bars and theatres and restaurants and I would wear my ever-growing series of dresses in rotation, thinking about which earrings and shoes and bags work best with each look. I would get an Uber home and creep in to the dark flat, warm with the slumbering breath of seven other people (and a fluffy dog who never once bothered to look up from the couch as I came in, although he does go mental when elderly grannies and small adorable toddlers walk by our front gate, which is awkward). I would try not to wake Mark or the baby, tiptoeing as soundlessly as I could down the hall and into our bedroom where the path from our bedroom door to our bathroom door has always been studded by oversized ugly office chairs and discarded pillows, small sharp bath toys and upside down unworn heels. I always stumbled and always swore a little bit too loud.

These days I have nothing to do in the evening and if I do get an invite, I get all sad and anxious. Not because I am scared of getting sick but because my capacity for joyful socialising has shrunk to nothing. I am bewildered by the rules, suffocated by the masks, tired out from the realities of living in a small flat with seven other people, six of whom don’t really ever leave. They do eat a lot though. The idea of making something nice for dinner for us all now looms large, overtaking the part of my brain that used to multitask and think about word count and draft articles and the interviews that used to need to be scheduled. Dinner is my work and my work is our dinner. I wonder how it got to this.

I have one piece of paid non-dinner-related work (the second piece of work I have been asked to do since January) and it is a simple task, but it had taken on gargantuan meaning and I have disproportional anxiety over it. I feel ill-equipped to move through the world of LinkedIn and Twitter. I feel scared of new apps and keep second-guessing myself. What if I get it wrong? Once, a job like that wouldn’t have warranted a second thought – I would have done it, filed it, invoiced for it and then just hoped for the best. (The best being no rewrites needed, no followup, just the invoice paid within 30 days).

Anyway. My evenings now look like this:

5pm: Gin & tonic in the garden with Mark. The baby and half of the kids dragged out into the garden to play with the neighbours’ kids. The baby chases pigeons around and screeches with the joy of it all.

6pm: Some sort of dinner extravaganza. Chicken with chorizo and fresh sourdough made by my own eczema hands. Slices of tart made by Noah and I, crunchy with the remnants of baked-in raw rice because I do not understand the concept of blind baking LINED IN BAKING PAPER. A glass of sauvignon blanc or three.

7pm: Baby in bed. Make sure Barnaby has loaded the dishwasher and that Casper has washed the pots. Neither of them ever have.

7:15: Two episodes of slightly inappropriate family TV. Dead To Me a current favourite, though finished a few nights ago. Now switched to This Is Us. I cried a lot over the pilot with the babies.

8pm: Otis in bed. Another episode of family TV. A bit of squabbling over who has which cushions. Ned usually makes some sort of tapping noise, Barnaby loses his shit over it. Casper and Noah try to play their skateboarding game on their phones even though devices are banned during Family TV Time. Their faces light up from the glow, their knees tucked up to cover their covert playing. We throw cushions at them and shout until they stop.

9pm: Ned and Casper in bed. We switch to more serious TV. The Sinner. When They See Us. Normal People. We have tea and biscuits with the bigger teenagers. No one fights and after we switch off, we have a little debrief over the day or what we have watched. Sometimes the boys try to show us new music or Tik Tok stuff. Mark and I don’t get it but we love it that they try.

10:30pm: Bedtime. Blessed, blessed bedtime. A few chapters of something about dragons for Mark. I’m finally reading Why I No Longer Talk To White People About Race. Sobering.

4am: The baby shouts for about two minutes and then back to sleep.

You know, I much prefer my evenings now, although how much of this is laziness or Stockholm Syndrome, I just don’t know.


Barnaby and Casper: Have been labouring for Mark. They are both extremely rich teenagers right now, planning on saving up for big purchases like dirt bikes. I am impressed. When they aren’t working they are on their bloody phones or playing on the Playstation which is the single most awful thing we have ever brought into the house. Total parenting fail. I have to insist they go out for half an hour each with the baby and that they go out again for half an hour to get some sunshine and fresh air so they won’t fall prey to rickets.

Ned: Walks the dog for pocket money, gets angry about it every single day. Storms out of the house shouting at us for making him do it. He walks a block or two. Spends the rest of the day doing Minecraft things or playing with Lego. He is a wild little knot of fury and floppy hair, although handsome.

Otis: Plays with the baby, torments the baby. Makes little paths for the baby throughout the flat, marked out with cushions and washing baskets and skateboards. Suddenly puts a blockage in the way so the baby cannot move forward or back. The baby cries, I rearrange the furniture. Otis cannot see what the problem is. He flounces off to come up with another ingenious trap.

Noah: No one ever really knows. He hides in his bed, behind his beanbag, under cushions. He is both writing a YA novel and watching too much Manga. He also has a floppy fringe. Avoids hanging out the washing as long as he can. Is pale and thin because he finds going outside quite the chore. Won’t eat eggs. Sleeps until 10:30am.

Mark: Really busy working. On a diet. Misses his mum.

Me: Worried about skin cancer on my nose. Trying to finish writing a novel (30,000 words so far). Quite good at making sourdough and have branched out into oily focaccia. Hoping to sell and buy a house in New Zealand (very close to doing both) but worried the country isn’t exactly welcoming now (and mightn’t be later either). Worried that keeping borders closed isn’t exactly tenable in the long term and might turn everyone North Korean-ish. But extremely happy to be going to Turkey in a week and a half.


Baby knots:


Baby in a sailor suit!:


Mask woes:


Hyde Park blackberry situation:


Oldest and youngest:








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Newspaper recycling

What’s new? Well, we have two kids back at school, with slightly shortened hours and slightly different start and finish times, so my mornings are quite busy doing double lots of shouting. The baby has become cranky about something at 4am so there has been some early morning screaming, and on the weekend we got two phone calls from New Zealand in the middle of the night because the caller forgot about international time zones.

You know that thing, when are are on the verge of sleep and something wakes you up, and you cannot sleep again all night? Your eyes get all sharp and sore and you feel like crying and you won’t look at your phone to check the time because if you knew the truly terrible late hour, you would get all anxious and so you just imagine how late it must be and how many hours have gone past in useless wasteful non productive segments of time. The kind of time I wish I could have to myself in the daytime, but never do. And then your husband starts snoring just loud enough, just rhythmically enough, that you realise you need a fresh pair of silicon earplugs if you hope to drown it out. You can never drown it out though. Then comes the next stage in the War Against Your Sleeping Husband. This involves careful, persistent prodding and sharp “SHUSH”ing until Mark finds the mythical sleeping position that doesn’t involve any shuddering, humming, deep breathing, soft nasal sounds or deep throaty growls. It is 50/50 whether any of this stuff even works.

On Sunday night I got him to turn him over about 17 times by prodding his arms, stomach, back and ribs enough times to get his brain to recognise the need for his body to move over but not quite enough to wake/bruise him. At this stage of a snore-filled night, I really do feel like bruising him. But on Sunday night it was to no avail. He started up again and again and so I cracked at about 2:30am and headed to the couch in the living room.

Bleary-eyed, angry, falling over the discarded tennis racquets and dirty socks left in the hallway and careful not to wake the baby, I made my way to the couch which had SO MANY CRUMBS ON IT. Luckily I brought with me a fitted sheet, which was the only thing I could pull out of the linen cupboard safely without sending years worth of duvets and old towels that I have shoved up there from killing me in a tragic suffocation-related incident. I wrapped myself up in it and tried to get some sleep in before my Monday morning 7am run. 

That’s how things are right now.

So. Directionless, tired, with silvery purple hair and nowhere to wear my puffed sleeved dresses, I wonder what to tell you. It is hard to find stories when our stories are the same every day. I sometimes try a new recipe or we start a new TV show. We’ve been to one non-essential shop which was the same as before but much more awkward, with added queues. The middle kids seem to have caught up on the hours and hours of work they had ignored since school closed. The baby refuses to speak but uses sign language (and screaming) to get us to do what he wants. The skin on my fingers continues to split and crack. The Serpentine is closed for swimming so if we want to cool down we have to take our clothes off and sit in front of the fan. I made a babka.

In lieu of much more exciting tales, I thought I could recycle the article that I was commissioned to write for one of the Sunday papers, all the way back in the olden times of January. It didn’t get used. I got paid a kill fee, but the only thing that was actually killed was my joy in being COMMISSIONED FOR A SUNDAY PAPER! A good one, too.

Anyway, here it is. This is my version before they Sunday paper’ed it up. So more my voice, but still with a mind for the Sunday Times readership. THERE! I SAID IT.

*clears voice*

Geriatric Mother’s Club

By Jodi Bartle

There are not many ways in which Cameron Diaz and I have any real sort of connection. I don’t have her adorable appley cheekbones or expensive caramel hair, I can’t surf, don’t do my own stunts and have never mastered that running-along-in-the-snow-back-to-Kate Winslet’s-cottage-in-heels-thing she does at the end of The Holiday (but Lord knows, I’ve tried). Similarly, Chloe Sevigny and I aren’t that much aligned, me having only been to New York once, and so far, appearing in no iconic ’90s indie movies, at all, ever.

But we three do share something rather marvellous and increasingly, it would seem, A Thing. Last week, Diaz announced the birth of her baby daughter Raddix while Sevigny was spotted swanning around NY with an elegantly sheathed baby bump. Both women are no longer in their first flush of youth – in fact, at 47 and 45 respectively, they are firmly entrenched in the Geriatric Mother’s Club, of which I too am a fully paid up member. If such A Thing were a trend, you could add to our role call Geri Horner (44), Rachael Weisz (48), Alanis Morissette (45), Janet Jackson (50) and Brigitte Nielson (at a spectacular 54); women who have also braved birth and babies in later life.

What does it feel like to have a baby after 40, whether it’s your first time or you’ve done all this before – you’ve worn the disposable pants, you’ve seen through cutting teeth – and come up for air, only to dive back into it all again?

In my case, I spanned the decades having babies, which perhaps puts me in another subcategory altogether (something along the lines of Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop – it’s a very small group). I had two in my 20s, three in my 30s and last year squeezed out baby number six when I was 42. I say ‘squeezed’, but more accurately he sort of felt his way out; the scaffolding just isn’t what it used to be.

The pregnancy was termed ‘Geriatric’ in my pregnancy notes and I was treated as such. There were extra appointments all the way through to check my blood pressure and urine in case of complications, and I was not allowed to labour in St Mary’s birthing unit, home of soft furnishings, birthing pools and dim lights, in case something went wrong owing to my probably knackered uterus and objectively middle-aged body. I said yes to the Down’s Syndrome test and was monitored for pre eclampsia, warned it would be best to wear compression socks on our summer holiday flight to Turkey for the possible blood clots and told not to jump off the side of the boat into the Mediterranean Sea from any real height – because, you know – spontaneous rupturing and all that.

All of this fuss of course makes sense – family lore tells it that my own mother swelled up like a blowfish and was bedridden with preeclampsia for the last six weeks of her pregnancy with me. She was, by today’s standards, a relatively fresh 37 year old but in small town New Zealand in the ’70s, she was a bit old with an appetite for risk. For women in their 40s now who dare dream to conceive, carry their babies, push them out and then get on with the exhausting job of keeping them alive – well, it’s a miracle, a joy, and a Herculean task best carried out under close medical supervision with full disclosure of the myriad potential dangers awaiting mother and child.

It’s also awkward, too, at times. My teenaged sons attend secondary school and I have turned up to Parent Teacher interviews quite obviously in the family way, which embarrassed the boys, because, you know – their mother must have had sex, WITH THEIR DAD, probably, which is utterly repulsive and deeply scarring if you are 15 years old and trying to fly under the social radar. Later, I’ve had meetings with disciplinary members of school staff to discuss short term suspensions (a whole other story) and fed my baby, flopping out my wizened breast flesh and puckered nipple while my sons slide lower and lower into their chairs, dying of the shame.

My friends, once tethered to their own tiny babies, have long since given away their bags full of speckled outgrown onesies and pointless baby hats. Now deeply enmeshed in their own satisfying, challenging careers, they sometimes call, seeking a night on the Soho tiles with me but forgetting I’ve got to be home for the 10:30pm dream feed. They sigh and tell me that, as much as they love that little Remi, he has become a bit of a bore. 

Pregnancy the first time around was a miraculous wonder, endlessly fascinating and worthy of daily pondering on the size and development of the foetus. Pre-smartphones and pregnancy apps, books piled up next to my bed on what to expect and on alphabetised lists of names full of post-it notes to test out with other young, as-yet-childless friends. I may have even taken to my bed once in a while in the first trimester, flouncing off in the early evening, owing to the extreme tiredness the pregnant books assured me I would be feeling. In my 30s, when numbers three, four and five were variously born and bred, I felt confident; though ragged by the demands of a feral tribe of preschoolers and babies, I was fully in the zone. My body was holding up and my relative youth, optimism and energy, such as it was, got me up and out of bed to tend to my little boys, again and again and again. There was precious little time to be tired.

After miscarriages, an unspeakably horrible molar pregnancy and a gap of six years, this last pregnancy in my early 40s was full of bloat and gas and a permanently dampish crotch. People, bacon and toast smelt bad and there was a permanent hangover feeling in my roiling gut. Postpartum, my body is now war-torn, stippled and stretched. My cervix seems to be slowly making its own way out, while my bladder is fairly relaxed about returning to work. There is upper arm weight that won’t shift so I’m having to say goodbye to a particularly nice Vilshenko blouse. My period, such as it is, comes and goes in the unconvincing, maddening way that echoes the periods of my peri-menopausal friends. I sometimes feel too old for this shit.

But then I get to sniff that little 11 month old head. I nurse that baby boy and his eyes close, tiny fingers brushing my skin, murmuring quietly as he feeds. My husband often comes into the bed with me as I am putting the baby to sleep, leaving the big boys in the living room to watch reruns of Friends on Netflix, escaping from the noise and the homework and the occasional eruptions of irrational violence to have a little cuddle all together. A baby in your 40s is different, somehow. Less slog, certainly; more lovely. We have both wondered if the other babies were quite as delicious as this one, and we don’t know the answer because we can’t remember. It was too long ago; we were different people then, we were drowning a little bit.  A baby after 40, when you really want one, and when you are hopefully settled in lots of mid-life kinds of ways, is a bonus baby, a gift. In this, my Geriatric Mother-Sisters Diaz and Sevigny, I can assure you – you are in for a knackering, miraculous, joyful, baby-shaped ride. Welcome to the club.

And there you have it – a recycled newspaper story because I have nothing else except for my usual roundup of photos.

Cute baby:


Babka. Slightly burnt but a triumph nonetheless:


Cute baby. Very much covered in chocolate mousse, but also a triumph, nonetheless:


New on-sale Batsheva dress, slightly too much perhaps for a dog walk:


Otis with excellent lockdown hair and chocolate mousse spill:



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My Bad (dyejob)

So, I got a little cocky about home dyeing after my lovely peachy hue washed out after a day. I ordered some more dye, but this time thought that something with a little more punch would be the thing. Never one to over scrutinise, I went for a Bleach London colour called Bruised Violet because the name made me feel youthfully emo. I was expecting a sort of cool, beachy, vampy dip-dyed look – a bit Maeve from Sex Education, perfect for pairing with long summery dresses and mismatching earrings in the manner of a self-assured personal stylist.

I wasn’t thinking Fortune Teller. I wasn’t thinking about that purplish burgundy home hair dye colour that you see some older ladies have now and then. You know, the one that sits like a jarring Lego helmet, accentuating ageing sallow skin with creeping strips of grey roots getting wider and wider all along the hairline day by day. But, Reader, this is what I got.

Here I am on Day One:


After a few scrubby washes (pictured with a bowl of sourdough but which could well be a witches’ poultice in the making):


This was last night:


I mean – what is there to say? Most people take about three glances to know who I am,  only finally convinced I am who I say I am once they take in the dog and baby. People have uniformly acknowledged The Purple Hair right away although the closest I have got to approval (and we all know how much I crave that) are the words: “Well, it sure is FUN!”. To that, I laugh a bit and assure people it is on its way out, according to the packet instructions. But it isn’t in any kind of hurry by the looks of the greyish pinkish purple blueness which stubbornly remains after every hot-water-and-prayer daily shower. “First Glastonbury?” I am gently teased. This has not been my best DIY beautifying work, and I am very ready for Kamila from Blue Tit to restore me to my formerly less-fun but much less ridiculous Mystic Meg self.

But What Else?

We tried to swim last week during half term. We became members of the Serpentine Swimming Club which gets you into the Serpentine Lido between 5:30 – 9:30am every morning of the year for a brisk cold swim among the ducks and algae but, apparently, so too did the rest of London. The hi-vized man at the door looked aggrieved by the huge numbers of people turning up for a dip and informed us that we had to go away because the Royal Parks had decided not to let kids under 18 in. A day later we got an email saying that the Royal Parks had further decided to close swimming in the river for everyone, anyway. It felt a little harsh.

All the while the sun continues to beat down in this summeriest of Springs, getting us all hot and lethargic and longing for a cool body of water. We let the kids jump into the banks of the Serpentine away from the Swimming Club’s harassed gatekeepers as (poor) compensation for a proper dousing, until I got nervous about police vans and fines. The kids, as you can see, loved it.



Paid work remains elusive and there are days that I really cannot work out what my point is beyond making dinner and picking up greyed socks. There is nothing much to look forward to, but if someone suggests a little outing or a phone call I feel bit harassed and burdened and panicked. I think I am retreating into my pre-evolution non-sociable  slug self. Surely that isn’t a good thing? Maybe with the hair, it is.

On the dinner thing, I am getting quite grandiose. My daily Waitrose visits remain the highlight, although the queues are becoming disappointingly short and fast so there is less time to clear the inbox/finish the Sunday paper insets as there once was. I have been riffling through the recipe books and have latterly cooked up

bacon and egg pie

stuffed courgettes

tahini and white chocolate cake

raspberry and peach shallot salad

broad beans, leek and lamb meatballs

thrice-weekly sourdough foccacia

muhumarra with butter bean mash

roasted butternut squash and courgette on a ricotta and feta mash

giant sausage rolls

And on and on and on. At 5pm I am either cooking up three labour-intensive courses or staring into the middle distance and leaving the kids to fry up ten rashes of bacon each. Mealtime ennui or gastronomic overachievement – there’s nothing in between.

Otis went back to school this morning so that does feel like some sort of progress. He was a bit nervous but very excited and the teachers were welcoming and wonderful. I decided to celebrate my first kid being back where he belongs by buying cinnamon rolls for everyone (my third since Sunday)  and to spend my morning buying plane tickets for Turkey in August instead of working on the roughest of rough drafts on an idea for a novel, on the off chance that by August the world would make more sense, and because airline tickets are really really cheap right now. Am I a loon? Time will tell, time will tell. Meanwhile, this mainlining of cinnamon rolls is contributing to me getting quite puddingy in the gut.

Reading Right Now:

Underworld by Don DeLillo. It is a huge book that marries baseball with the Cold War. I have to say, it feels too hard and I can’t get past about page 36. Intellectually, I am like a little baby bird right now, unable to take in anything too big or complex. Just give me regurgitated worms and a pat on the head and I might just manage.

Watching Right Now:

A mixed bag. Schitt’s Creek, Dave, Modern Family, Little Fires Everywhere. Usually with a second or third gin in hand. The days are long, no one sleeps very well, all I want to do is crawl to the couch and lose myself a little bit.

Buying Right Now:

Old Rye pottery coffee cups (mostly because the baby has broken all of my other ones) and photographic prints for my Future Wall Of Art. Also dresses from Zara and interiors magazines. Cream for my eczema hands. Baked sugary goods. Hair dye.

Here we are on a sunny Sunday walk to Portobello for baked sugary custard tarts via the skatepark. Some of us like to wear puffer jackers, track pants and raincoats in 25 degree heat:


And this guy, mid-yoghurt-fest. He cheers us up every time:



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More of the same, also eyeliner

I am convinced that lockdown tales are not very interesting, so I won’t have much to report on that. Every day is the same, with spikes of violence when subtle provocation gets too much for a kid who has been inside too long, and then stretches of device-enabled calm. Sometimes there is a flurry of creative activity that makes me wish someone was filming me so I could make some sort of How-To-Parent-Amazingly short video to flash about on social media, but these often don’t last long or I have had to pay them to do it in the first place, which isn’t quite in the spirit of the aspirational parenting I might be hoping for. (Although it is imprinted on my brain that A.A. Gill would get his kids to do their homework by chucking them £20 a time, and if he could do that then there is hope for all of us flagrant and disengaged (and fiscally irresponsible) parents everywhere).

I asked the kids to make a collage out of the Vogues I never read which sit in the hallway loo, gathering all sorts of germs which we don’t care about because there are Bigger Germy Fish To Fry right now. I’ve been buying some art over lockdown and I like clever collages and figured out we could make our own and frame them. I told the kids the best one would earn them £5. Two of them made collages, we all ran out of steam at the cleaning up part, then I had to judge them but I felt mean and unqualified so now I owe them each a fiver and my Vogues have been ruined. It would have made a nice video though.

We are playing Scrabble together (well, we did once) and the kids are into competitive pancake making each morning. This causes a lot of smoke to get into our clothes and hair and we are going through bananas, frozen berries, eggs and flour at a terrific rate. Unfortunately they won’t band together on the pancake thing which would save on labour and resources, but instead have three batters going each day, with three different bowls and three different recipes and a congested kitchen lineup at the stove when they should actually be getting ready for online schoolwork.

I am torn. It is good to learn to cook but perhaps if it segued into dinner preparation for us all I might be more enthused, because cooking a different dinner every night for eight people is wearing me down. For perspective, cooking for eight is like one nuclear family inviting another nuclear family over every night, and my kids are no less exacting. They don’t *love* leftovers, one hates cheese, one hates pasta, I won’t eat fish, Otis only really likes soy sauce. Mark is used to quite an elevated culinary event because me doing the elaborate cooking (which often involves new recipes and various side dishes) and Mark wolfing it down with heaped praise is actually pretty much what our marriage boils down to, and so I cannot really lessen off. My marriage is really dinner. Make of that what you will.

Of course, all this is compounded by the fact that you have to plan to go to the supermarket, and take a book to read while you wait outside in the long, long queue. I usually dress up for this. I have never knowingly gone without a full face of makeup, an outfit lewk (mostly enormous dresses with trainers, big earrings, my hands dripping in spiky dangerous jewellery (see previous post for the fun and games that they entail), oversized sunglasses and glossy lips. To add to the sense of occasion, yesterday I dyed my hair Bleach London’s Awkward Peach, so now I feel a bit young and fun (this makes me sound very middle-aged, doesn’t it?). Each day, regardless of the need to visit Waitrose, I had been trying to work on my liquid eyeliner application which is finally getting steadier. I really cherish this Waitrose queue time, because it is without the dog, without the baby and without the children. I leave them at home while they shout up the stairs for me to not forget to bring them home Cawston Press Sparkling Rhubarb drinks and two types of Pot Noodles. This supermarket time is gold, and I like to pretend to myself that while I am in the queue, people notice me and think I am single and young and fun, and that my eyeliner is not wonky. That is all I really ask.

The other thing is that I have joined everyone else in baking focaccia. This is making us a bit fat, although I am running quite a bit to counteract this. I was delighted to note yesterday that I can finally get my upper arms into my Isabel Marant denim shirt. I haven’t been able to wear it since about halfway through my pregnancy, which is is nearly two years. Two years of tightly-packed sausages for upper arms. I wore it yesterday and while it did leave red pressure points in my inner elbow folds, you couldn’t really tell. Not when you were distracted by my peach hair, anyway.

Camera Roll Photo Essay

The other thing not making me thin are the Gails cinnamon buns that we order once a week:


Me in the Waitrose queue, hoping that I am being admired by strangers:


The dog. He embarrassed me on Friday by insisting on making a high-pitched bark at a big branch. An older lady came over to tell me that there are videos on YouTube that would help me with his annoying barking and that she thought it wasn’t only her who was sick of it, but everyone in the park who was there for some peace and quiet. I think I may have given her an eye-roll. I hope she noticed my much-improved liquid eyeliner application, anyway.


The kids after playing in the park with the dog who is helpfully demonstrating his annoying bark. The kids had been under the trees playing a game about lion/monkey hybrids:


Disco eyes for Waitrose:


Oily focaccia:


An example of how life can be your own personal catwalk, complete with a soundtrack in your head and imagined paparazzi:


A photo by my friend Rebecca of the divine Remi at 4 days old:


Biscuits. I cannot bake biscuits:


But I do bake lovely babies, amiright? Remi in his romper:


Lastly, my peach hair (and pretty good eyeliner):



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