I also posted it on Facebook, which not only puts it right out there to guilt me if I ever trip up, but, most unexpectedly, drew a whole heap of peer support! I have Ms Moll of Sheffield Steel Roller Girls offering Roller Derby support, as well as another friend wanting to take me just to learn how to skate without resembling an octopus being thrown across a room. One step at a time eh. I have an experienced fell runner offering me advice (I’ve said once I’m fit enough to run for a bus without gasping, I’ll take him up on that), two personal recommendations for great tattoo artists, a crochet teacher and a crochet learning-partner, and a lovely comment telling me “you already shine, so you can tick that one off” (aw thanks Jenny!). And of course the requisite sarcastic (but utterly wonderful) friend with the helpful reply: I fell running once.

As another friend pointed out though, “everything on your to do list sounds painful or dangerous”. From which you can tell that I’m either incredibly brave, or incredibly ignorant. But, life is too short not to do crazy stuff.

[ps] Our Christmas treat was going to be the panto, but we left it too late. So we thought we’d go to the cinema, but we couldn’t get the bank loan (seriously, have you tried taking a family to a weekend film?). So we thought we’d do something we’ve never done before, and we went… ice skating! Awesome, crazy, hilarious fun. We’re going to do new stuff more often. In fact, I’m going to add that to my list. You should too.

The first thing the GP (who looked about 17 – even younger than most police officers) said was “Well, we’ve only got ten minutes, so which thing is the most important?”. OK, great, I’m really not feeling the sympathy here. I explained about my back, filling in chronological details about previous visits, wondering why she couldn’t just read the notes on her screen. She said referring me for physio wouldn’t be any different to treatment I’d had in the past, so I should just do some basic stretches and exercise. I insisted I didn’t want to do anything spine-wise without checking with a physio to make sure I was doing it right (oh yes, and I mentioned I *had* tried exercise, and each time it left me in agony for about 24hrs afterwards). She looked put out, but sighed and filled out a referral form.

Ears? Is your hearing normal? Er, I dunno, I think so. How the hell would I know if it wasn’t? (I didn’t actually say that last bit). No, nothing we can do. I mean, I could refer you to the ENT dept at the hospital, but they wouldn’t be able to help either, so if you don’t think it’s that important we’d be better saving the £400 it would cost to send you there. Now get out, you time-wasting, money-wasting whiner (she didn’t actually say that last bit). But she really did say the bit about saving £400.

Let’s skip past the possibilities of proper hearing tests, or earplugs, or anything else this supposedly omniscient GP failed to mention, and just concentrate on the complete lack of patient care here. She told me upfront my time in her presence was limited, she asked me to decide if my problems were important, she implied I was asking for something useless (more physio), and she finished up by telling me any further enquiries about such trivial issues would cost, sorry “waste”, the NHS £400.

I’d like to round off with a snappy retort, but I’m too cross. And I’m probably wasting everybody’s precious time anyway.

She got me running craft workshops in two primary schools in October, creating artworks to decorate the woodland spaces where two fine storytellers would be spinning their yarns as part of the yearly Beacons project in Sheffield.  I got Y1s to explore the physical limits of glitter and sequins (conclusion: glitter and sequins are limitless, and in fact multiply in inverse correlation to the age of the child), and Y2s – exceptional, fabulous Y2s – using applique techniques to  sew, yes sew, story images onto bunting. And if that wasn’t enough, they even did some finger-knitting.  They were so enthused by the finger-knitting I was concerned they would cocoon themselves in their classroom, and we would have to call the caretaker, or a passing prince, to come and rescue us all.  So yeah, that was fun.  Fun in a way that meant I got out of bed each morning *really* looking forward to going to work, how often do you get to say that?

This was the second year I’d helped with Beacons, but the third year I got to work for Walking the Wild Woods.   Shonaleigh has been developing a storytelling course, which involves taking a class of already talented storytellers and honing their skills to ninja fineness.  At least, that’s what it looked like from where I was.  Three years, with three annual week-long residentials.  For which you need… a chef!  Ta-da!  Bet you didn’t know I could cook, too.  OK, maybe you did.  Anyway, last year and this year I got the brilliant job of being le grand kitchen fromage at Treowen, in Monmouthshire.

Part of the frontage at Treowen

As someone who absolutely loves really old buildings anyway, this was just the cat’s whiskers.  The bee’s knees.  The badger’s… yeah, anyway, it was fab.  I got to stay in this most beautiful old Tudor manor house, cook in its vast kitchen (luckily now installed with a gas oven within the old fireplace), and as if that wasn’t awesome enough…. I got told stories!  Whilst clearing the kitchen in the evenings, I would snag a passing teller, sneaking in for a crafty cuppa or some more bikkits, and ask for a story.

All set for breakfast.

I sat eating grapes, for to carry on drying the dishes would have been most disrespectful, and listened to tales about Afghanistan, Wales, England, and, I suspect, South America.  I baked everyone a special cake to say a big, chocolatey, fruity, cardamomy, gluten-free, dairy-free thank you, but without further ado I wish to to say a proper, internet-linked thank you to Janet Dowling, for Brutus and Gogmagog, Gawain and the Loathly Lady, and Molly Whuppie (which I later told to my daughter, who loved it!).  To Carl Merry, for that story about those Welsh guys whose names I can’t even pronounce, let alone spell [edit: Twm Sion Cati - thanks Carl!], and the pot with no hole in it, which had my kids in stitches when I clumsily explained the plot when I got home. To Simon Heywood, whose telling of Rabbit and the Jaguar Princess had me laughing so hard I cried.  And to Shonaleigh, for trusting me to feed your students, and to all you other Wild-Wooders – may your stories never stumble.

Serve with cinnamon mascarpone for instant religious moment

And to anyone out there who still thinks that storytelling is just for children, I challenge you to remember what it was like to be a child, and ask you why you stopped.

and how wonderful and healing it was to spend a weekend at Festival at the Edge, listening to captivating stories and groovy music, and letting the kids run free.

Panic Circus and my daughter, doing their festival stuff

About my displeasure at Sheffield City Council for cancelling/refusing to fund PlayDay this year, despite its proven popularity. How much I loved The Illusionist. How a stay at Warwick Folk Festival was not only free (one of the many joys of being involved with a morris team), but full of great music, and better friends.

Bass Birds n Beats. Superb.

Kirsty Bromley, bringer of Pimms. We love you.

And I could have expounded at length some half-baked opinion on the recent riots, and subsequent political and judicial tub-thumping. I could have entertained you with tales of all the crazy songs (and actions) my kids are learning from their American cousins, and how much extra energy and laughter they’ve brought to a tired house.

What calm, sensible children

I could have talked about the ‘Squash and a Squeeze’ method of home expansion, and how cool it is to have my big brother and not-so-little nieces back in the country, and in my house.

But that’ll have to wait. Or indeed just dissipate into personal memory and unsorted photos. By the time I get back to my blog I’m sure there’ll be something completely different to bore you with. Have a great August, y’all!

Wooden ducks for sale in Warwick

]]> http://disobedientchild.wordpress.com/2011/08/17/pause-for-thought-and-life/feed/ 0 Disobedient Child presents Stilts bassbirdsnbeats kirsty brett n robyn ducks http://disobedientchild.wordpress.com/2011/06/09/healing-cocoa/ http://disobedientchild.wordpress.com/2011/06/09/healing-cocoa/#comments Thu, 09 Jun 2011 21:10:13 +0000 Disobedient Child http://disobedientchild.wordpress.com/?p=304 ]]> Sometimes life can get a little hectic. Sometimes life can get a lot hectic. I wanted to share with all you poor frazzled things out there, my recipe for what my husband calls Magic Hot Chocolate. A drink you can pour into your favourite mug and snuggle up with. OK so it’s not really “mine”, it’s adapted from a recipe in James Wong’s “Grow Your Own Drugs”, but that’s not important. What’s kind of important is that James Wong claims it will ‘calm anxiety and promote sleep’ (and I can tell you, it really does). But what’s most important is that it tastes so utterly divine you may never be able to order hot chocolate in a cafe again. Which you shouldn’t anyway, because cafe hot chocolate is always nasty and much too sweet. But I digress. Cut to the chase woman!

OK, you will need:
Mug of your choice, filled with milk (also of your choice)
Cocoa powder (FairTrade, of course. You can’t expect good sleep on a bad conscience.)
Small square of plain chocolate, grated or cut small (ditto)
Shaving of orange peel
Sprig of fresh lemon balm leaves*
1tsp valerian root (search for online supplier – mine’s gone bust)
pinch cinnamon
pinch allspice

Whisk up the cocoa into the milk, then put everything except the chocolate into a pan and heat gently to almost boiling point. Stir around until the chocolate is melted, turn off the heat. Leave to infuse for a minute or two, and strain back into your mug. Get your jim-jams on and snuggle up cosy somewhere. Enjoy. And guess what, there’s NO SUGAR in it (apart from what’s in the tiny square of chocolate), so if you fall asleep without brushing your teeth, it won’t kill you

*Lemon Balm. You do have lemon balm in your garden don’t you? You don’t?! Yeesh, get some now.

Melissa officinalis

Night night, sweet dreams

I’m not sure we ever do, though – ‘get the hang of it’ – despite what the glossy mags, the internet, the celebrity mums and the self-help books would have us swallow. So I believe I speak up for many of us parents (I believe I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe it’s just me. Shit.) when I stand up and say “I am a good enough parent.”

Yes, there are people who can successfully juggle raising children, keeping a tidy and well-fed home, their own job – or even business – and a social life. I know people like this, and it’s hard not to feel rubbish by comparison. They don’t even have tearaway, maladjusted children, or a nervous breakdown. They are lovely people, with lovely, happy kids. It’s so unfair.

Angelina Jolie, having it all. Sigh.

But yeah, so there are people like this, but I’m not one of them. And I suspect (congratulations if I’m wrong), neither are you. If you’re a parent, of course. And it’s taken me a while to learn, but …*pause for effect*… it’s OK to say that.

When my kids were little, and say dinner was late, because I hadn’t had time to wash the dishes, so couldn’t cook until I’d done that, and they were playing merry hell as their blood sugar level dropped lower and lower, so I couldn’t actually get to the cooking because I was spending all my time trying to stop them destroying the house/each other/the cat/my sanity, and so on. I would shout tearfully at whoever was nearest “Other people manage all this, why can’t I? What’s wrong with me?”

That was then. If I have learned one thing in my ten years of parenting, it’s that glitter gets everywhere. No, not that. Well, yes that, but more importantly, I cannot multitask. Trying to do two things at once means that both get done badly. If I try and work when my kids need me, my work goes wrong, and I shout at the kids. If I accept that work must wait, and give all my attention to being a mum, I instantly lose the stress, and so do my children. Parenting is not a hobby, it is a job. Treat it with the respect it deserves.

I once had the great fortune to meet Tony Benn. At that time, all my peers were forging ahead in their respective careers, and I was stuck at home with a 3-yr old. So when he asked me what I did, I replied, a bit embarrassed, “Oh, I’m just a mum”. He looked a bit shocked, and told me sternly, “Don’t say that like it isn’t the most important job in the world.”

Quote from "The Idle Parent" by Tom Hodgkinson

We must stop judging ourselves by comparisons. Comparisons with people who have personal trainers and full time nannies, comparisons with people who may be just as despairing as ourselves but never show it, comparisons with people who are stay-at-home-parents while we slog away at work, or who have successful careers while we’re stuck at home with CBeebies. Comparisons with people who are not us. This way madness lies.

Mea culpa. My charming son shows off his table manners.

My life isn’t perfect and stress-free. I have work to do too; bills don’t pay themselves. My children don’t go to umpteen after-school activities, have the latest electronic gadgets (hell, we don’t even have a TV, talk about pariah!), designer clothes, foreign language courses, ponies, whatever. But they are well-fed, curious, and happy. And so am I. And that’s good enough for me.

It’s true about the glitter though.

Well OK, so it wasn’t quite like that. If you’ve been paying attention you’ll know that Sunday 10th April was scheduled as a day of craftivism, in railway stations across the country, to protest the government’s plans to hike rail fares yet higher – with no corresponding plan to plough any of the increased profit back into the rail network. Paid through the nose to travel by train recently? Get a seat? Eee, you were lucky.

Anyway, Sunday, yes. I turned up at Sheffield station, on my own, with my tea and my sewing things, wondering how many fellow craftivists would join me. And lo, the place was deserted, apart from two people buying tickets… and three big policemen. Well OK maybe they weren’t giants, but they certainly weren’t the runty, fresh-out-of-training-college youth police so many of the older generation find themselves complaining about; these guys could’ve been bouncers. Sigh. I went outside, nope, nobody there looking stitchy. Back inside, took a deep breath, and parked my derriere on the concourse. It doesn’t sound like much, but to me it felt like being the first person to stick their hand up and say “I’m Spartacus”.

I got my flask of tea out, and my sewing kit, and within about five (long) minutes was joined by the magnificent Simon Heywood,

and then the wonderful Jillian Creasy, Green Party councillor for Sheffield Central ward. Huzzah! Jillian spread her embroidered Green Party banner as a picnic blanket, the china teacups came out, and we got stitching, and chatting, and tea-drinking.

During the course of the afternoon we were joined by a few more Green Party members (yeah, ‘other’ parties, they get a mention because THEY BOTHERED), and various unaffiliated friends A friendly journalist (Russell, from North West Sheffield) came and asked some pertinent questions, and Sam Walker and her son Izaac took lots of great photos. A few people stopped to ask what we were doing, and the policemen wandered off eventually to find some less baffling citizens to look at.

It wasn’t a huge protest, in fact, it was quite tiny really, but we did gather in a goodly selection of carriages for the Climate Rush bunting. I brought with me some representatives of absent supporters – people who had expressed their solidarity with the protest, but were unable to join us in person. These were, for the record and in no particular order, Mr X-Stitch, Betsy Greer (Craftivista), Radical Cross Stitch, Jon Boden (of Bellowhead and the excellent ‘A folk song a day‘ project), and Ele Carpenter. I did ask Jarvis Cocker via Twitter, but he never got back to me. I think Jon Boden’s a better performer anyway

Completed carriages!

And you know what, I *really* enjoyed it.

Pfft, like I’d make stuff up Nope, craftivism is real.

“Craftivism is a way of looking at life where voicing opinions through creativity makes your voice stronger, your compassion deeper & your quest for justice more infinite.” (Betsy Greer, “Craftivism.” Encyclopedia of Activism and Social Justice. 2007)

There are many advocates and practitioners of active Craftivism out there – the one I can credit with getting me into all this in the first place is the lovely Radical Cross Stitch, based in Melbourne – but this last week your Disobedient Child has allied herself firmly and shamelessly to the Craftivist Collective. And for why? Because I received an invitation, or maybe it was a challenge, from no less than Mr X-Stitch himself, to join in with A Railway Adventure: stitching a fabric train of protest to fight for fair transport fares.

Craftivist Collective, in collaboration with campaigning group Climate Rush, have organised stitch-ins at railway stations across the country on Sunday 10th April. People will be enjoying a nice cup of tea (what could be more civilized?) and stitching their protest/facts/messages onto fabric carriages, which will then be collected together and sewn into bunting and presented to Philip Hammond MP, Minister for Transport. A man who really should, given his job, spend a bit more time actually working out a half-decent public transport policy instead of shrugging Gallic-ly and saying ‘what, you’ve got a car haven’t you?’. Or words to that effect.

So anyway, as no-one else has organised a stitch-in in Sheffield, I have. If you’re still reading, you’re obviously curious, so why not come along on Sunday and see what I’m blathering on about. Join us for the stitch-in – I have fabric pens for non-sewers, there’s no excuse – or just share our tea and biscuits and have a good chin-wag. Don’t just wonder what craftivism is, come and find out!

Sheffield station, 1-4pm, Sunday 10th April. Get in touch for more details, but otherwise, see you there!

(PS: I have not credited these photos, as I found them through Google. If they are yours, please let me know. And, nice!)

Before...

...after!

We can’t be bothered to sit around and wait for the powers that be to pass down their decisions from on high.  We’re just going to get on with it.  I mean, that’s how come there’s a garden there anyway.

If you’d like to see more pictures, the rather wonderful FairyNormal has put a set up on her Flickr stream, go take a peek.

One thing does bother me though.  When I left the house today, I had a big bag of wildflower seeds with me, but now I don’t have it any more.  Or rather, I have an empty bag. I think the seeds may have fallen out as I crossed the ‘contested’ land next to the garden (I had to, I couldn’t walk across the newly sown grass).  Oops.  Butterfingers.