Books

We have tonnes of Christmas books in our house and we aren't allowed to pass any on just yet, even the crazy board book about the Nativity. That's the one where the animals seem to know when Mary and Joseph are due to arrive and are capable of discussing the ramifications.

We read all our Christmas books at this time of the year, as you might expect, a lot. We all have our favourites.

 
Tilly's is 'Wenceslas' which is a moody traditional book with lots of blizzard illustrations. I'd be concerned it suggests a dark traditionalist edge to her character if she wasn't also completely obsessed with Father Christmas by Raymond Briggs. And anyway I suspect she likes Wenceslas particularly so she can force us to sing the whole carol every time we read it.


Paul favours the Grinch. Thankfully not because he identifies at all with the lead character. I suspect it's just because it's funny. A darned sight funnier than the film I think.

Phoebe still loves 'The Jolly Christmas Postman' which is such a classic I cannot recommend it highly enough. Although they do still fight over who is opening each envelope every flipping time. And she loves 'Mog's Christmas', my copy of which I've had since 1976 (thanks Joan and Ken).

And then there's me. Weirdly my favourite is one I don't think I had as a child: 'Lucy and Tom's Christmas' by Shirley Hughes. It is simply beautiful and I guess perfectly describes everyone's idyllic Christmas. But there is one page that gets me literally every time I read it aloud. It actually makes my voice falter.

"Christmas can be quite tiring. Tom gets very excited about his presents and rather cross.

So he and Grandpa go for a walk together in the snow, just the two of them. The sun is very big and red."

I can't identify exactly why it gets me. It's the walking with Grandpa line that makes me tearful. I do know I walked with my own wonderful Grandad many times down Burton Road. Not necessarily at Christmas, and not necessarily because I was being a nightmare (although maybe I was). But I remember walking hand in hand. So maybe it's that - simply a happy memory from such a long time ago.

And maybe it's the acknowledgement of of my own kids doing exactly the same.

Mum and Dad are coming for Christmas on Monday. I suspect my eldest might need a trip out with Grandad. Just because.

Thanks Shirley.

(Excuse the quality of the image. This is scanned from our book hence a very poor mirror image. The real page is stunning).

Moan Moan Moan

I apologise in advance for this. Traditionally it's men who can't handle illness. Man flu and all that.

But today it's me. I'm moaning.

It flipping hurts. When I swallow, talk and well just all the time. I'm wappy, dizzy, tired, hot, blah blah.

Now I appreciate in our house it is a bit different. Paul doesn't moan about anything much. If he complains of being ill he is REALLY poorly. I am much more of a lightweight. This I accept. But I just can't stand having a horrendous throat. Anything that stops me drinking, eating and talking doesn't sit too well with me. So I went to see the nurse and took Tilly too since she is still poorly poor thing.

The nurse saw me first and said things like "your glands are a little up". A little? Are you kidding me? Also "your ears are a bit red". Yep keep it coming, just a bit then. "You have a bit of a temperature". Do you fancy using another adjective to describe my symptoms? One that actual matches the pain I'm in? And the piece de resistance "your throat is just a bit red". It can't be just a bit red. It feels like it's full of razorblades.

So I considered myself resoundly patronised.

Then she looked at Tilly who she told much of the same on Monday but who now apparently has tonsillitis. At this point she said: "Ah, well since Tilly has tonsillitis there is a chance you will get it in a few days. You'll have to see how you go. You probably came a bit quick". Oh flipping brilliant.

Now I know you shouldn't have antibiotics unless you need them. I also know I am not a doctor, or a nurse. BUT SURELY ALL THE SIGNS ARE THERE? Even the pharmacist looked surprised she hadn't prescribed. The nurse basically said: you are a bit ill, go away and you'll probably get iller. Cheers.

The good news is that by gargling with warm salt water every day several times there is a slim chance I might be able to see off bacterial infection. Oh yum.

And poor Tilly has that minging medicine for ten days which will include Christmas Day. We've invested in a bag of Fruit Salads.

Plus of course if I do get prescribed antibiotics I will be having my first dry Christmas in many years...

So goodwill to all men/women. Apart from those who don't prescribe me medicine. Bah humbug.

By the scruff of the neck

First thing tomorrow morning I will be taking the day, and what's left of the pre-Christmas run up, by the scruff of the neck:

1. Find out what the hell is wrong with Tilly and me. It can't be just a virus. It is frankly crap and we will be kicking it into touch. If I need antibiotics they better start tomorrow or I'll have to pass on bucks fizz on Christmas Day which is not happening.

2. Find and wash some clothes so that I can actually wear a pair of socks that match and the kids don't have to wear purple tights to school.

3. Actually buy the remaining loopy items from the girls wish lists including shower caps. If I have to look at the same website again I may scream. I don't have to compare and contrast shower cap patterns any further. I really am the master of procrastination.

4. If Tilly goes to school take Paul out to watch Skyfall on a daytime date (albeit and throat hurty coughy type of one) and eat pick and mix. This is the only thing we planned to do this week and still hasn't happened. If we do go, do not come back by way of yet another shop. I am retailed out and do not need to wander about aimlessly any further this week. If we don't go book a time to go and a babysitter and stop flapping about.

5. Take that flipping stuff to the charity shop so I don't have to hear the pirate ship rolling about in the back seat and the cannon going off as I drive about.

6. Buy those tickets. Johnny Marr and The Specials to be specific. See point 3. re: procastination.

7. Buy super glue.

That should do it. Night x

Present Equality

Well the Christmas letters are about to be written and we have somewhat of an interesting problem.

Our eldest daughter has a list which stretches for about a mile and a half including a selection of relatively pricey items including a Victorian dolls house, a snow-dome maker, climbing shoes and a host of other things.

On one hand it is great that she has given us lots of ideas. A few too many ideas if I'm honest. There is far too much room for disappointment.

Which one do we pick? Sods law says it will be the one that I then have to dust a lot in months to come. Which ones to ignore?  Inevitably that will be the one she really really wants and we'll start the day under a veil of disappointment.

And yes I know kids today should be grateful for anything they get. That's a lovely idea but it's hardly realistic. Show me someone who remembers a Christmas when Father Christmas got it 100% right. It's a good job no-one can actually get hold of him to complain. One year I was given a beautiful bike and I complained because it had no bell. Children all have brattish tendencies, even I am ashamed to say, me.

Anyway we've bitten the bullet and chosen the dolls house as it seems to be her big ask. It's also a big ask of us since we have to put the blasted thing together. Maybe mulled wine will help. Or maybe we'll end up putting the roof on backwards.

So to Phoebe. She, on the other hand, does not have a large list of expensive items. Not for Phoebe requests of Furbys or Vtech Innotabs. Nope her list consists of:

1. Swimming goggles and
2. a shower cap.

I kid you not.

Now anyone with kids will know the importance of parity, especially when kids are little. Not only do the presents need to be equal in number and ideally cost, but also in relative size.

You can buy one child a 6ft cuddly toy and one child an MP3 player of the same exact monetary value and the big box wins every time. Because the competition was decided the second they entered the room in their pyjamas.

So I have the option of wrapping Phoebe's shower cap in a Victorian dolls house sized box, or just guessing what she might actually enjoy receiving and hoping for the best. Whatever happens I need to go and source a shower cap or there really would be hell to pay...

Where did my lovely(ish) daughter go then?

I am reliably informed by my youngest daughter's teacher that she is a happy smiley joy to behold in school. Five minutes after I leave the tear streaked clingy child she is sweetness and light, engaged and enthusiastic.

I have no reason to doubt their honesty. I mean it wouldn't make any sense for them to lie.

But all the evidence I can gather suggests it must be fabrication. Most days I am greeted at the end of the school day by a grumpy monster who is reluctant to participate in anything. She no longer likes going swimming, protests strongly (with tears) about going to parties and well, pretty much, says "no" to most suggestions I make. Reading her school book is a whole viaduct too far at the moment.

At home we are treated to the joys of living with a child who never says please or thank you, and most days shouts in my face at ear splitting volume. The only apologies are barked ones that you might imagine a teenager uttering and they only arise when pudding is withheld.

Well you know what, I've had enough. I have a good mind to sit her down and tell her that it frankly isn't fair for school to get the best bit and her family to be on the receiving end of four year old, for want of a better word, arsiness. Of course there would bo no point. She hasn't really got a clue what's going on and I am supposed to be the adult after all. I should be able to hold it together.

It seems that school is actually a minefield when you are four. Tonight alone I have reassured her that she doesn't have to use a toilet if it's disgusting, and that she doesn't have to drink milk if she doesn't fancy it.  I've explained that her friend doesn't really never want to play with her again because she (by Phoebe's own admission ) is annoying, and that it's ok because she may not know how much money to take for Children in Need day but I do. It doesn't matter if she never manages to zip up her coat herself and she will know the third line of that Christmas song by the time it's really necessary.

No-one wants to see their child sobbing and clinging to their knees, or refusing to the do the things they have always loved. Poor little thing.

But equally I'm guessing not many people would take kindly to being shouted at in the face for offering to help open a Capri-Sun or for daring to suggest we ought to collectively tidy up. And I know Tilly's singing can be a little off key but she really doesn't deserve quite such damning criticism (delivered in a scream) every time she breaks into song.

So what to do? I imagine the answer lies with routine, early nights, cuddles, distraction, a chat with school and the passage of time. Or a padded room and some ear defenders...

Domestic Bliss

You may have got the gist by now that I'm not the world's best housewife. I don't think anyone, especially my other half, has been surprised that my new found time has not brought with it a higher level of order.

It was yesterday when I realised I had plumbed new depths. I'd done my usual knee jerk reaction when I opened an email from White Stuff to tell me about their latest sale and treated myself to a couple of tops. Well I have no clothes to speak of at the moment so why not?

Of course I realised afterwards that I don't have a limited wardrobe problem. What I have is a boundless ironing problem.

It was evidenced when I walked into my bedroom, turned a bit too quickly and knocked approximately 2 feet of creased clothing all over the floor. (Nope I've never seen clothing described in terms of height before either.) It was a pleasant surprise. I'd forgotten I even owned some of it.

Now for clarity I don't iron anything unless it looks truly awful. It's amazing how few creases you can see if you tuck your children's tops into their skirts and button a cardigan over the top.

Of course there are some items that I just can't cover up with knitwear. Foolish beautiful items that I bought in a fit of peak, or probably in a sale. The turnaround time of these more labour intensive clothing items is so long that if I wear one people say "I like your top, have you been shopping?" "No" I reply "I just did my six monthly ironing yesterday whilst watching Ghost."

After that things look up for about six weeks while I wear something different every day and I feel just a little bit grown up. Then the inevitable happens and I go back to the T-shirt, jumper and jeans combo until I can be bothered to wrestle with the ironing board again.

I am eternally thankful that Paul a) works for himself and b) does so in the type of industry where geek scruffy is always acceptable. It's a good job too since currently every shirt he owns is in the ironing pile. Or should I say lying on the floor where I haven't quite got round to picking it up yet. And he is even less likely to feel the need to iron than I am.

So has the ironing made it to the top of my to do list yet?

No. I hate it. It's lower down even than the filing. And a darned sight further down than blogging...

Moonko, The Aviary and more!

One of the things I have realised since selling Barefoot Books on markets is just what I was missing out on before.

I mean I still love a bit of John Lewis every now and again but I had no clue about the originality and personality that is so much more available from designers and artists. I didn't understand the time and effort involved in creating handmade beautiful things nor did I give it any time or credit. In the past even did all my Christmas and birthday gift shopping in Meadowhall (shudder).

Of course it also wasn't so easy to find five years ago. Yes there were markets but very few farmer's markets with diversity and quality available today. And finding independent departments stores was extremely tricky. Plus of course the free marketing social media provides allows individuals to promote themselves way better than ever before.

But the thing is there is more to it than that. I don't go randomly "liking" pages and shopping through Facebook. There is always a reason why I've ended up there. And that for me is people.

I meet lovely people when I'm book selling. Sometimes I get the joy of standing all day next to someone really chatty and interesting who is selling something amazing. Which is exactly what happened a year ago when I met Deborah from Moonko.

Debbie was selling her own beautiful prints as well as prints from fantastic original artists including Corinna Rothwell. Nowhere else would I have been able to get a print that so perfectly sums up one of my oldest friends' love of cheese.

Just that stall position on one pretty quiet craft fair meant I went on to discover the Nicholl's Building in all it's eclectic glory as well as Faunagraphic, Sid Fletcher, Brendan Tyree, Katie Soze and The Aviary.

So it's about originality, beauty, friendly people and connections. But better than all that is that buying from independents also often means above and beyond.

I fell in love with a butterfly antique lens pendant made by The Aviary and was given it as a gift for my birthday. It came beautifully packaged but it turns out that it had not been fired at the right temperature and the image was detaching from the lens.

I don't like complaining (unless it's the council or some large corporate faceless place obviously) but I asked for it to be changed through Facebook. Victoria couldn't have been lovelier and it was exchanged for a new one which arrived with butterfly confetti and a beautiful house sparrow keyring to make up for the trouble. The whole thing made me smile and that, coupled with the fact that everyone comments on how lovely it is when I wear it, has made this one of the most memorable gifts this year. And of course has led me to share my positive experience with the world which is exactly what is supposed to happen and hopefully will go to help promote The Aviary further. Another win win.


So this year I'll be trying again to shop independent as much as possible.

Of course sometimes it just doesn't work as well and I have to cross over to the darker side. It's nearly impossible to find the kind of incomprehensible books my brother reads on anything other than Amazon. And if one of my favourite boys wants a specific branded suitcase to keep his finger skateboards in then who am I to argue.

But for many of the rest of my loved ones I'll be shopping the stalls next to and opposite me at my upcoming fairs. I'd be daft not to.