man up and move on

'I am afraid it wasn't a bad dream'

'You dreamt about it all night too??'

'You told me you would wake up this morning and think it was "all a bad dream" between forlorn muttering about being 'ambushed' and 'gutted' and well, here it is: we really did lose to Wales'

The first conversation in our household this morning. A weary, shocked man in need of support to clamber out of this period of mourning. And with it I see the following 30 years unfold before me; relentlessly riding the highs and lows, ebbs and flows of a tumultuous, avid engagement in all that is sport.. assuming our offspring continue the rich vein of sporting obsession threaded through their heritage. I am ready.

We were there yesterday (thank you, thank you Abby, Holly, Banny) - sans children, quaffing pints and absorbing the electric excitement and nervous atmosphere pervading the pubs, parks and streets within a 5 mile radius of the 'home of rugby', it was palpable. Those pure, base, simple, wholesome, uniting aspects of sport are, to me - just wonderful. Casting aside cheating and scandal, in a world where so many conflicts, battles, bitter clashes and narcissism reign - sport seems to unify in a way nothing else can. 

'Twas a liberating day away from nappies, choo choo trains and Postman Pat. I relished as much of the game and atmosphere as I could but couldn't help feeling such an overwhelming mirth at the fascinating social idyll in which I was engulfed that I decided to jot down my afternoon in a series of words for every 10 minute increment and this is how it went..

Theatre

Teamwork

Drama

Booze

Physicality

Patriotism

Respect

Banter

Comradeship

Flatulence

Happy husband
Nerves
Muscles

Expletives

Random acts of kindness

Oh it's gone fuzzy

Athleticism
Accountability
Acceptance
Booze 

What I found most compelling and humbling and made me fall even more in love with my dopey husband and so many of the squiffy excitable ladies, gentlemen and children yesterday is the immense, tangible passion and subsequent ability to fall so hard emotionally from the heady heights of a prospective victory... to scuff your shoes into the dirt in utter frustration and hang your bereft head like a lonely elephant and somehow manage to feably congratulate a grating, smug opposition on their victory. Sometimes sports don't quite manage to strike that incredible balance and the passion and hurt bubble over into brawls and bitterness but goodness me rugby get it spot on most of the time. 

I remain (perhaps naively) quietly confident we will rise to the  challenge of the antipodeans next week and all enjoy the fruits of our labour. So cogitate, digest, lick your wounds and move on sweet chariot, you've some low swinging to get on with.

haphazard humanitarianism

I can't tell if Katie Hopkins is being ironic, sarcastic, facetious, jestful... Or if she actually means some of the absurd, bigoted, tasteless cr@p she spouts. I don't follow anything she says (tweets, writes) per se but come across some of the more offensive items when they hit a media nerve. I think she just wants a reaction....... I just don't find it very funny. Intelligent, subtle, politically incorrect humour - I get but I find this base, crass, pugnacious torrent of gutter-offence boring and cruel. Anyway, this was not supposed to be a post damning that woman. I suppose she might be frightfully nice under that bitter, ascorbic shell.

It's this horrific refugee/migrant situation. Yesterday I was neither tired nor emotional but was reduced to tears watching (on TV) a grown man cling to his wife by his teeth as the police wrenched him across a railway track. In his wife's arms was his infant no more than 3 months old screaming helplessly as it was vigorously flung from side to side in the desperate tussle. That child's present is frightening and volatile and its future bleak. My children lay under their 12.5 togs with Iggle Piggle and Radar the dog dreaming of Legoland and worried they might not manage to sneak in enough breadsticks before their pesto pasta that afternoon. 

From what I understand, there are a swathes of people perilously fleeing war torn countries to reach sanctuary in Western Europe, so desperate that they will endure horrific and lengthy journeys and risk lives of those they have spent years doing everything in their power to protect because the prospect of life as it stands is worth the high risk (of death) to escape to 'promised lands'. What I don't understand is exactly how long has this been going on... Before it hit the media and came to all of our attention? And what I would like to understand is what is the answer to dealing with what seems to be an escalating, desperate humanitarian crisis.......How do we help these people in a properly manageable fashion? ... I somehow think that it doesn't have anything to do with gunships - but thank you Ms Hopkins.

I haven't done a vast amount of homework but I know we as a nation have ploughed (probably no where near enough) money into aid in these war torn areas, we have taken in 216 (?!) migrants versus hundreds of thousands in Germany and are now looking in to our refugee policy following the backlash from the media's exposure of a floppy, drowned 3 year old boy on the shores of Turkey - another country to welcome over a million refugees to its shores. It's not excusable but I can see the danger in opening the 'floodgates', many refugees are currently purporting to be heading to 'our mum, our Merkel' on some sort of pilgrimage to Germany. I will be watching with earnest at how we and the rest of Europe thrash this one out. Quickly and unified would be nice. Is it too simple to apportion on a population or square mile basis? I had another crazy idea that landlords with huge vacancies could waive empty rates by housing refugees ... Good for the old corporate social responsibility and saving hefty rates charges but logistically and 'health and safety' wise possibly a total non-starter. Bureaucracy. 

It just seems so chaotic, gut wrenchingly desperate and hopeless and sad.

These are desperate people, people (not cockroaches Katie) that could be us (Steve Jobs was a Syrian migrant and look what he's done; more than daub our media with merd) ... I don't know what horrendous thing is going to have to happen in Katie's life to curtail her assiduous sojourn along the the nerves and through the jugular of perfectly innocent people. What grates me further is that I am sure she says these things for the rise she duly gets. 

It's a pretty good mantra..

Judge Dread

I have admit that when I saw that picture last week of David, Brooklyn and Harper frolicking around in a car park, giggling, tickling and running around; that (amongst other warm thoughts on the family idyll) I did wonder how old Harper was and why she had a dummy/pacifier, surely she didn't need one. I am as guilty as the next and it made me realise that critique and judgement is an inherent human trait and is part of what makes this weird and wonderful world go round. 

I have been guilty in the past (and to a fair extent still today) of caring too much about what other people think and it's just not good for you. It is part of the reason for my 15 year writing hiatus. I dread judgement and yet I have now decided to document some of my quirky ponderings for public consumption. But you know what?.. I like writing, I like looking back at streams of my consciousness and challenging/analysing the thoughts and perceptions I have on day to day matters and the (albeit silly) things that happen in my life. It's my 'running replacement', my cathartic 'endorphin-fix'.

My plea is - challenge your own judgement. All is not always as it seems on the surface. My blog, the material I write about, perhaps at times makes me look shallow, conceited, smug and daft. Oh 'poor you' you didn't get a good nights sleep and then your perfectly healthy child threw a raisin at you, oh dear me. Oh and you couldn't find the blue plastic buggy book for your £500 buggy in your safe, dry, boring enclave of SW London, oh my heart breaks..... But you see we actually all have our own 'heavy sh*t' to deal with which we may not chose to air. It's sometimes easier to laugh at the seemingly minute than revel in the gritty tough stuff... Don't get me wrong, I am not afraid of writing about bigger issues but actually they tend to involve other people which is unfair.

I know I really am incredibly lucky - I digress.

Big Davey B, Goldenballs - stood up to the multitude of critics about the piece of plastic in his daughters mouth last week, 'you don't see what goes on behind the scenes' he went on to explain pretty much that this isn't a regular occasion (in fairness we haven't seen her much with one) and that he adores his kids and wouldn't ever do anything to jeopardise a brilliant upbringing. It's sad he had to 'explain' himself and I wish he'd been more sang froid but I hope in doing so it made some people think deeper into the situation before casting opinions. With the whole kid-thing, I feel quite strongly that everyone has their own way and method of raising their children and each child is very different - what is right for one person and their mite is not necessarily so for another. Almost all of us just adore these little beings beyond possible explanation and spend our entire life investing energy and love into ensuring that they grow up happy and secure and healthy, we don't always get it right but there is always a reason for an action and it has this vested, unremitting, unequivocal care and love behind it. Know that before you judge.

You see it's too bloody easy to read what you WANT from a situation to suit your own prejudices. Allowing what you see to challenge you is impressive and remarkably good for the soul.

It's just not cricket

Well it seems an appropriate day to write this one (thank you Australia) and despite barely wielding a willow, I have an opinion.. Slam me down if you like.

You see after at least 10 years of intense watching in my own home, cogitation over the 7 Wisden Almanacks (thanks Jim) in our downstairs loo and 30 years of a fairly avid family following - I think cricket is a brilliant, genius sport but the phrase 'it's just not cricket' slightly bemuses me.

This phrase claims cricket to be the pinnacle of 'sportsmanship', Cambridge Dictionaries purports that if behaviour 'is not cricket, it is not honest or moral', but I am, at times, a little unsure. 

I love it for its twists, turns, unpredictability, endurance, banter, for the sledging..... And that for me is just it. Cricket is the only sport I know of where psychological taunts and jest forms a perfectly acceptable part of the strategy, skill and drama of the game. 'Mental disintegration' is often hilarious, a thing of wonder and utterly effective when cast down at opportune moments but it amazes me that with this, cricket is indeed the most moral and honest of sports. 

On the whole sledging is just plain, dry, slap-stick wit and banter but there are those that cross the line (of morality let alone the boundary)..

I dont know where I am going with this, I say 'long live the sledge' and long live the ICC monitoring that it doesn't over- step the mark (which those pesky Aussies have a habit of doing).

The eldest male of the household is out lashing (a little local cricket pun) for the 3rd night in a row whilst I sit at home writing a sh*t blog about a sport I have never really played nor understand and wait to be screamed at or vomited on by one of my offspring. THAT is just not cricket.

Thank you Sewel much

A rare calm, happy and peaceful return from nursery chatting about dinosaur and train play as well as learning days of the week with Mia, Archie and Vasco came to a crashing end when (unbeknownst to me the news was on the radio) up pipes 'prostitue mummy' of course, typically, this time pronounciation was spot-on so I ought to have praised his sharp ear and lucid tongue but instead quickly turned the radio off and belted out my best 'the wipers on the bus go swishhhhh swishhhhhh swishhhhhhhhhh' - calm restored. 

I think its time to put the Eminem CD away too.

Not by the hair on my chiny chin chin

In a bid for more space and time in London we 'went up' into our loft earlier this year. Needless to say after a few months of throwing money we didn't have at the project and provarocating between sisal and hessian, we ran out of steam. What we have is a wonderful space but we haven't quite pulled the project over the line and one thing we distinctly lack in our house is mirrors. 

Most days I don't have the time to stop and take stock of my face (I know, hashtag first world problems!!) but this weekend on a rare outing in the car without a single other being with me, I stopped in traffic outside the Tower of London. After patriotically enjoying the view in smug silence my eyes caught a glimpse of a haggard older self in the mirror, of course it was actual-time me: marvellous. It's easy to fake an image when you never actually see what you look like..... However it wasn't the wrinkles or red eyes or tasche that really caught my attention or horror but the 3 long, dark whiskers that had sprouted from my chin.

I have a beard.