Road Rage

I’m on my way to London to meet a friend for lunch. Normally, I drive like I’m competing at Brands Hatch – or so my reputation behind the wheel goes – but for once I’m in no hurry. The sky is a calming Hockney blue, blossom bursting out everywhere and a radio podcast about someone brainwashed into joining a religious cult is keeping me engrossed.

At a small cross roads, a biker idles on the opposite side of the road. The rider is barrel-chested and bulked to the hilt in leather. Somehow though, I get the impression that if you were to peel away the heavy layers, something small and insubstantial would emerge.

There is a split second when we both hesitate as to who has the right of way. As I am the only one indicating, I assume he is crossing over and so take the initiative. It is only after I have committed to the left turn, that he pulls out in the same direction. His movements are strangely wobbly. I’m reminded of a toddler pushing off on a bicycle without the safety net of stabilisers.

In the time it has taken me to register this, I have already nipped into a small residential road and then stopped to wait behind a string of parked cars for the oncoming traffic. Instead of driving past, the first approaching car stops alongside me. I check my wing mirror to see what the holdup is.

On the ground is the biker. He doesn’t look injured but he’s struggling to get his bike upright. It’s a heavy looking bike with fat storage containers strapped to each side like saddlebags. All that leather kit he’s wearing isn’t helping matters. The driver of the passing car goes to assist. He’s a middle aged man of average build but he uprights the bike with the ease of someone picking up a child’s scooter. I’m not sure the biker sees the irony of this because he is too busy pointing an accusatory glove in my direction. Even though I haven’t done anything, I go hot inside. It’s that school assembly moment when the head teacher asks the guilty party to fess up to a crime and you feel they are speaking directly to you.

Bike righted, the driver gets back in his car and shoots off up the road, quickly followed by the remaining waiting traffic. Ignoring the biker’s gesticulating, I too make a hasty exit but am immediately pursued by sounds of a loud and insistent horn. I glance in my rear mirror. The biker is signalling in an angry fashion. Don’t get involved, I tell myself. He’s probably a nutter.

This chase continues along the back roads but he doesn’t go away. Like a bad smell, he follows me on to the duel carriageway, his hooting as loud as a siren. I speed up determined to lose him but he does the same. If it’s intimidation he’s after, I’m feeling it.

After carrying on like this for over a mile, he draws up alongside my car, signalling for me to pull over. We are both doing about 50 mph. I think of those American movies where the cop waves you down and bad things happen. I am resolute. I am not going to stop. Why should I? Then Mr Biker Man shoots past me, slips in front of my car, gradually slowing down and forcing me to do the same. I stop.

This is a dual carriageway but he doesn’t seem to care. He dismounts from his bike and walks towards me with a rugged, determined gait. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ a character in the podcast yells, ‘No one’s going anywhere.’

Suddenly I’m sixteen again, walking along a pavement in Athens. A car pulls up alongside me, a large, greasy-looking individual at the wheel. I try to ignore his verbal advances but he keeps pace with me, calling out and making tedious lewd gestures. It’s annoying and I want him to go away. He persists and so I try out one of the new swear words I have recently learned, experimenting with the sound in my mouth. Ma-la-ca, I say, peppering the word with a little contempt. Wanker.

Instantly, the car – a grey Mercedes – mounts the pavement and pulls up in front of me. The driver gets out, surprisingly agile for such a large man and slaps me hard across the face. I am too shocked to respond. He is shouting at me but while I can’t understand his rapid speech, his meaning is clear. People stand by watching and it is this passiveness, this unwillingness to intervene rather than the slap itself, that leaves me feeling humiliated and furious in equal measure.

As Mr Biker Man approaches my car, I tell myself that nothing bad can happen because it is broad daylight. Still, I feel my body tense. Here we go, I think.

I lower the window a third of the way and stare up at the biker. Behind his clear visor he is wearing sunglasses. Now that he’s close up I can see he has to be in his 60s. He launches straight in, his finger pointing at me like a gun.

‘I want your insurance details.’

He has a thin, downturned mouth that conveys meanness. Cars fly past in the outside lane. It is folly to have stopped here. At any moment someone could drive into the back of me.

‘I’m not giving you anything,’ I say.

‘You made me fall off my bike.’

I allow the absurdity of what he has just said to sink in.

‘You fell off it all by yourself.’

‘Because of you!’ he says passionately, going back to the finger pointing. ‘You put me off.’

I look at him thoughtfully, no longer intimidated.

‘I hate to say it but I don’t think you’re very good on that machine. You might want to consider downsizing.’

He looks so shocked you’d think the car had spoken to him not me. His mouth gapes revealing a couple of gold fillings. I think he is going to say something. Instead, he sort of deflates inside his leather kit and walks back to his bike. Does this mean our dispute is over? For a moment I am thrown by what feels like an anticlimax. But only for a moment. I put the car back in gear and drive off.

Three miles along the M25, a motorbike rockets past me in the outside lane. The roar of the engine is astonishing and my adrenaline levels momentarily soar, but it isn’t him.

‘Freedom is the best feeling in the world,’ one of the characters on the podcast says as the story reaches it’s conclusion. ‘I had a damn lucky escape.’

You and me both, I muse.  I look out at the rolling countryside and am calmed by the lush greenness. My stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten today. Flooring the accelerator, I speed on towards London and lunch.

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

 

It is 6pm on a warm, late Summer’s evening and I am in a people carrier with four of my friends heading into East London. Food and alcohol circulate the back of the car and there is a lot of giggling brought on by a mixture of excitement and nerves. It feels like we’re on a first school trip, of doing something risky as no one quite knows what we’ve signed up for.

Finding a parking space is a challenge. It means we have to make the rest of the way on foot. While this isn’t quite on the level of Cersei’s walk of shame in Game of Thrones, it is awkward because it is broad daylight and we are all in our nightwear.

We exit the car and a woman wearing a burka with a small child on her hip, watches us from a first floor window. The child appears transfixed as we glide past in a swirl of black and cream silk negligees with bold floral prints and a fair bit of lace. I smile at her to demonstrate we are not from another planet.

As we navigate our way through the heart of London’s multicultural East End, Asian and Bangladeshi men in full length robes stop to give us curious glances. I feel horribly exposed. One of us, wearing a babydoll and holding a teddy bear, is pretending to be pregnant. Another is in full dominatrix get-up and brandishing a whip (no, honestly, don’t ask).

Our destination is an elegant Queen Anne house, its windows screened with crimson blinds. Standing in the open doorway, is a slight man greeting the queuing guests. First impressions of our host could not be less reassuring. He is whippet-thin and despite the humid air, dressed in a heavy black Chinese gown that stops shy of his bony ankles. An enormous, donut-shaped hat dwarfs his pale, impish features.

He chats to each waiting guest as he would an old friend, his voice high and aristocratic. The teddy bear and the whip draw his attention and a light hearted debate about whether the bear infringes the rules ensues. Then he bends his head for the whispered password that buys entry into the house and in we go.

The house, like its owner, is the stuff of fantasy. Imagine stepping on to a Tim Burton set or inside a Victorian Gothic painting and you get the idea. A large figure of Christ wearing red slippers and a top hat, hangs from the ceiling just inside the dark, narrow hallway, a large pompom dangling incongruously from one hand.

We are asked to take off our shoes and offered a choice of slippers by the nightwear police; a trio of pretty young women who hover a little awkwardly. This turns out to be a non negotiable house rule and unfortunate for my dominatrix-clad friend as removing her long boots rather spoils the effect of her outfit.

Those who have rushed straight from work, head to the top floor bedroom to change into the compulsory nighttime attire. We follow, more out of nosiness than necessity, but also to get the measure of our fellow guests. An evening of fairytales for grown-ups sends the imagination into overdrive, so its a relief to discover that everyone else is as normal as us.

We crowd into an over-heated basement kitchen where vodka cocktails in china cups do the rounds. Despite his eccentric Oriental attire, our host has a bit of the Fred Astaire about him. With his bony, nervous energy and clipped decibels, it is easy to imagine him dancing around in top hat and tails. He is a practised flirt; we’ve barely got past hello before he suggests taking me out for supper.

Once the vodka has taken hold, we float back upstairs where our storyteller awaits. The room, which takes up the entire ground floor, is dimly-lit and resembles a Chinese opium den, its muted corners both exotic and with a touch of the macabre. I am one of the lucky ones to find a seat on a black fluffy sofa, but most end up having to sit on the floor.

It is incredibly warm and the close proximity to so many other bodies makes it more so. In the reflection of a large gilt mirror, my newly washed hair has the wilted look of a plant that longs for water. My eye travels along the surfaces, registering three wooden hands cut off mid-arm and standing erect like the arms of eager children in a classroom. In a corner, a white dog strikes a haughty pose in a jaunty tiara, its elegant neck encrusted with jewels. Elsewhere, a red bodice poses as a lamp shade. It’s all a bit bonkers but the perfect setting for make-believe.

Our story teller recounts Little Red Riding Hood. This she does not once but seven times, each version originating from a different country and with increasing menace. I am a child again on my mother’s knee, captivated by both the comic and gory details, conjuring  memories of my fear of being devoured by an animal’s jaws.

During the break, we cluster in a little courtyard garden where people smoke and chat and cool off. Not for the first time, I thank God for my light attire. More vodka cocktails and a further explore of the house which is littered with hats from various decades; it turns out our host is obsessed with them – then we’re back to the storytelling.

My  spot on the sofa has been taken, so I join a friend at the other end of the room. The bench is hard and unyielding and like many things in the house, there for affect rather than comfort, but it is better than being sandwiched on the floor. I lean against a window that I long to open. It is so incredibly hot. I’d be cooler in Malaysia. How can our host bear to wear those long, heavy robes? Then I forget the heat for a bit, as a man with black hair and a guitar replaces our storyteller. He has a good voice, deep and gravelly, his bedroom lyrics making me blush.

Our host, who made himself scarce for the stories, reappears for the raffle which is to be the evening’s finale. As I watch him nominate one of my friends to the slightly humiliating task of kneeling before him and taking tickets from what he refers to as his muff bag, I decide in that moment he is more Fagin than Astaire. Maybe it’s the nervous energy, the slightly self-congratulatory manner he has about him, but there is a false note to his clipped upperclass tones that makes me wary. Scratch the surface, I think, and I’m not sure I’d like what I’d find.

There are no rules to the raffle. Our host makes it up as he goes along. Two friends are grievously over-looked for the best outfit prize as they are streets ahead of everyone else in style. Most entertaining guest – a rather mousy woman hiding behind the door and who I haven’t heard a squeak from all evening – gets a bottle of house vodka. Then comes the final prize for most flirtatious guest. Heavy with irony, no doubt, and to the delight of my friends, I am its recipient and presented with an enormous, pink as you please, papier-maché stag.

The storm that has threatened all evening, finally breaks and we drive home accompanied by spectacular lightening and rain. The stag takes up the whole of the boot, its crimson nose squashed against the back window screen as though longing to be returned from whence it came. It has been a memorable evening, one to dazzle and impress. And yet…

Later, along with the grandiose hats, the pompoms and feathers, glittering baths with lions mouths for taps, I will dream of a tiny severed plaster hand on a dressing table, the electrified hair of a black Medusa bust surrounded by bottles of spirits, of a lone wolf in a top hat prowling the streets for flesh. But right now, my friends still giggling around me, I lean back in my car seat and take deep, grateful breaths of the night’s fresh air.

All of a Flutter

I am tackling bills at my kitchen table, a regrettable and tedious task which I have been putting off, so when a friend suggests popping over, I quickly agree. Having spent the best part of two hours trying to sort out what I had assumed was a simple matter with British Telecom, I am quickly losing the will to live.

My friend fills the house with his indefatigable energy. Tea in hand, we chat about our respective children, how work is going. He recounts a recent Bear Grylls-like adventure – a common occurrence in his life. Often reckless, they involve throwing himself out of helicopters to ski lethal black runs, or flying to the continent in a microlight. I say microlight but that conjures up an image of an actual aircraft. Having once foolishly agreed to go up in one with him, a more accurate description would be of a lawn mower with wings. This is a man with more lives than Henry VIII had wives. I don’t count myself so fortunate.

We’ve been talking for about an hour, when a distant tapping sound presents itself. I’d heard it earlier while deep in bills but paid it no head. This time I tune into the sound, trying to work out where it’s coming from.

I peer up at the glass atrium. Perhaps it has started raining? It’s been threatening to all morning. But no, the glass is dry. I soon convince myself that the sound is coming from inside. At this point, my friend joins in the investigation, placing his ear near to the fridge but almost on cue the sound stops. We stand still for a moment listening to silence then get bored of the task and resume chatting. I make more tea, unearth a half eaten cake which has somehow escaped the predatory eyes of teenagers, and have just divided up the remains, when the tapping returns.

‘Listen. Can you hear that?’ I ask, squinting up at the lights: an electrical issue perhaps.

‘It’s definitely coming from this end of the room.’

Tantalisingly, the sound comes and goes. We stop talking so we are ready for it and sure enough it starts again. It’s like the noise an I-Pad keyboard makes, a mid tone, rat a tat tat sort of a sound. We are mystified.

Finally, after much investigating, we narrow our search to the cupboard next to the Aga.

‘D’you think something’s in there?’ I ask, tentatively. My friend bends down to open the cupboard door, then almost immediately shuts it again.

‘What?’ I ask, alarmed by the speed in which he does this. He looks suddenly pale. ‘What’s in there?’

‘A bird,’ he says faintly.

I wait for him to add details but from the look on his appalled face, he doesn’t need to.

‘How the hell did it get inside there?’

I am both bemused and unsettled. There is a vent that leads from the Aga to the outside wall via the cupboard but even an insect would struggle to find its way inside it.

And then there is this discovery – life is full of surprises – that my Bear Grylls, outdoor adventuring friend, is about as keen on birds as Tippi Hedren in Hitchcock’s infamous thriller. He admits as much and though he tries to disguise it, now wears the look of a condemned man.

A plan is formulated. First, we open all the windows as wide as they will go, then prop open both doors. I don’t mind birds – except for the crows that occasionally set up shop outside my bedroom window and drive me to distraction with their incessant cawing – but my friend’s alarm is contagious. As I run upstairs in search of a sheet, my imagination goes into over-drive. I picture one of those Game of Thrones ravens released from its confinement. In my fantasy, it takes on the size of an eagle, flying around my kitchen in a state of panic, blindly banging into walls, pecking at my head with its massive beak and spraying excrement over the work surfaces. Make a massive mental note to remove everything in sight before we liberate the beast.

I return to the kitchen brandishing the longest sheet I can find and a towel to mop up with but which I am tempted to tie around my head as protection (memories of a holiday in France when a bat got caught up in my sister’s hair, looms large). As instructed, I hold the sheet wide like a screen. The hope is that this will encourage the bird towards the window.

For a moment we wait in great suspense. Then my friend says,

‘Ready?’ Taking one for the team, his hand hovers nervously over the cupboard handle.

‘Ready,’ I say in a voice that lacks conviction, watching with one eye shut.

He makes two attempts to pull free the door before, suddenly, it is open. Immediately, something darts out through the open window. When it is clear that nothing else is going to follow, we move to the window and look outside. Three feet away, a robin is perched on a low hanging branch, a tiny red blush against a green backdrop. It looks frail but untroubled by its recent confinement. Like a chorister settling into a church pew, it opens its mouth and sings as if announcing its arrival to the world. You have got to be kidding, I think. I turn to my friend who gives me a very sheepish look.

Neither of us say a word.

In the Lap of the Gods

It’s Sunday, a dull, sluggish day and I feel like being active and outside. I make a start on the weeds which are Triffid-like and so rampant they have the ability to crush your will. Soon, my focus switches to a huge beech tree dominating one area of the garden. Thick, overhanging branches swamp the cricket net, making the area below oppressive and dark. This has been bugging me for some time and I decide the branches must come down. The only problem is they are thirty feet high. We have a ladder long enough to reach but it’s too heavy for me to lift, let alone drag across the garden. My husband, who has been been enjoying the build up to a big rugby match with our boys, comes out to help. He throws the ladder over a shoulder, his evident reluctance at what he sees as my foolhardiness is etched in his face. Several times he tells me that what I’m planning is risky and that I’m not qualified to do this but I have a stubborn nature and he knows it.

With the ladder secured against the main body of the tree, he stands on the bottom rung while I test the stability. It’s a long way up and a few months ago I would have had a vertigo moment. That said, a couple of stints of tree top adventure parks with teenage boys seems to have temporarily cured me of my fear of heights. In fact, I’m reconnecting with the child in me who used to spend many happy hours hiding in trees.

I have two hand saws and a large pair of clippers which I carefully hook onto branches as I climb. I start off with branches that block my path. A neighbouring pine throws out dense, furry arms; it’s a bit like trimming a fur coat. The beech, when I get to it, is easier than I’d anticipated. The first branch is about fourteen centimetres thick but sawing downwards makes my task easy. The branch falls to the ground with a thud. Two more follow and already I can see the difference; a weak sun breaks through the gloom. After the third branch has been felled, I tell my husband that I am fine on my own. He’s not happy, but having already missed the warm up for the game, he hurries back inside. The Black Dog contemplates following him but decides to stay put.

Confidence replaces cautiousness as I warm to my task. I am determined to prove my husband’s misgivings wrong and start to tackle larger branches. The ladder is there for security but I actually feel safer standing on the stout branches, ever mindful of the tree climbing rule number one which is to make sure I always have something to hold onto. The really big branches crack and snap when I’ve only sawed half way but the weight, as they tip earthwards, does the rest of the job for me.

Finally, I reach the main culprit. It’s more like a mini tree than a branch. I look for the narrowest point within comfortable reaching distance, cut a wide V into the arm, then start sawing, stopping every now and then for a break. There’s a surprising amount of sap and the saw keeps getting stuck. My working arm starts to tire but I’m determined to keep going. When the branch finally breaks it’s like I’ve taken down Goliath. I feel victorious and vindicated. Carefully, I descend the ladder. The ground is littered with branches and there’s a lot of clearing up to do. Some branches are too heavy to lift which means sawing them down into manageable sizes. I drag what I can over to the fire, stripping off layers as I go; it is unseasonably warm for the time of year.

I work for a further hour, then think about going back inside. It’s getting dark and too late to burn anything now. Instead, I grab our rickety step ladder and carry it over to a tree with an unnecessary long reaching branch. It’s quite low and won’t take me two minutes I think, smug from my victory with the Beech tree. The step ladder is just tall enough for me to haul myself up. I straddle the branch. My plan is to shuffle forward to a point where the branch is thin enough to saw through. The only problem is that there are no other low branches to hold onto and I quickly realise that shuffling isn’t going to work. I’ll have to sit side-saddle. That presents problems of its own because I have the saw in one hand so I’m not very stable. I haven’t thought this through. Still trying to work it out, I shift my weight sideways to get more purchase and quite suddenly I’m tumbling backwards. I hit the ground with force. Pain runs through my fingers and I am dimly aware that I have caught my head on something. For a moment I am too shocked to think. I lie in a heap, crying more from frustration than pain, and because my pride has been hurt. I’d been doing so well and one moment of carelessness has undermined my good work. The black dog hears my sobs and rushes over to offer licks and a reverently wagging tail. She knows something’s up.

After a while, I get up off the damp ground. Cautiously, I touch the area by my right temple which feels horribly swollen but I can’t think about what I’ve done yet. I slink back to the house now warmly lit up like a Christmas tree and, unnoticed, take refuge in the upstairs bathroom. Bath water running, I brave a look. My right temple has taken the brunt of the fall, the skin swollen and cut and already showing signs of an impressive bruise. I must have caught it on the corner of the saw. Further investigation reveals several marks on my body but my fingers cause me the most angst. Two will blow up like uncooked sausages, giving rise – unfounded as it turns out – to a break.

I lie in the bath, listening to the male shrieks coming from the TV room below feeling quite alone. I tell myself that I am lucky, that it could have been much worse. Even so, I won’t mention what has happened – though my wounds will give me away. What I can’t avoid, though I’m not yet ready to hear it, is the inevitable ‘I told you so’.

Fasten Your Seatbelt

We are driving to the airport in the dark. It is unpalatably early and, frankly, I should still be unconscious in my bed. Five hours sleep is nothing more than a nap. It leaves me feeling fragmented and a tiny bit grumpy. The rain is tumbling down, just as it has been for days, and there’s a blustery wind. I’ve begun to forget what sunshine looks like. Brittany had better be nice, is all I can say. It’s going to be our home for the next five days.

The airport is swarming with passengers. We join the lengthy queue to check in bags and make such slow progress that even before we’ve reached the halfway point, they’re asking passengers on our flight to make themselves known. My hand shoots up. Like royalty, we’re ushered to the front and check in our bags. My son and I make it through security without any hiccups. My mother, however, sets off several alarms and gets the not-quite-so-Royal patting down treatment. Note to mother, appreciate the racy touch but don’t wear jeans decorated with metal studs when you know you’re going to fly.

Everyones thoughts turn to breakfast; we’ve got just enough time. My son says that he’ll get his own and rushes off to buy, what is a fairly safe bet, everything I disapprove of. I go in search of coffee for my mother who is unable to function without her daily caffeine fix. I’ve no sooner paid than they announce the imminent closure of our flight. One problem, we have lost my teenage son. He’s not at the designated meeting place and he’s not answering his phone. I send several fruitless texts and position myself at the top of an escalator hoping to spot him from a high vantage point. No joy. It’s like trying to find a field mouse in a zoo. Conscious that my mother’s not going to be able go very fast to the gate, I send her on ahead and start haunting the shops. My son finally materialises and with me yelling instructions over my shoulder, we run flat out, passing startled passengers leisurely being carried forward by conveyor belts.

We arrive at the gate hot and bothered and my recent purchase of coffee, croissant and porridge now a sorry mess inside the carrier bag. Having just done the 1500 metres, the stewardess makes us play a game called force your handbag into your already-bursting-at-the-seams holdall. I contemplate taking her on about this ridiculous rule but I can see from her expression that she’s in a bullish mood; not a battle I’m going to win.

The flight is full and with nowhere overhead to put our luggage, we end up cramming it into what little space remains several isles away. We squeeze into our seats near the back of the aircraft and I am just starting to finally relax, when an enormous man with sweat coating his face comes into view. No, I think, averting my eyes as he takes the seat in front of mine. Please don’t. The back of his chair strains towards me like a lid closing over a coffin. He cannot recline it, I think mutinously, or I will suffocate and die.

My mother, who is in an upbeat mood (coffee has that affect on her), investigates what’s in her seat pouch, pulling out the obligatory emergency landing card and various magazines.

‘What’s this?’ she asks.

‘It’s a sick bag, Mum,’ I say, shoving it back into place. ‘You won’t be needing that.’

Having rushed us onto the plane, the entire cabin crew promptly disembark and we are made to wait almost an hour before the replacement crew appear. Outside, it’s all hail and brimstone. The storm has caused a back-log of queuing planes, we are told, which means suffering a further forty-five minute delay. So much for our early start to France. None of this does anything to dent my son’s holiday excitement who chats with my mother and plays games on his phone, his earlier purchases laid out in front of him like a shrine; there is enough sugar to fuel the aircraft but I don’t spoil the mood by mentioning this.

The plane roars into life and suddenly we’re in the sky. From the window, all I can see is smeared rain. The undercarriage is making grumbling noises which make me think of rusty, broken things – did I mention that I don’t like flying? My mother and I laugh uncertainly but there is an unnerving amount of turbulence. The plane feels flimsy and unsafe, like a boat being buffeted at sea. The first signs of a headache starts to nag.

Ten minutes into our flight, a baby begins to wail. It has a piercing pitch. I glance behind me hoping to see someone dealing with the situation. A slight, rather pretty woman whose husband is sitting with their two young boys on the other side of the isle, is doing her best to calm the baby down but the baby’s not having any of it. This baby is a professional wailer. If it was auditioning for an out-of-key production of La Traviata, it would get the part. Nurofen, I think, scrabbling around in my bag.

The trolley makes its way precariously down the isle and my son, who hasn’t had breakfast and blames me for this oversight, orders a bacon roll. The stewardess tells him it will take ten minutes to cook and offers salted crackers while he waits. The large sweating man asks for a diet Coke (who is he kidding). As he reaches for his drink his seat springs forward like a bird released from its cage and for a moment I am awash with oxygen. Then he sits back again. It’s like being entombed.

I try reading to take my mind off the feeling of claustrophobia and the turbulence which won’t let up but my head is getting worse and I’m now starting to feel sick. I put the book away and close my eyes trying not to listen to the wailing baby or the child behind me who for some inexplicable reason has been given an I-pad and playing really loud games.

The seatbelt sign remains on for the entire flight. I take my life in my hands and go to the loo, clutching onto the back of seats and almost ending up in someone’s lap. Snacks and drinks are quickly cleared away and just when I think they have forgotten, my son’s bacon roll appears.

The plane begins its decent. There is a sudden, violent drop and we take a crazy noise dive. Everyone in the cabin cries out in fear and I do something I haven’t done since I was a little girl; I grab my mother’s arm, bracing myself for the worst. Almost immediately, the plane accelerates skyward at great speed as though released from a missile launcher, only for the engine to cut out and suddenly we are plunged earthward again. Its like being on some awful rollercoaster you can’t stop. Up and down, up and down until my head’s fit to burst. Fighting an impulse to be sick, I glance across at my son to see if he’s okay.

It comes as a shock when the plane finally hits the runway. There is a tremendous roar and a slam of the breaks, propelling everyone forward like rag-dolls.

‘My God, the pilot’s overshot the runway,’ my mother remarks, as the breaks squeal and protest in a cacophony of noise.

Head bent, trying not to focus on anything, I press my hands against the seat in front of me. The baby who has definitely secured the leading role in La Traviata is yelling its head off but I feel too awful to be sympathetic.

‘That was the worst landing I have ever experienced,’ my mother says loudly as we miraculously come to a stop.

A groan is the only responsel I can muster. Never again, I think. Don’t let me anywhere near a plane again.

Out of the window, I catch grey sky and sheets of rain. Great, I think. Really great.

My mother is smiling at me sympathetically. ‘Sick bag?’ she asks.

Night Chorus.

2am.  Am wide awake despite very much not wanting to be. Have tried for three hours to sleep but husband, in state of blissful unconsciousness, has blocked nose and producing spectacular sounds. Strongly suspect that if snoring was an Olympic event, husband would walk away with gold.

2.10am. Hear commotion downstairs and leave bed to investigate. Attempts to keep eyes half closed to retain illusion of sleepy state fail as ground floor is ablaze with lights. Find Older Cherub in kitchen with headphones on and watching Game of Thrones on his I-Pad. Remind Cherub that season 4 of Game of Thrones is not an A level subject and that he needs to be up in five hours for school. Cherub, who has just completed a workout, complains of not having enough to eat. Do not feel that cereal, sports recovery drink, toast, chicken sandwich meant for school packed lunch and remainder of lasagne laid out in from of him, give sufficient grounds for this and decline request to make French toast.

2.20am. The dog, sitting in hopeful anticipation of food scraps, is suddenly all attention and starts barking loudly. Fear this might wake entire neighbourhood so open front door to assess what has brought about this state of excitement. Spot large, mangy fox frozen on lawn by sensor lights. Something unpleasant falls from its mouth and it slopes away in jaunty fashion. Dispatch dog with loud cries of encouragement to see vile animal off and watch dog discharge like a rocket in the opposite direction to the fox.

2.30am. Return to kitchen and Cherub performing elaborate stretching exercises. Cherub lists several things urgently needed for the morning which include printing off homework and washing school trousers as there’s spilt yoghurt on them. Cherub does not wait for response but announces he must get on with things as if he has been kept from important business.

Despite much whistling, dog is not forthcoming, so give up waiting in drafty hall and instruct Cherub to let her in when she reappears. Turn off lights and climb upstairs to bed which is now cold. Am determined to sleep but fear goal compromised by having consumed large quantities of dark chocolate after supper as am neither a coffee or tea drinker, so susceptible to caffeine. Curl up against husband as need for warmth has temporarily superseded need for peace. After five minutes become an inferno of heat and instantly discard husband and duvet.

2.50am. Husband’s snoring has settled into a low frequency, fluttering sound. Make ferocious attempt to take advantage of tranquil stage before Darth Vador decibels return but efforts fail. Lie very still and try to empty mind. Hear dog whining outside and contemplate leaving foolish animal to get on with it. Instead return downstairs and let her in. Cherub’s light is still on. Extract promise that he will be up in time for lift to station no matter what, but leave with heavy scepticism as Cherub’s commitment to lie-ins are legendary.

3.10am. Start to drift off but grow distracted by faint scratching noise. Am instantly alert and sit bolt upright. After some moments, identify sound coming from the ceiling just above my head. Try not to picture large rodent gnawing through electric cables but become fixated on sound and wait in state of extreme agitation. Consider earplugs but fear none exist in house and looking for them would mean turning on lights and ferrying through cupboards. Instead, stand on bed and bang loudly several times on the ceiling with slipper in the hope of frightening mice into submission. Cast uneasy glance over at husband who shifts onto his side, but sleeps on with steadfast resolve.

3.16am. Older Cherub appears in bedroom and asks indignantly what all the noise is about as he is trying to sleep. Request to borrow Apple charger is given short thrift and Older Cherub dispatched to bed with threats of losing I-Pad for life.

5.45am. Summoned from fitful dreams by several electronic devices belonging to husband leaping into life. About to drift off again when husband’s alarm startles us both. Alarm unceremoniously turned off. Wait in anticipation for husband to exit bed in order to resume sleeping but no such action transpires. Attempts to remind husband that alarm has gone off at the time of his choosing fail to have desired affect. Feel both resentful and envious of husband’s ability to sleep on with such dedication and listen begrudgingly to crows making a racket in garden until it is time to get up.

7am. Time to get up. Husband leaps out of bed with undignified enthusiasm and pulls back blind.

“Sleep well?” he asks, turning to look at me with a smile.

“Is that a serious question?” I ask.

Forget the bride. What about the grub?

We are on our way to a wedding. The weather is dreadful, a combination of snow, ice and sleet, so we leave early, foregoing breakfast.  By the time we arrive the snow has been replaced with a biting wind: it’s not a good day to be changing into your finery in an exposed village car park. Needs, however, must.

The church is packed but we manage to squash into a vacant pew near the back. It’s Arctic. Almost as cold as it is outside. Two of my nieces squeeze in next to us, shivering in their pretty but thin dresses. A late arrival tiptoes to a spare seat but he’s about as inconspicuous as Dame Edna Everage. He’s got a warped sense of humour or he’s colour blind. Either way, it takes a big personality to wear a brick-red suit covered in large white clouds.

The music strikes up and the groom, cutting a dashing figure in his army Blues, turns towards the bridesmaids who appear in black dresses and orange shoes, followed by the pretty bride, more conventional in white. We launch straight into a hymn, or rather praise choruses that are new territory for me, so I stand mute and let my attention wander. There are a lot of eye-catching outfits, many unsuitable for the cold weather and one or two, I’ve got to say, that should have been left at home. We’re supposed to be in bright colours and wearing vintage but I have failed on both counts, opting for the forbidden black and several warm layers. Everyone at the front sings with enthusiasm, but the rest of the church is mostly silent. Top tip to future brides and grooms; if you want a rousing congregation, choose hymns that everyone knows.

After what feels like ten minutes, I glance at the service sheet to see what to expect next but it turns out we still have a lot of singing to get through. Someone near the front raises an arm. I crane my neck to see what the excitement is about, but I’m too far back to get a proper look. A second arm goes up. Then the bride adds her own, slowly waving it from side to side. What is going on? The professional singers have their eyes shut, hands in a ‘don’t shoot’ position but far from looking worried, they are in a state of musical rapture. It dawns on me that I am witnessing the church equivalent of a rave. I sneak a peek around me at other members of the congregation who too are swaying.  “Oh, God,” I think, appalled. I catch my son’s eye and have a sudden, irrepressible desire to giggle. This I must not do.

A woman with bright orange hair gets up to take the first reading. She has an Australian twang but I’m too distracted by the hair to follow what she’s saying. Another Aussie, who’s flown over especially for the occasion, brings a light touch to the Address. Then we’re back to the singing again while the register is signed and many more chorusses and waving of arms.

The newly weds exit to the Star Wars theme tune and loud clapping. Everyone else stays in the church for tea. As most of us haven’t eaten a thing all day, there’s bedlam around the laden cake table. I’m momentarily thrilled to discover there’s gluten-free cake but my enthusiasm dissipates after one bite. An elderly lady doesn’t appear to like her cake either as she drops it into someone’s open handbag.

At the reception we stare across the threshold of a cavernous tithe barn and scan the empty room. Embarrassingly, we are the first to arrive but there is nowhere else to ‘hang out’ and we were in need of a warmer location. A waitress appears with a tray of hot Pimms which we pounce on, though there’s no sign of any food. There’s a selfie corner – a nice touch – which my younger son makes a beeline for, taking charge of the Polaroid camera and pegging our images to a large board. Giant Jenga and Connect add to the entertainment by which time the barn has started to fill. I only know family members so am startled by a strange lady wearing thick glasses who bares down on me. I suspect she’s had a head start with the Pimms because she’s not all that steady on her feet.

“How are the girls?” she asks a little sternly. This throws me. As far as I know I have only ever produced boys and say as much. She takes great offense at this and wanders away.

Our table is in front of the main door which means that there’s a constant draft as people come in and out. Aside from a couple of speeches there’s just a lot of milling round. We’re all basically waiting for the food to arrive. My father-in-law, who is facing a long journey home, starts to worry his lift will appear before he’s had anything to eat. I ask a passing member of staff, trying to ignore my rumbling stomach, what time they expect to serve up.

‘A bit later than planned,” she says brightly and gives me an approximate time.

My heart sinks. Another hour to go.

In the loo a blond Australian (they’re everywhere) also has food on her mind.

“I’ve been to three weddings in the last year,” she complains over the noise of the hand dryer, “and they’ve all been the same. The last one kept us waiting five hours. I fell out with the groom over it.”

Now is probably not a good time to mention my inside information about the delayed meal.

By the time we do eat my older son is so hungry he’s become dull-eyed and listless. He demolishes a mounded plate of roast potatoes and then sets about eating most of mine. Beyond the point of hunger, I pick half-heartedly at watery vegetables.

As we leave, we call the friends we’re spending the night with to tell them that we’re on our way. They have cooked us supper and got in a movie to watch.

‘The fire’s lit,’ my friend tells me; she knows all too well my intolerance to cold. I feel my appetite return.

‘What are we having?’ I ask.

‘Toad in the hole followed by Tart Tartin.’

‘We’ll be there in ten minutes,’ I say, suddenly famished again. ‘For God’s sake don’t start without us.’

Winter bushcrafting and wrestling with hammocks.

Two am and I am in a hammock in the middle of God knows where. It is unspeakably cold and my sleeping bag won’t behave. The effort of trying to force the zip to close while staying aboard is taking it out of me. To be honest, I’m exhausted. My pillow and blanket keep slipping to the ground but the tight frame of the hammock makes movement to retrieve them almost impossible. It’s also very claustrophobic. With the sleeping bag zip refusing to move higher than my knees I give in to my fate and hope that sleep arrives before I die of hypothermia. Half an hour later I decide this union cannot last. My bed at home is like a comfy pair of matronly knickers (and boy am I missing it). This hammock is like sleeping on a G-String.

Fumbling for my trainers, I survey the silent campsite.The moon is full, casting its bright light through the trees so that everything looks pure and clean. And yet I am too cold to enjoy the magic. Arms full of bedding, I trip over the para cords across the damp ground towards my friend’s tent. Through the gloom I catch sight of a neighbouring hammock. A few hours ago I was stifling giggles as I’d helped a second friend settle into it. Now the hammock looks sinister, rocking in the stiff breeze like an alien pod waiting to hatch.

Not wanting to wake the others, I softly call out my friend’s name. She sits up instantly and unzips the tent opening. I note, wryly, that she only has on leggings and a short sleeved T.shirt. Still wearing my woolly hat, ski coat and entire winter wardrobe, I settle on the narrow surface of the spare camp bed and close my eyes. After the hammock it feels luxurious being able to stretch out. But I can’t sleep. An hour passes, then another and I am still awake. Cold consumes me. It’s like lying on granite. My feet are blocks of ice. What I need is a layer of insulation under me, I think, suddenly remembering some earlier advice. My roll mat and blanket are still tucked inside the hammock. No use putting it off. I have to go back for them.

We are a group of twelve on this bushcraft weekend. Having arrived the night before in the pitch black, shadowy forms emerging from cars with only head torches for lighting, it is not until we gather for breakfast the next day that I get a proper look at everyone. We are a mixed bunch. The men in the group are clearly experienced campers; they packed light, can pitch a tent in the dark and have all the gear. With the exception of the friend I shared the tent with and who cajoled us into coming, we girls are novices and nervous ones at that. Camping in the Summer is one thing (I haven’t camped since I was ten). Taking part in a bushcraft weekend mid November is an entirely different matter. I’ve ventured far from my comfort zone and am already plotting my escape.

After breakfast (porridge and tea), we sit on damp stools made out of tree stumps and are shown the basic skills of carving. I still haven’t fully warmed up and feel distracted by the rain and biting wind. But then we get to have a go ourselves. All at once I’m using a nifty folding saw to cut through a log (the process of which warms me up) and make a wedge with a knife. This, I think as I reduce my log to a pile of kindling, is fun. Firelighting skills follow. I’d half anticipated the old rubbing two sticks together but it turns out this is the most difficult method. Instead, we are shown a variety of ways to start a flame, including one which impresses me using only wire wool and a V9 battery.

Next, we are taken on a woodland walk. We stop to identify trees and discuss their different uses, medicinal as well as a source for food. Hornbeam, hazel, sycamore, maple, birch, different gelatinous fungi including one called the Jelly ear which apparently the Chinese prize but looks too disgusting to sample, though others do. We learn never to pitch a tent under a beech tree. Widow makers, as they are sometimes referred to, are renowned for dropping limbs.

Despite the dismal weather, we are an upbeat and curious group. There is something quite satisfying about leaving behind the creature comforts we rely on and learning to do them ourselves. It might be about survival but it turns a tedious chore into one of adventure.

Accompanied by the distant sound of the M20, we move deeper into the woods and reach an area of survival shelters. Like curious sculptures, some have been built as wind buffers, others as a more substantial refuge. We start piling on leaves, moss and bark to the roof of one debris hut after someone suggests I sleep in it (my eventful night has been well broadcast).

“You’ll be nice and cosy in that,” they say encouragingly.

Mmmm. I’m not convinced but show willing by trying it out. I get down on my hands and knees, squeezing my 5.9” frame inside the mud cave and immediately decide that while this might work for a hobbit, it’s not for me. Small, dark spaces again. I just don’t like them. I’d feel like I was being entombed.

We spend the rest of the afternoon carving a honey spreader (well, this is a beginners course). This turns out to be the thing I enjoy most and so, it seems, do my friends. It is hard work at first and my knife keeps snagging the wood but there’s nothing like a bit of outdoor carving by a fire to focus and quiet the mind.

As it starts to get dark, we return to camp and shelter in the well equipped wooden yurt. It’s cosy in here. The wood-burning stove keeps the large, heavy kettle ready for a steady demand for tea and we have our camp chairs to sit on. Supper is chili-con-carne and rice which I tuck into with the enthusiasm of someone starved for three days. The rain’s coming down so heavily now that it begins to leak through the roof and I have to keep moving my chair to avoid getting wet. The only light comes from two tiny candles which hardly seem worth the bother. It’s difficult to see your food. We wear our head torches round our necks like jewellery so that we don’t blind one another as we talk. After we have washed up our plates, we resume carving our honey spreaders (curiously addictive) and the conversation flows. People start to head off to bed. It does feels late and I stifle a yawn but when I check my watch I am shocked to see it’s only 8.30pm. I have to be ill to retire that early so I keep one of my friends company as the fire slowly dies to nothing and she breaks a house rule by polishing off a glass of smuggled-in Prosseco.

I make a dash through the rain to the tent. This time I am armed with a hot water bottle and a sleeping bag borrowed from a friend who had to leave early. I can tell, from the way it springs out of its bag like something alive, that this is a far superior model to my own. I brave taking off my coat and settle inside. It feels puffy and luxurious. The zip glides up my body so that I am fully enclosed. I start to warm up. Soon I am hot. Kicking away the hot water-bottle I unravel my arms and hold them out behind my head. I am an inferno. If there was a window, I’d throw it open. Then I start to disrobe. Even my socks come off. Finally, thankfully, I reach an ambient temperature and settle.The rain is hammering against the tent. It is so loud that it sounds like it’s just above my nose. It is hard to imagine being able to sleep through the racket but I do. Like a baby.

For the last day we learn about knife sharpening and more fire lighting options. Then we are set a challenge to light our own fire using the methods we were shown the day before. Like excited children, we head off into different directions to gather wood. Everything is soaked from all the overnight rain so the trick is to pay attention to what is hidden (and therefore protected) and focus first on finding tiny twigs. I opt for the cotton wool smeared with Vaseline option as a fire-lighter. A few strikes of my fire steel and the cotton wool ignites. It’s like magic. Water fizzes out of the end of the twigs like beer froth but amazingly, with gentle coaxing, the fire takes. Soon it is throwing out a powerful heat. It is my Ray Mears moment and I feel a rush of pride.

It is ironic that the sun comes out at the very point we leave. As we set off back across the muddy fields to where our cars are parked, I cast a nostalgic look over the little campsite which has been our home for the weekend knowing I shall never come back. Whatever it was I needed to prove to myself doesn’t need repeating. That said, I have shared a memorable experience with four lovely friends and I’m glad I came. Would I recommend you do the same? Definitely. If you can get past the cold, those sapling trees in the bright moonlight are a sight to behold.

Vexed by Vodafone

I am not normally drawn to murderous thoughts but Vodafone possesses a particular kind of incompetence that leaves me shouting at walls. You’d think that getting a phone upgrade would be simple enough. And indeed it starts off well. A friendly Irish salesman takes my call and sorts out new terms we are both happy with.

“You should have your phone in the next 48 hours,” he ends in a sing song voice and fool that I am, I believe him.

Five days pass and no sign of my phone, so I call Vodafone for an explanation. It appears they have no record of my recent upgrade and so I am forced to start the process all over again. With this done and with reassurances that my phone will soon be with me, I sit back and wait. And wait. When I chase Vodafone with yet another call, I am told my particular model is out of stock.

“When are you expecting it back in?” I ask in frustration.

“I have no idea.” The girl’s voice is hard and bored. ‘The system doesn’t give me that information. I see here that your husband took out the original contract so I would need to speak to him about this not you.’

‘He’s at work. In meetings.’

‘I’d still need to speak to him.’

This is exasperating. ‘So what you’re saying is I can renegotiate the terms of my new contract but not be entitled to know when I can take delivery of the phone?” I ask churlishly.

‘As I say, you’ll have to get your husband to call us to discuss anything further.”

So much for customer services. Irritated, I call my husband and recount the situation. He takes forty five minutes out of his busy working day to resolve the problem, speaking to various people in different departments who all tell him conflicting things. By the time he hangs up he’s only half sure he’s got it sorted.

Another week passes and about the most exciting thing to arrive in the post is a £10 Ocado voucher. I make call after call – literally hours of my life dialing Vodafone’s customer service number, but suddenly it is impossible to get through. Press one for this, press two for that, option after option only there’s never one pertinent to me. I start pushing random numbers no longer caring where they take me so long as it’s to a human being. Instead, I get bad music and the same droning, automated voice telling me, for the umpteenth time, ‘Great news. The I-Phone 6 is now available.’ It’s like a form of torture; Groundhog Day replaying over and over without there ever being an outcome. I want more than a wall to lash out at. I want an apology, sympathy, even a bit of groveling. Most of all I want someone to sort out my bloody phone. But there is no option for an unhappy customer. That’s not the kind of call they want to handle.

Finally, after what feels like a life sentence, I get through to a girl who sounds as if she actually cares. If only she wouldn’t say ‘that’s fantastic” after every question I answer.

“So, how long is it you say you’ve been waiting to receiver your phone?”

“A lifetime.”

“That’s fantastic. Thank you.”

To her credit, she takes time to read my notes and agrees they’re a mess which I find oddly reassuring. At least she’s on my side. And while she can’t send me a phone because my model really is out of stock, she does source one in a shop about half an hour’s drive from where I live.

“I can have them send it out tomorrow,” she offers.

I cut her off at the pass. “Let’s avoid any more mishaps. I’ll drive over and pick it up myself.”

Before I set off the next day, I dial the number she has given me. The shop in question is supposed to have called out of courtesy but as I haven’t heard anything I call them. And wouldn’t you know it, I can’t get through. Just their voicemail with a promise of a call back soon. This feels like depressingly familiar territory. I leave four messages, each one increasingly curt, but no one returns my call. I even google the shop to see if there’s another number listed, but I just get the same customer service number I’ve grown to know and hate.

Taking a leap of faith, I drive to the shop. The manager is embroiled with an elderly couple who have clearly never seen a mobile phone before. They keep her occupied for half an hour while I hover, pent up and fidgety waiting my turn. When the couple finally leave, I explain why I’m here, anticipating a “oh, yes, we’ve been expecting you,” kind of reaction. Instead, I get a blank look.

“I don’t know anything about this.”

“But I left four messages for you this morning.” I show the Manager the piece of paper I’d scribbled her number down on as though it proves something.

“We’ve been really busy,” she says without so much of an apology, “and that’s not even my number.”

Oh, for God’s sake. This just goes from bad to worse.

“I can still authorise a new phone for you.”

For a nanosecond my hopes rise. “You have the one I want in stock?”

“No. But even if I did it would need to be delivered to your home address. I can only give you the phone if your husband is here to sign the contract.”

‘He’s in the States,” I say, shrilly, ‘for two weeks!”

‘Then I can arrange to have the phone sent out. You’d have it by the end of the week.’

I regard her with suspicion. “Forgive me, but Vodafone’s track record of promises hasn’t exactly been reliable.”

There are four other customers in the (very small) shop. One is being helped by the only other member of staff. No one looks my way, but I can tell from their careful movements that I have an audience.

“All I can do at this point,’ the manager continues, “is cancel your existing contract and order you another phone.” She regards me coolly. “Would you like me to do that for you?”

She is a wall, implacable against my feelings of frustration and injustice, but because I’m running out of options and because I can’t bear to go home without something to show for my efforts, I allow her to proceed.

Through the shop window I watch a mother trying to control her toddler son. He’s in a rage and because he can’t get his way, his little fists start thumping her. Finally, caving into a stronger force, he goes limp in her arms and wails. I know just how you feel, I think. What a complete waste of time this has been.

The Manager is running through the terms of the contract she’s just put together.

“Hang on,” I stop her mid flow. “How much did you say I’d be paying?” She repeats the amount. I am aghast. “But that’s almost twice what was agreed before.”

‘It will be,” she says, all matter of fact. “I can’t match online offers. I don’t have that facility.”

I’ve had enough. ‘Who is the highest person in the Vodafone chain I can complain to?” I ask at the top of my voice. “I want their details.”

A neighbouring customer takes a precautionary step back as though expecting me to start throwing punches, but from the manager, nothing. No expression of emotion. Not even a flicker.

‘I don’t have access to that information but I can give you the general enquires number.”

Before I do something I’ll regret – and I’m sorely tempted to – I grab my bag, mumbling ‘this is a bloody joke,’ and exit, slamming the door behind me.

I am very calm when I call Vodafone the next day. My mood is almost receptive. I speak to a young man whose accent I can understand and who responds helpfully to both my request for my PAC number and my reasons for no longer wanting to be a customer of Vodafone.

“I’d do the same thing in your situation,” he admits. “I can see this has been a nightmare.” He then surprises me by saying that while there is an £18.50 fee for canceling my account, he has credited it with £20 to avoid there being any cost my end.

Where was this helpful individual when I needed him? Sadly, it’s all come a little bit too late. I’ve moved on and am now signed with EE. There’s only one problem: I now can’t get a signal.

Slip Up

I am in a canoe on a French river up to my waist in water. Despite the glum, rumbling sky, the air is mild otherwise I’d be tempted to swim to shore; being wet is one thing but being wet and cold puts me in a very dark place. My husband follows, hampered by a large waterproof container strapped between his knees. The container looks like a giant protein pot avid body builders use but we need it as it’s keeping our shoes and valuables dry. It is incredibly peaceful. I can’t believe we have the river to ourselves. The only sound comes from our paddles pulling through the rippling water. That, and the occasional shriek from our two teenage boys as they try to capsize each other.

We keep to the right of the river, steering clear of rocks that appear above the water’s surface. When we reach our first rapid, we drop, one by one, into the churning slope. Half way down and without warning, our canoes suddenly swivel round so that we travel backwards down the final descent. There is no point in trying to fight it – though of course I do. The pull of the current is too strong and you just have to go with it.

For a while we meander and I think wistfully of the hot sun a break in mid France had promised. Isn’t it meant to be reliably warm this time of year? Then I remind myself that this Summer holiday is about doing things with the boys. That was my wish. To have adventures with them. Not to lounge by a pool.

There is an almighty clatter of thunder and quite suddenly the rain that has threatened all morning descends. I remember the young Frenchman at the rental hut warning of possible thunderstorms and the penny drops – stupide Anglais – why we are alone on the river. In the event of a storm our instructions were to make for the bank and ditch our paddles. But while I don’t relish the thought of being fried (or drowned) on a river, we see no flashes of lighting and so soldier on.

At a blockade of rocks, we have to get out of our canoes and pull them over the other side. I knew in advance to expect this but it never occurred to me that it would give us any kind of trouble. It turns out that holding a paddle (long and awkward) in one hand, yanking up a canoe (heavy) with the other while negotiating a mound of wet rocks is to be our undoing.

Several things happen at once. My eldest son loses hold of his paddle which is immediately swept away. In trying to stop it, his brother tumbles onto his backside. Someone’s canoe slides free. I see it roll leisurely into the river and make a grab for it, but I too slip on the rocks. Arms windmilling backwards, I go down hard. There is a jolt to the side of my head and left wrist and for a moment the pain is all I can think about. Aided by my eldest son, I get gingerly to my feet, worried less about what injuries I may have sustained, but that my glasses, which flew off in the fall, might be broken.

“Your hand, Mum,” my older son says, bringing my attention to a nasty gash on the palm of my left hand. Blood is pouring from it. I watch it drip and blossom on the rocks curiously detached, though I’m aware that my other son has now set off on a rescue mission. Last to climb free from his canoe is my husband. I can tell he’s not feeling well. He opens up the barrel container and finding nothing suitable, offers me a rather grubby sock as a make-shift bandage.

“Best I can do,” he says ruefully. My hand starts to throb. I hear him discussing what our next move is with my son and while they’re talking, another paddle slips free and lands, sharp end, onto my big toe. This is turning into a farce, I think, gritting my teeth as new pain kicks in. I glance out at the river, stretching out in both directions and wonder how I’m going to be able to paddle without the use of one hand; we’ve still a long way to go. Its clear, however, that we can’t stay as we are.

The rain continues to fall. We stand under its fury, bedraggled rats, and hatch a plan. In the end my older son, who is the fittest amongst us, elects to bring back the missing canoe. I go with him leaving my husband to wait for his return.

My younger son has managed to rescue the stray canoe and paddle. But neither boy can work out how to paddle with one hand while towing a canoe with the other. I hold onto a rock and watch them problem solve. Using a T.shirt, they secure the rescued canoe to the back of my older son’s canoe, but it keeps coming free and the boys drift further and further downstream. For a while I follow them, using the crook of my left arm to anchor my paddle, but it becomes patently clear they have travelled too far to make it back to where my husband is waiting. This is hopeless, I think, as the rain continues to rage and the current pulls them further downstream. We need a plan B.

I find a suitable place to leave my canoe and, with difficulty, use my good hand to haul myself up the steep bank. The white sock is now pink and sodden and probably not doing much good, but I keep it pressed to the wound. Barefoot, I start running in the direction from which we have come. I don’t want to be long in case the boys return: my abandoned canoe would confuse them. Perhaps it is being back on dry land but I picture myself as the Bionic Woman moving at an impossible speed with that strange juddering, synthesized sound from the 70s T.V. show playing out in my head. In reality the ground is springy and rough and I am forced into an ungainly side to side skipping to avoid the myriad cow pats and the thistles that catch my feet. I call out my husband’s name, fairly sure I’m on track, but the terrain keeps forcing me wide of where I want to go.

At last I hear my husband respond to my calls. A somewhat forlorn figure emerges from the trees and together we return to my canoe, me leaping on ahead to alert the boys, him following at a more sedate pace, troubled by his soaked shoes and whatever sick bug he’s carrying.

I am relieved to see our eldest son waiting by my canoe, though he appears to have lost his brother. With only two vessels between us, I shuffle onto one canoe with my son while my husband takes mine. I am sure our joint weight will capsize the canoe, but while it rocks precariously, we remain afloat. Further downstream we catch up with my younger son. He’s easy to spot because his canoe is the colour of an American school bus and screams at us through the murky foliage. Like a circus acrobat he is all limbs; one arm raised to a tree branch, the other arm holding onto the wayward canoe, his outstretched feet anchoring two paddles. The look in his eyes says, “What the hell took you so long?”

For the first time in what feels like hours, we are reunited with our canoes. Ordeal over, the mood lightens. Even the weather improves. No longer raining, the boys go back to fooling around. My older son reclines back with his eyes shut like an optimistic sun worshipper and lets his hands trail in the water. When his canoe hits a rock and upends him we all laugh, amused by how many attempts it takes him to get back in.

The young Frenchman from the rental is good natured about having had to wait so long. I give him a vague account of what has happened but don’t go into detail or mention injuries. It seems a bit pointless given that we’d had to sign a liability waiver before starting out. We pose for pictures, help load up the canoes and lifejackets, then climb into the little bus that will take us back to our car.

I don’t yet know it but my cut hand is infected. Tomorrow morning I will wake up to a fever and in twenty four hours the infection will have spread, angry and hot, half way up my arm. I will need stitches and a fortnight of antibiotics and be unable to take part in any further activity for the remainder of the holiday. I will lament this, notably when we visit an adventure park three days later and all I can do is marvel as my boys bungee jump, master a series of obstacle courses high in the trees with my husband and zip wire over a lake. I am itching to join in. Maybe not the bungee jumping. The thought of plunging head first from a hundred foot up fills me with cold horror. In this, at least, my poor infected hand has saved me.

‘Would you do it for a million quid?’ my younger son asks, testing my resolve.

‘Not a chance.’ I am categoric.

‘How about two million?’

I open my mouth to answer and then I close it again because – for a nano second – I actually think about it. Then common sense prevails. Adventure is what I’d wanted on this holiday and one turned out to be enough. As the saying goes, you want to be very careful what you wish for.

Freddie

It is always dangerous leaving a resourceful thirteen year old to their own devices, especially when the fun fair is in town. I drop my younger son off at our local cricket club to watch the first team play but when I return, two hours later, it is evident that the lure of the fun fair has won out over the match. He is clutching a small container with a goldfish inside and looking shifty.

“Before you say anything,’ he begins quickly, ‘My friend won it. Only his mum wouldn’t let him take it home so he offered it to me.’

‘That was nice of him,’ I say, giving my son a suspicious look. He has been after a gold fish for years.

‘So can we bring him home?”

No is my gut instinct. We’ve had a lamentable track record with Guinea pigs, none of them lasting more than a few weeks and we already have two dogs (well, the little one belongs to my mother but we have her to stay so often she might as well be ours). We don’t need any more pets. But then my son looks at me with those big, brown, beguiling eyes of his and my resolve weakens.

‘What are you going to call him?’ I find myself asking.

He thinks for a moment. ‘Freddie.’

I glance dubiously at the container Freddie’s in. It’s the size of a chocolate Maltesers box.

‘Is he going to be all right in that?’

‘He’ll be fine, Mum. Look, I bought some food.’ My son shows me a tiny cylindrical cardboard pot with what looks like fine sawdust inside. ‘Only cost a pound. The man said it will last a year.’ Mmmm.

Freddie’s new home is on my son’s bedside table. For two days I am traumatized by this little fish banging against the sides of his minuscule container. It’s like me trying to do lengths in the kitchen sink. He’s no sooner turned round than he’s hitting the opposite side ready to turn again.

On day three I can’t take the Maltesers box any more and drive to a nearby pet shop. I discover it does a roaring trade in all things relating to cats, dogs and birds but almost nothing on marine life. After some searching the shop assistant finds, half hidden on a top shelf, a five litre plastic tank. No gismos, just a plastic box which I buy even though the cost of it would get me enough Freddies to fill the London Aquarium.

Transported to his new home, Freddie now looks like he’s attempting the Atlantic crossing and I no longer pass him weighed down with guilt. But for a little fish he produces a lot of waste so the water gets murky very quickly and has to be cleaned every other day. And there’s another issue. Big it may be but the tank does look pretty boring. There’s nothing for Freddie to do or interact with.

Egged on by my son, I go in search of a proper aquatics centre to stock up on accessories. I’m not sure what to expect but as I enter the place I am transformed. Huge tanks lit with a dreamy blue light fill the walls displaying a circus of fish. Wow, I think, delighted by the spectacle. The last time I got this excited about fish, I was snorkeling in Sharm el Sheik. It’s like being at a fashion show, each creature showing off dazzling colours and exotic shapes. My son would love this, I think, wishing he were with me. Trying not to get distracted, I show the assistant a picture of Freddie and explain how we got him. Then comes the sobering news. Freddie is a fresh water fish and will grow to several times his size. Left in his current home (and without filtration), the water will run out of oxygen and he will die.

I think back to the goldfish I had as a child and don’t recall any of them growing particularly big or having a fancy home. Mine would have been your standard fairground bowl, like the one depicted in The Cat in The Hat. But then if I’m honest, I don’t think any of my fish lasted very long. I could just bite the bullet and buy a filtered tank but it turns out I’d also need lighting, a heater, shingle for the floor, thermometer, accessories, plant cover to prevent stress, not to mention the chemicals needed to keep the water healthy. All this for one little goldfish. I can’t help feeling that Freddie who’s only trick is to swim in circles, is beginning to look like a poor investment.

In the end I return home empty handed and convey the news to my son. He takes it better than I’d feared. Thirteen year old boys are stoic like that. Neither of us know how long it will be before the end comes but one morning I wake to find Freddie’s tank very cloudy and Freddie looking subdued. Usually he darts about eagerly looking for food. Now he hovers like an inert submarine. The time has come.

Conscious that Freddie might only have a bit of oxygen left, I wake my son who launches into action. Together we fill a freezer bag with fresh water and scoop Freddie into it. Then, my son sets off at speed towards the pond at the end of our road. Freddie doesn’t know it yet but his tank’s about to get a whole lot bigger.

I know he’s only a fish but as I watch my son disappear, I feel a pang of guilt. After all what fate am I sending him to? Will he manage to adapt to pond life? The man in the shop told me that pond fish (for that is certainly where he came from) can grow up to ten inches, but first there’s the shock of the temperature change to cope with and the threat of larger predators waiting to pounce.

A few days later I drive past the pond. My son is with me chatting away about something he’s seen on T.V. He seems, thankfully, to have escaped the whole fish episode without any emotional scarring. All the same, I keep him distracted as I notice out of the corner of my eye, a newly installed heron taking centre stage on the pond. Uh oh, I think. Let’s just hope Freddie’s keeping a very low profile.

A Model’s Lot

 I am in a house in Crouch End sitting on a strange sofa, in strange clothes, a ‘sophisticated housewife’ pretending to sip coffee from an empty cup. Every now and then someone comes over to change a cushion I’m leaning against or fuss with my hair. I gaze into the distance and laugh as though amused by an invisible guest.

It’s odd being back in front of a camera. Aeons ago, I did this for a living. Coming back to modelling after so long reminds me of the bizarre dual existence I once led. Yesterday, I resembled something out of Lord of the Flies, up to my knees in mud and rain as I dug up my vegetable patch. Today, I’m the focus of a fashion shoot.

During a break, I return to the make up artist, Connie, who has set up shop in a corner of the sitting room. Inexplicably, someone has thrown open all the sash windows and no one has thought to close them. It’s freezing. Connie’s suitcase is like a conjurer’s box, full of coloured palettes and brushes, hair products, strange looking pots and metal eyelash curlers. She is very focused on her job, her small hands moving across my face with efficient speed. My eyes, maddeningly, are watering and I keep having to dab at them. They have been irritated for months, due to chronic dryness, but since getting the tiny drains in my eyes plugged, all they do is water. It’s like I’ve got my eyes open at the bottom of a swimming pool; everything is blurry. I worry about spoiling the make up but Connie brushes my concerns away. Waterproof mascara, as I will later discover when I am back home and can’t get the wretched stuff off, does what it says on the packet.

With a final dab of my cheeks, Connie holds a mirror up to show me her handiwork. I study my reflection. Mmmm. My eyes look quite dramatic but I’m not sure about the lipstick which goes by the alarming name ‘toxic mandarin’ or how she has straightened my hair; the rather severe side parting makes me look like a school matron.

I put on a print dress which we shoot in the kitchen. Someone gives me a glass tumbler as a prop and off we go. The photographer, a quiet, slight-framed man sporting a neat mustache is a silent presence behind the lens. This does nothing for my confidence. It should be a collaborate affair. Instead I am forced to rely on instinct, feeling my way into the mood of each pose. What does he want; smily and relaxed or a little haughty? More varied angles? Am I elongating my neck enough? Are my hands fluid and soft? Who knows? It’s like playing one way tennis: the ball just doesn’t come back. I catch a glimpse of myself on the computer screen that has been hooked up to the camera. What I think is conveying soft and dreamy looks a little stern. I jiggle my jaw to release any tension.

When my eyes start to pool, Chloe brings over a tissue. I turn my head in a contemplative pose and gaze out of the window onto the small, patchwork gardens below.

‘Stay like that,’ the photographer says, vocal for the first time, ‘but bring your face a bit more to me.’

I do as I’m asked, edging my head towards the camera and stare at the side of the fridge but that’s the extent of the feedback. Not even an attempt at rapport. All I have to feed off is the rapid clicking noises of the camera.

Once the photographer is satisfied we have the shot, I climb three flights of stairs to the master bedroom and get changed. All the outfits hang from the door frames like strange works of art with the accessories laid out on the bed. The client selects a sleeveless, burnt orange dress which fits me like a glove. The jacket, an aboriginal print in a curious palette of pastel colours, however, is shapeless and at odds with the dress.

‘Doesn’t really work, does it?’ the client says, echoing my thoughts. She’s young and I can tell is new to the job. ‘I don’t want to lose the jacket though.’

I suggest holding the jacket against my hip instead of wearing it, demonstrating what I mean and she stops chewing her bottom lip, nodding her approval. I force my feet into the leopard print shoes which are, along with all the others, too small, throw on some jewelry and together we return downstairs.

The photographer has set up out on the small first floor balcony. It’s like stepping into the arctic. I start to shiver but try to think warm thoughts and force my body to relax, smiling into the lens. It’s frustrating getting so little feedback  but I’m into it now and have to assume that if nothing’s been said, it’s because the photographer and client like what they see.

Back inside, I am given a cup of tea and slowly warm up. It helps that someone’s had the good sense to finally close the windows so the heating’s taking effect. The dining table is littered with various snacks; fudge cake, chocolate biscuits, plastic bottles of water, the usual suspects, but sugar will only give me a temporary boost. I’d rather have the rice salad I brought, unobtainable and keeping cool in the fridge.

The client tells me that one of the owners of the house is going out with the girl who plays Sansa Stark in Game of Thrones. This pricks my interest as I am a big fan of the books. It turns out that no one else has read them but they’re all mad about Prince Oberyn, one of the new characters in the latest TV series. I refrain from saying he’s not long for this world.

We move to a first floor bedroom for the next outfit. Half the room is taken up with lighting and camera equipment. There is a metal bed and an electric guitar prominently displayed. I stand next to the grey taffeta curtains and listen to what the client wants from this shot while the stylist uses a bulldog clip to stop the top I’m wearing from gaping at the front, while Connie applies another layer of lipstick. Then we’re off again. I alter my body position with each click of the camera trying not to notice the two disturbing paintings that dominate the white walls ahead. In one, a green devil with multiple mouths is eating naked people from a burning cauldron. The people are screaming.

‘Interesting choice,’ I comment during a break in shooting.

‘I think the owner’s mum painted them,’ the client says evasively.

Which explains why they haven’t been consigned to a local skip. Even so, I’m not sure that in Sansa’s shoes, I could even contemplate sleeping in this room. I’d have nightmares.

Connie curls my hair, then opens a flattish tin of what looks suspiciously like wax. Rubbing her hands vigorously together, she coaxes it into my hair to stop rogue strands from sitting up. I don’t say anything but wax is a bugger to get out. Washing it the normal way won’t work. It leaves the hair heavy and unyielding and frankly, you feeling suicidal. The secret is to apply baby powder before wetting the hair. Still, I have to admit the wavy look is an improvement, as are the pale, nude lips and dark, smoky eyes which I do my best to ruin with my dabbing.

As I take my place on the stairs landing, the photographer voices his approval and brings the camera in close. He makes encouraging sounds for the first time and I widen my eyes, hoping that the sudden pooling doesn’t look like I’m about to cry.

With two outfits remaining, we run out of time. Connie leaves – I know she has a small child to collect – but I agree to stay on. I’ve survived five hours on adrenaline, an extra half hour won’t hurt. And I might get some good pictures out of this. Both stylist and client rush about with added urgency, moving things out of the way while the photographer plays with the light. I make small alterations to my make-up. The wax has made my hair a little stiff so I add water to bring back the shape but I’m not sure it helps. Ironically, we do get the best shots, one with me in a dark green wool dress surveying my reflection in a cheval mirror, then of me lying across the bed, propped up on my elbows in capri pants and a pale blue sweater.

Suddenly, it’s all over. Everyone seems happy with the day, the mood convivial and relaxed now our jobs are complete. I change back into my own clothes, grateful to be wearing comfortable shoes after posing for so long in heels and rescue my lunch from the fridge. The photographer takes my number promising to email me some of the photos, then sets about dismantling the set.

I step out into the chilly afternoon sunshine, shoving on sunglasses to hide my make-up and head, unnoticed, for the tube.

The Saga of the Packed Lunch

Monday: Mozzarella and chicken on brown bread. Home made flapjack, fruit bar, orange slices, greek yoghurt with honey, plum jam sandwich, banana packed into Tupperware container.

Home. 7.30pm

“Where’s your lunchbox?’

‘In my sports bag.’

‘Can you get it so I can wash it up.”

No response.

‘Ideally before I go to bed.’

‘Yup, okay.’

Later, about to go to bed. ‘Any joy with that lunch box?’

‘Think I might have left it at school.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t stress. I know where it is.’

‘Not stressing, just relying on you to bring it back tomorrow.’

‘Sure.’

Tuesday: Ham and watercress on brown bread, apple slices, flapjack, peach and apricot yoghurt, 2 blueberry muffins, banana, liquorish bar tucked into spare Tupperware container.

Home. 9.30pm.

‘Any joy in finding your lunch box?’

‘Sorry. Didn’t get a chance to go to lost property. Really busy day.’

‘Can I have the one from today then?’

‘It’s in my bag. I’ll get it later.’

‘We tried that one before. Now is later.’

‘Okay. Okay.’ Breaks from I.Phone. Looks up. Focuses. ‘Mum, I’m a bit busy right now. I’ll bring it through in a bit.’

‘You don’t have it, do you?

‘I may have left it in my classroom.’

‘With the other one?’

‘Possibly.’

Frowning.

‘Don’t worry, Mum. Honestly, I’ll sort it.’

Wednesday: Pasta with chicken, sweetcorn and butter beans. Apple slices, 2 fruit bars, buttered malt loaf, fruit salad, strawberry yoghurt stuffed into plastic carrier bag and tied at neck so contents don’t fall out.

Son’s bedroom. 9.15pm

‘I’ve come for your lunch stuff.’ Room resembles a jumble sale mid flow, the floor hidden by mountain of clothes. Son, texting invisible friends with spectacular speed, appears unaware that someone else is in the room rummaging through bags.

‘What? Oh, Mum can you leave my stuff.’

Ignore instruction and dig out foreign objects.

‘Whose are these?’ Hold up two blue containers and a packet of antibiotics.

Noncommittal shrug. ‘Must have picked my friend’s bag up by mistake. What’s inside the containers?’

Two slices of gleaming chocolate cake. ‘These looks homemade.’

‘Shame to let it go to waste then.’

Leave off-spring in state of chocolate bliss but with list of missing items gathering momentum. Text friend’s mother about the antibiotics and eaten cake.

Thursday: Chicken and rice salad, black grapes, apricot yoghurt, carrot, orange slices, buttered malt loaf, chunky honey sandwich, chocolate bar packed into spare Tupperware found in garage.

Driving to train station. 7.25am.

‘Do you have everything?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sure? You’re not wearing a tie.’

‘In my bag.’

‘Glasses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Money for bus home?’

‘Sorted. Honestly, Mum. Don’t fuss.’

Back home, find packed lunch on hall table. The words neck and wring spring to mind.

Friday: Sod it. Yesterday’s lunch in yesterday’s container.

Home. Late.

Hall floor, jutting out of school bag, spot what appears to be the remains of this morning’s Tupperware container.

‘What happened to this?’ Incredulous. ‘It looks like it’s been put through a crusher.’

‘Ah.’ A pause.

‘Not my fault. I got it out of my bag to eat my lunch while I was waiting for the school bus to arrive and a car reversed over it.’

‘That’s a joke, right?’

Earnest shaking of head. ‘No, it really did. Some idiot in a BMW drove right over it. I didn’t even get to finish my sandwich which was really annoying.’

For once am completely lost for words.

Close Encounters

I am waiting in my car at a train station watching the rain and people come and go through the misted windscreen. My eldest son’s tall, pale form emerges, limping slightly and wearing shorts. It is 6 degrees.

‘Do you have any food?’ he asks me, as he climbs into the passenger seat, his bare legs wet and muddy from his run at school. Apart from sleep, hunger is his main preoccupation. ‘And something for my foot. I’ve got a massive blister.’

Like Mary Poppin’s handbag, the car is equipped for all sorts of emergencies. Thus, I magically produce not only food but a change of clothes and a large padded plaster for his foot. Sports kit flies around the car interior as he changes and demolishes three bananas, a yoghurt and a large packet of oatmeal cookies. Mindful of the time, I urge him to hurry but he can’t seem to find the socks I brought him and the ones he’s wearing are fit only for the washing machine. Everything he has staggered home with has been tipped out, transforming the car into a burglary scene. The socks finally emerge and he’s struggling to put them on when our train arrives. We make it but only just, my son adopting the moves of a sandpiper as he hops after me on one leg, clutching his shoes.

We spend the evening in London with my husband, younger son and friends to watch Billy Elliott at the Victoria Palace Theatre. The show is thrilling, a mix of humour and poignancy and when it is over and we have said our goodbyes, we head back to the station in high spirits. Our timing is perfect as a train is already waiting on the platform so we jump on and install ourselves near the front. Half an hour later, our mood a little flattened, we still haven’t moved. A tannoy announcement tells us that there has been a casualty on the line and to expect long delays. We exit the train in search of an alternative route but discover that all the trains are in the same predicament. ‘Probably a suicide,’ my younger son says resignedly, ‘They happen a lot on the school commute.’

It’s cold and there’s nowhere to sit so we return to our original train and wait a further forty minutes before learning that the train we need is leaving from another platform. Knowing that the whole world will now be on their way to this platform, my older son sprints ahead to get seats. When we catch up with him he is already sitting on the train. The doors won’t open, however, and I find my access blocked.

‘Please step away from the carriage,’ says a guard with an edge to his voice.  We all shuffle back and watch three hefty men attempt to hook a carriage onto the body of the train.

‘This is a joke,’ a man standing next to me complains. His bald head resembles a peeled egg. ‘I could have been home ninety minutes ago.’

‘Yes, but at least you’re not dead,’ I say, reminding him of why we’re in this situation.

He has the grace to look chagrined. ‘You’re right. It’s only that I’m so friggin’ tired. I’ve got to be back here by 7am tomorrow. Hardly worth going home.’

He has a point. It’s already 12.45am and tomorrow (well, today now) is a school day. The boys are going to be shattered.

The small train, only half a dozen carriages, finally opens its doors and quickly fills. Somehow I have got separated from my husband and younger son but my older son has saved the window seat opposite him which I take. The train jolts into life and pulls away. I notice a man holding a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. He’s staring at me from a few seats away on the other side of the isle. Mid-forties, I’m guessing, with a tall, powerful frame, his good looks are spoiled by a ruddy complexion that suggests a lot of time spent in the pub. My son and I read the freebie papers. Not much to hold my attention. It’s just nice to be out of the cold and finally moving. At the next stop a wave of people join the train and it suddenly feels like rush hour. A very drunk girl falls into the seat next to my son. Her standing friend strokes her hair and tells her that she is going to be okay but the girl appears anything but okay to me. Caked in make-up she looks very drunk and can hardly keep her eyes open. I have a bad feeling about this.

With so many people pressing onto the train I’m only vaguely aware of someone addressing me.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ they say, sliding into the seat next to me, ‘there’s nowhere else to sit.’

It is the man with the Sainsbury’s carrier bag. The same man who, only moments ago, was sitting across the isle. I steal a glance at my son. Has he noticed? The man starts talking to me but my responses are short and I take refuge in my now riveting newspaper. Not having any joy with me, the man tries to engage my son. When he asks what stop we are getting off at, I shoot my son a warning look, but he’s already told him. I’m in the middle of texting my firstborn my concerns when the girl with the heavy make-up starts to heave and before anyone has time to react, she is violently sick. The vomit, which is copious and energetic, hits three of the standing passengers. There are shocked gasps, some in disgust. My son looks appalled. A couple of people ask if the girl is all right and offer help but most try, unsuccessfully, to move away. Her friend, while attentive, mouths an embarrassed sorry in my direction. The smell of sick fills the carriage and overrides all other thoughts. I use my shawl like a doctor’s mask to screen the worst of the smell but its not very effective. The man with the Sainsbury’s bag suggests using my son’s newspaper to cover up the worst of the sick on the floor. It doesn’t do much for the smell but at least we don’t have to look at it.

Several passengers get off at the next stop. My neighbour has given up trying to make conversation with us. All the same my son and I take advantage of the sudden space and move to another carriage where we find my husband and younger son. There are no available seats next to them so we settle nearby, relieved to be breathing normal air. I don’t notice right away that my admirer has followed us down and is leaning against the door, facing me just a few feet away. I avoid eye contact but can feel him staring at me. This is getting a little creepy. I can’t do anything about it; there’s nowhere else to move. I text my son – too far away to talk to discretely and with his back to the man – so that he is aware of the situation.

My husband and younger son get off at the stop before us as this is where they’ve left their car, giving us a wave as they go. I cast a quick look in my stalker’s direction. He knows we’re getting off next. Are we going to have to run for it? We step off the train, bend our heads to the rain which is coming down like needles, and walk quickly to where I’m parked. We are alone, I realise with relief, the train and the man with the Sainsbury’s bag disappearing into the night.

It is nearly 2am when we are all home and I finally fall into bed. I have five hours until I need to be up again. I close my eyes and let my tired limbs grow heavy. Images pass through my mind, of dancing miners and boys in pink tutus, my son hopping on one foot to catch a train, drunken girls with panda eyes, the impassive gaze of my stalker. Close encounters, I think, and sleep.

Rocking with the Stars

Caroline True Photography

There is a carnival feel to Sotheby’s tonight. The entrance is flanked by two stilt-walkers and as I step through the doorway, they lean towards each other, doffing their Liquorice Allsorts hats with exaggerated smiles. My husband is waiting for me inside and together we join the swell of people slowly making their way upstairs to the auction room. After the biting evening air outside it is gratifyingly warm and I feel my limbs begin to relax.

Trays of champagne and hot canapés circulate the buzzing room where huge merry-go-round horses make for centre pieces alongside the more formal arrangement of oil paintings on the walls. It is the twelve rocking horses designed and decorated by an A list of celebrities, however, that we have come to see. The horses, donated by the renowned Stevenson Brothers, are gorgeous. I’m tempted to take one home but with an average price tag of £3,000 – and that’s before the celebrities have got their hands on them – they’re beyond my price range.

I only know a few people here so decide that I’m going to talk to as many of the celebrities as I can. Not all of them have turned up, namely Joanna Lumley and Judy Dench, but I spot Maureen Lipman standing by her African punk horse. The first thing that strikes me is how glamourous she is. She’s got to be in her late 60’s but I am so used to seeing her as downtrodden characters on TV that this youthful transformation catches me by surprise. She’s feeding a real carrot to her horse for the benefit of a photographer and tells me that she cannot bear the idea of being parted with it (the horse not the carrot).

‘Before I’d embarked on this project I’d never done more than stick a postage stamp on an envelope,’ she confides, stroking the horse with genuine affection, ‘and now I’m doing decoupage in my sleep.’

‘How did you come up with the name Orson?’ I ask.

‘Ors’n cart,’ she says, looking mischievous.

My husband’s buying raffle tickets and I cast a brief eye at the prizes. I say brief because I don’t expect to win anything (I never do), but note that they are ones worth having; Versace watch, private sitting with an artist, dinner for 4 at The Arts Club; family trip to Lapland and a bottle of the world’s most expensive perfume, valued at the jaw-dropping price of £1,000.

I recognise Kelly Hoppen hovering by her maharani-inspired horse – she looks a little nervous -and further away, the up and coming street artist, Nick Walker. He is surrounded by people wanting to talk to him.

‘They’re calling him ‘the new Banksy”, my husband informs me. ‘I bet his rocking horse makes the most money.’

Amanda Wakeley is really easy to talk to and tells me she knew right away that she wanted her horse, Zulu, to be a zebra. The result is striking and bold and I decide hers is one of my favourites. She shows me a hidden compartment inside its belly where each of the horses have three things hidden. It’s a nice extra touch.

Nicky Clarke is busy being photographed with two rather glamorous women, one who I am told is his current girlfriend. During a quiet moment I manage to corner him while he fusses with the fringe of Stephen Webster’s horse.

‘Hello Nicky, remember me?’ In my modelling days we often worked together but twenty years is a long interval.

‘Of course I do,’ he grins and I find myself engulfed in a bear hug – I’d forgotten how tall he is. He’s warm and friendly and tells me that it’s been a crazy few days. His ex is here tonight and he really doesn’t want to bump into her. Later, I discover he must have been talking about Kelly Hoppen. Perhaps this explains why she was looking nervous.

Before the auction begins, a representative of Chiva Africa’s Paediatric AIDS programme -the recipient of the evening’s profits – talks about what the rocking horses represent; freedom, fun, the ability to dream; something every child has the right to experience.  Maureen Lipman then takes command of the room and makes everyone laugh, while reminding us why we are all here.

There’s an air of tension as the bidding gets under way. My side of the room apparently has all the wealth as there is much nodding and raising of arms. The other side of the room is curiously motionless. I want the horses to make lots of money for those African children but to my surprise Joanna Lumley’s goes for a paltry £6,000. This seems like a bargain. The auctioneer seems to think so too as she ups her persuasive skills to get more of the audience to bid.

When it comes to the sale of Orson, Maureen Lipman rises from her seat and locks arms with one of the organisers which suggests she’s nervous about what Orson will fetch. A lot of time and effort has gone into each rocking horse. Maureen had told me she had been up until 3am most nights working on hers. When the bidding stalls, she throws in an offer to host a charity evening of the winner’s choosing. This adds another grand to the total which she looks happy about.

Amanda Wakeley’s Zulu follows. I have an urge to put up my hand and bid for it. Madness, I know, but it’s a bit like being in a hushed, darkened theatre watching a dramatic scene and wanting to shout out.  Before I can plunge my family into debt, I’m saved by my mobile phone which starts ringing loudly in my bag. My frantic efforts to switch it off go unnoticed as a battle is underway for Amanda’s horse and everyone’s focus is on the two men bidding for it. £13,000 clinches the deal but even that can’t compare with the highest sale of the night and no, it isn’t street artist Walker’s horse as my husband had predicted, but Judy Dench’s white unicorn which, when the gavel comes down, goes for the princely sum of £23,00.

We say our goodbyes and catch a train back home, clutching our ‘goodie bags’ which are enchanting merry-go-round tins stuffed with hand-made chocolates.  Later, I will learn that we have won the top raffle prize which happens to be the world’s most expensive perfume. Well, I think, I stand corrected on the never winning front. It’s not that I’m not grateful but I can’t help reflecting on some of the other prizes that would have been more useful; the boys would have jumped at a trip to Lapland. On the other hand we’re really lucky to have won anything at all and while I would have loved one of those dreamy horses, the perfume is a happy if indulgent compromise and let’s face it, I am going to smell really, really nice.