Camping it up

Just back from a week camping in one of those Eurotents which has everything in it, except for bedding.

We were staying in Cornwall at the Third Best Family Campsite in Britain, don't you know, and it was packed to the rafters with - strangely - people from Liverpool. Nothing wrong with that, just a little dislocating. In fact, it was like a suburb from Liverpool had been transported to a few coastal fields, except that in this neighbourhood, the walls were paper-thin and the dwellings contained no running water or loos.

Given that the Eurotents had televisions with a DVD channel, it meant that visions of lying under canvas listening to the hooting of owls and the crashing of waves on the shore quickly evapourated and were replaced by seven nights lying in bed listening to Avatar and Doc Martin being blasted out in unison via some sort of make-shift, 4-directional, tinny-TV-speaker-generated, surround sound system.

The only other snags were the rapid realisation that:

• I'd forgotten to buy a towelling dressing gown which I could wear not only in the mornings, but also in the tent at any other time of the day when I felt a bit cold
• I don't smoke fags
• I don't have an obese three year old whom I ply with large bags of Monster Munch and icecreams smothered in hundreds-and-thousands and chocolate flakes sticking out at jaunty angles
• Our tent was on top of a hill and a good 200 metres away from the loo and shower block at the bottom of the hill
• It rained. A lot. 

 But on the plus side:

• The boys loved it, and made great friends with boys in the tent next door
• I reconnected with the joys of snuggling up in a sleeping bag
• I discovered I quite like corned beef hash
• Sitting on the beach surrounded by scantily clad, ridiculously fat people does wonders for one's own self esteem
• And we did get back to nature a little bit ... the night a mole decided to burrow under our tent

I went to Massive Attack the other night.

I haven't been out for sooooo long that I wasn't even sure what to wear.

Luckily, our nanny, who's 23, told me to wear jeans and a t-shirt. So I went and bought a t-shirt that wasn't a fitted, black v-neck. It's purple with bat-wing type sleeves, so I'd look a bit more up-to-date.

Well, to me, it's a bit more 80s. I actually looked for something I'd have worn in my first year at university, which was in the late 80s. Stovepipes - sorry, skinny jeans - are also back, so I'm back in my Zambesi jeans from waaaay back. And the pointy-toed flats I bought in 1986.

You might ask why I've still got clothes from so long ago? Well, they went out of fashion while they were still lightly worn, because I tend to hold out again trends until the very last minute, then buy everything and get left with clothes that I just can't be seen in because they are so four years ago.

And then, I keep them.

I grew up with a mother who kept laughing at my clothes and saying: "Oh, I wore that 20 years ago." I raided her wardrobe for trench coats, 60s dresses, hippy tops and student bags.

I figured that the 80s would eventually come round again, and I was right.

But I still have bags and boxes full of 90s grunge stuff that I think I'll be too old for once that all comes around again.

Maybe the girls will be old enough to wear them by then?

Just when you’ve gotten over childbirth ... here comes the perimenopause!

OK. So those of us with children know there is an unspoken conspiracy preventing any discussion with women yet to have children about the realities of childbirth and what it can do to Your Downstairs.

What I didn’t know, is that if you have children in your mid-to-late thirties, another fresh hell awaits you a mere handful of years later. Ever heard of the perimenopause? Me neither, until I tried to work out why I was feeling so tired all the time by googling for an answer.

I admit, the most obvious reasons are probably because I’m a 40 year old who works full-time, has two young children, doesn’t exercise, eats a little too many crisps (‘chippies’ to my fellow compatriots) and prefers to say ‘Cheers’ with a glass in her hand, rather than unwinding by Saluting the Sun.

However, symptons of the perimenopause include:

• Feeling the cold (see my earlier piece on this)
• Difficulty sleeping (yes, sometimes)
• Mood changes, anxiety, irritability (I can be the Queen of Irritability in the right circumstances)
• Heart palpitations (yes, particularly if trying to run up stairs in heels)

The Mayo Clinic website says perimenopause marks the interval in which your body begins its transition into menopause. When perimenopause starts and how long it lasts varies. It says you'll probably notice signs of impending menopause, sometime in your 40s. But some women notice changes as early as their mid-30s.

The signs and symptoms of perimenopause can occur 10 to 15 years before actual menopause occurs, which is the final cessation of your menstrual cycle. Oh my god.

I once did an IQ test for work, when they were profiling everyone so they could hire people whose profile matched the best employees.

I scored 45. This means I should not be able to tie my own shoe laces.

This may also be ominous for my marriage.

According to the Geneva School of Business, the marriages most likely to work are those involving a woman who's five years younger than her husband, and 27 per cent more intelligent. She should have a degree, and he shouldn't (tick), and they should have the same cultural background (tick)

I got the age and intelligence thing the wrong way around, though. I hope that also works.

Matt is four years younger and about 50 per cent more intelligent. I have more commonsense, though, which may surprise some who know me.

http://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/lifematters/eternally-yours-a-gap-brings-you-closer-20100303-pj4k.html?skin=text-only

Cold hands, warm heart!

Ellie’s had a flood in Sydney. And we’re still in the midst of a jolly cold winter here in England.

Waking this morning to yet more sub zero temperatures, I pondered (not for the first time) why women feel the cold more than men. My husband’s ‘balmy’ is my ‘glacial’. His Costa del Sol is my Siberian hinterland. I sometimes wear so many layers in bed it’s like sleeping with a jumble sale.

 Brass monkeys ....

Apparently, it’s because women are fat. Or at least, “Women have a more evenly distributed fat layer and can pull all their blood back to their core organs.” This means that less blood flows to our hands and feet, and as a result we feel cold (hence there’s some truth in the expression “cold hands, warm heart”).

As someone with two sons, this doesn’t bode well for the coming years when they are old enough to side with their father over the battle of the thermostat. They already strip down to their underpants at the slightest opportunity (the boys, that is, not their father. Anymore. Hmmm.).

However, all is not lost, because although I live in a male dominated household, it is an English male dominated household. Which means lots of cups of tea. And they keep you warm, right?!

Floods and penises

We had a flood through a couple of weeks ago. There are two long-lasting effects from it. Firstly, I learned the Australian phrase: "raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock". I like it, and have been using it. I will keep using it.

Secondly, the rain came roaring down the hill from three blocks away, stampeded down our back alley and under our gate, ripped out all the grass and topsoil, and then banked up outside the back door as it squeezed through the slats in the fence opposite. Waves came over the two-foot back step and flooded our laundry and kitchen.

But that wasn't the bit that has had a long-lasting effect. 

The rabbit hutch was outside the back door, and it got flooded. We brought John, the grey and white Dutch rabbit, inside. Now, even though it's not raining and his hutch has dried, he's still living inside. He lives in the bathroom at night, so when you're on the loo (see, I've read what Catriona wrote) there are two little, round eyes watching you. Not that it makes any difference because, if you've got small children, there's usually someone on your knee.

He's like rabbit television. The neighbours drop off little bunches of dandelions they've picked for him while out walking their dogs or children. Lottie gets up early and we don't hear a peep out of her, as she's off downstairs with John.

During the day he hops around under the dining table, where his loo newspaper is (he's loo-trained), or noses around in the fireplaces and the soft toy shelf.

Lottie got him for Christmas a year ago, when he was the size of a cupcake, and named him John. Then she met Thomas, who lives down the road, so gave him a second name.

Simone, who lives up the road, looked after John while we were on holiday. She was horribly embarrassed, because she told everyone about the lovely John Thomas she had at home. Her young and groovy hairdresser eventually enlightened her. Which is unusual, because mostly it's only old people who know what John Thomas means.

(For any yoof reading this, it means penis).

How a visit to an osteopath created a crisis of undie pants

I put my back out earlier this month. I’d like to say it happened whilst doing something exciting but it didn’t. It was, however, a sporting injury, in that I was on my knees reaching out to pick up one of George’s football cards when it went crack.

Despite surviving seven hours of labour without pain relief (followed by seven hours of epidural heaven) I consider myself to have a very low pain threshold. A bit like the princess and the pea. I therefore adopted a two stage pain relief strategy. That evening I numbed the pain with neurophen and sauvignon blanc (very effective). The next morning, I went to see an osteopath.

It was only when I had gone through the preliminary chat with the osteopath (early-thirties, ex-gymnast) and he said: “Right. If you could get undressed now down to your bra and knickers,” that I suddenly realised one does not go to an osteopath unprepared.

I used to buy matching bra and knickers sets at Selfridges. I used to go to Arezoo Kaviani for my bikini wax. I used to shave my legs weekly - EVEN IN WINTER. However, having young children, working full time, balancing a budget and wrapping up warm for subzero temperatures, tend to make such things seem mere fripperies.

And so, as my osteopath asked me to bend over and touch my toes so he could see the line of my spine, the only small piece of comfort I could draw was that I had at least not gone to work that day wearing a thong.