Helen Leckwith-Smith - a woman of substance?

I was truly honoured yesterday - my mother-in-law Helen Leckwith-Smith (HLS to her friends, enemies and the window cleaner) decided to do me a great honour and visit her estranged daughter-in-law and youngest grandson, so with that in mind I ran the Dyson around the laminate floor, plumped up the cushions and removed the squashed fairy cake from behind the TV. HLS was accompanied by Simon, a disabled man she befriended whilst carrying out voluntary work for a charity called 'Patrons of the Disabled' or 'Patronising the Disabled' as I like to call it. Simon clearly doesn't get out much because he says very little and is almost constantly plugged into his tiny radio, mind you, I think I'd employ the same tactics if I had to spend any more time in HLS's company.

We had good day of sorts. My brother Ollie turned up with his two daughters, my nieces Salamanda and Cassandra, who are fairly undemanding and cute. HLS fawned over them more than her own grandson and mentioned on more than one occasion that she would rather have sired daughters. Saying that, I can understand her dilemma because my ex Roger apparently spent the first five years of his childhood saying 'bummy, tummy, mummy' on repeat and his older brother Gideon once set fire to the local scout hut so in retrospect, perhaps a daughter would have been a blessing.

They departed via taxi at 7:15, I was glad to see them go and nearly threw their coats at them.

Nick's taking me and Seb out tomorrow for a drive to the coast. This is great, I hope he doesn't mind my tuppence 'Flipper Winner' addiction - Roger used to hate it.

A day in London

Now that Seb's at nursery on a Friday I often find myself popping up to London for a break and that's exactly what I did today. I walked around the City a bit and marvelled at the Swiss Re building close up; I also took a bus ride to Hackney to see what all the fuss is about, thought it very 'urban' and caught a different bus back to central London again. I met Nick for lunch in the Civil Service Club, it's a much nicer place now it's been refurbished and the large television removed from the bar area. We sat in the corner and talked for ages until he had to return to work, but luckily he's off on Tuesday because us mighty Civil Servants are granted an extra two point five days off per annum, I suppose this makes up for the piss poor salary - who knows?

In the afternoon I had a mosey around the shops and bought Seb a rather natty duvet cover from Next which had colourful transport images on it. He loves it. I am now suffering the strains of In the Night Garden, a programme I thought he'd grown out of ages ago - sigh!

A school fayre, a mystic and a conundrum

Yesterday I went to Seb's prospective school fayre with mum in tow because she loves that kind of thing and my son can be a bit of a handful at times. Alongside all of the tombola stalls, doughnut decorating and plant sales there was a mystic stall so I decided to throw caution the wind, pay my £5 and have a reading. It was odd, as with most things, mystics seem to provide some very general information - the sort which can be interpreted any way you wish, apparently I have a great deal of love coming to me from those in the spirit world and those below, still on earth. The really odd thing is that she stated that she was getting a clear picture of a man, formerly close to me screaming out in agony, a huge set of snarling animal's teeth and then blackness. I don't know quite what to make of that one.

There was a stall featuring owls - a tawny, long eared, snowy and barn - so frankly the whole set. I wasn't so keen on the series of tattooed women pushing through but this is a regular feature of this somewhat chavvy suburb I live in so I let it pass. I couldn't imagine being an owl trainer - a life keeping owls in a box and transporting them around childrens' parties, fayres and country shows. That would be a very odd existence indeed. After I'd fed Seb on the various goodies available I ventured home.

I received a call from Nick at 8:15, he's very thoughtful and waited until I'd got Seb into bed and settled down on the sofa with a glass of wine. We chatted for ages, there were no gaps in the conversation so all was good. Polly came in at some point, dripping all over the laminate. Apparently she'd been 're-birthing' in the local park's lake. I do hope she doesn't develop Wheal's Disease - the whole windsurfing community went down with that a few years back.

Nick Brazier and the Brunels' Tunnel

I thought you may want to hear about my date, well I'm going to tell you anyway, so there! I met Nick at Bermondsey tube which I have to admit is located in a really rank area full of council estates and tramps. Nick was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a jacket with a small peep of chest hair emerging from his shirt which I, and probably other women find very sexy indeed. He paid for both of our walks and we set off with the guide and twenty or so others towards the river. It was an interesting meander through some very historic areas and knowing that a riverside pub was possibly haunted by Judge Jeffries was fairly amusing.

The highlight of the walk was the Brunels' tunnel itself (named after Marc and Isambard) as we climbed down the temporary staircase Nick was keen to lend a hand, not in a pervy way you'll understand, but in a gentlemanly fashion. We spent fifteen minutes or so down in the shaft which is situated directly above the London Overground, so we could feel the rumble of trains underneath our feet. It was a little cold though and I'd wished I'd worn something a little warmer but Nick was a total star and gave me his jacket for additional warmth.

Afterwards we boarded the London Overground at Rotherhithe Station and travelled to Lewingham where we shared a curry. Nick laughed when I said I was addicted to poppadoms but after I consumed five of them he merely smiled and suggested I may have a medical condition called 'poppodomania'. We caught our respective trains home at 10:30 and Nick asked me to call him when I got home to check I was safe.

Saturday Sigh

I wouldn't say that Polly is annoying lodger but she is; at 6am this morning I heard her practising her vocal scales in the bathroom, which isn't the ideal way of starting my weekend I must admit. I banged on the wall until she stopped; I don't mind her singing as I practice myself around the house but it's the unearthly hour I have an issue with. Anyway the upshot of all that was that Seb woke up and demanded his breakfast - gah!

I don't think I've told you but I was sitting in the Civil Service Club the other day enjoying my copy of Grazia and a glass of white wine when an old colleague of mine called Nick Brazier walked in with a small group of besuited gentlemen. He noticed me in the corner and we soon started chatting, Nick having excused himself to the wider group by then. It transpired that Nick separated from his wife a year ago because she got romantically involved with a clown from a travelling circus and decided to chuck in her job and follow him around. I told him about my situation and he sympathised stating that he'd never really liked Roger because he'd insulted him during a 'bring your husband to work day'. Anyway, the upshot of it all is that we've arranged to meet up for a date on Tuesday, we're going to explore Brunel's Thames Tunnel and go for a meal afterwards - how fab!

Monday Morning Madcap Musings

It's Monday and conversely is always a good idea to sort out the housework so I have done two loads of washing, the window cleaner's here and I'm taking some time out of my busy schedule to do some writing. Seb is currently wandering around the house dressed in a shirt, a pair of pants and my chunky boots whilst munching on an apple; he's a bit eccentric, but I love that about him. The Wheels on the Bus CD is playing, I'm not sure quite how nursery rhymes mix with world music but they've given it a go anyway. Readers will also be pleased to learn that his toilet training's going well, he's mastered weeing in the potty, poos are another thing though.

Polly's been living here for about a week now, she's an odd girl I must say. She likes lighting joss sticks in her room, soaking in long baths, practising yoga facing east in the garden and writing. In fact, I found one of her notebooks in the dining room earlier, here's some of her efforts.


The Shop Girl Mystery by Polly St Germain

I had always known that I was born to better things; working in a second-hand clothes shop in surburban London wasn't all it was cracked up to be, the customers were on the whole, polite but distant but I always wanted more. One day a distinguished gentleman walked into the shop and I knew that my life would change forever.....

Right....ok. She makes Margaret seem sane, which is a tall order, I must say.

Margaret moves out and musings regarding parenthood

Margaret moved out today and I've just finished helping her shift her stuff over to her new flat. I've got a few hours spare until Polly moves in so I think I'll do some writing. I find that it often helps.

I don't find parenthood easy; I never did, I suppose it's got worse since my husband Roger left but writing about it helps. Seb's a lovely child, affectionate and lively but with the undercurrent of the possibility of him being autistic clouding it all. I don't think he is, the professionals are undecided so it's an uphill task of tests, observations and never-ending forms. People without children don't really understand the sheer amount of guilt which plagues the working woman these days even if, as I do, choose to work part-time, it's never quite good enough.

I suppose I could blame the media but that would be wrong so maybe peer pressure's to blame - who knows? I guess it depends on your background/where you live/your expectations in life etc but it's never easy and feeling an outsider's the worst thing of all. Even taking Seb to one of the local playgrounds is a complete nightmare at times, I find it difficult to communicate with other parents and appear stand-offish as a result, hiding behind my huge sunglasses in the summer and a hood in the winter. I also find it hard to relate to other people's children; my brother's brilliant at this because he's a real kid at heart but I can't quite find the right communication style. As for teenagers - they're a completely different breed, I can't bear the ones who race their bikes around the playground and/or play their music out loud on the top deck of the bus - who can?

Well, that feels better, a load off my mind. Having one child is also a bonus as we can form a tight family unit of two. I suppose Polly will make three, I can't imagine sharing a house with somebody I barely know but time will tell.