We're going anyway

I don't know what this will mean for us. I don't know, and I don't think anyone know's how 'Brexit' will affect us all in the future.

I was scared on the morning of the result, scared for the country, the economy, the divide which has been caused, the racism which is back. I was completely shocked at the hate from both sides. I was also scared our Mallorcan dream could no longer be.

The day after the referendum no one could tell what the future would even vaguley look like. Would the 3 million EU immigrants to be sent home? Would the 2 million emigrants be sent back?

We are going anyway. Some say it will take 2 years to start the exit and up to 10 years to completely divorce from the EU.

By then we might have had enough, it might be time to try something new.

1 week and 4 days.

Wise children

We snuggled up together in the super-king size bed - me, little P and the two fattie catties. The house feels extraordinarily empty.

I flicked through my news feed at 7 o'clock this morning, barely awake and taking in the happenings of the night. P, interested in all things screen, watched and asked questions as I scrolled.

"Why are they singing? Why are there rainbow tears coming from that lady's eye? Where's Orlando?"

I explained the horrors, I hope in child-friendly terms, of the shooting in a gay nightclub. She sat up, looking pretty scared.

"So, the men were at a disco dancing and somebody shot them? Why?"

And before I could answer, she shouted:

"THEY SHOULD BAN GUNS!"

"Is there tourism in Paris?" she asked in earnest.

We talked about the romantic city, and the Eiffel Tower, the Mona Lisa and the River Seine.

"With guns?" She insisted.

"Ohhhh, terrorism, not tourism!"

So we had a little chat about the awful shootings in Paris recently and how we mustn't hate people different to us who maybe have different views. I explained that if someone was mean to her in school, she must try very hard not to be mean back. Just love and kindness. Love and kindness.

"There should be no wars then!" she exclaimed and up she got to clean her teeth before another day.

Stress

The stress has arrived as we are 6 weeks and 5 days away from our move to Mallorca. Great bucket loads of nerves, jitters and adrenaline have finally come to to say 'Hello!' before we go. Lists are in the kitchen, there are lists on the fridge, sub-lists on the list, lists on my phone, lists in my head and my favourite - the list at 4am making me jolt wide awake.

And then there are the wobbles.

Are we doing the right thing? Is Mallorca too busy in the summer? Will I make friends? Will the children like it? Can we afford to do this? What job will I be able to get? What about friends and family we leave behind?

All I can do is chip away at those lists and keep talking about the wobbles, for in 7 weeks time we will be there. So will ALL our belongings including the cats. It is so very hard to see that reality when there is a mountain in between to climb.

But hopefully, once scaled, there will be an extraordinary view from the top.

Fattie catties

It's traumatic for the cats going to the vets, the 15 minute drive sets their hearts racing and their paws sweating. Goodness knows how they will cope with the drive to Gatwick and a flight to Palma. Yes we are taking the cats with us.

It was just a booster jab today and the kindly vet checked the girls over and weighed them on the scales.

"Do they go outside?" the vet queried.

"Er no, not really," I replied "Are they very over-weight?"

"No, not at all, in fact they seem to have lost weight," he answered. "It's just that they are very soft, they have very little muscle," he said feeling their bellies.

"I don't want to offend you, how can I say this....they are couch potatoes!"

Well, yes I knew that. But how on earth do I get a cat to exercise? They are sleeping themselves to death.

Pogo

I watched her wobble and try again. And again.

"Come here, let Mummy show you how it's done..."

I swaggered over to A and took the pogo stick from her, sure that I could do 49 bounces in a row, and more if I fancied.

I nearly damn-well broke my back! One bounce and I shot off into the daffodils and fell against the hard, concrete patio.

She wouldn't let me try again for fear of me seriously hurting myself. He wouldn't let me try either.

So that's it. I can no longer use a pogo stick. Or roller blades. I am losing my balance. I lost my nerve on a big ginger horse and I might as well take up knitting.

What happens when you get older? Do you really lose your balance and increase your fear? Do you become less naive and more aware of danger, and that holds you back?

When no one is looking, I am going to squirrel myself away in the garden and conquer that goddamn pogo stick to prove that I can still bounce. And then I will relearn the roller blades.

And jump horses over silly fences at great speed.

#RideForOlivia

It was a day of two sides. A day of two halves. A day which told me to be brave, which told me I should teach my girls to be brave.

But not too brave.

On International Women's Day I enjoyed a TED talk by Reshma Saujani. She spoke clearly that we should teach our girls not to be perfect, when they can let go of perfection and take risks they become brave and courageous. It was an interesting talk about how boys will have a go, take risks and put their hands up even if they are not sure of an answer - and girls, well, they usually have to get it 100% right before they are confident to speak out. P is like this, her crippling sense of perfection stops her from doing things, from drawing even, for fear of it not being good, perfect.

Right, I'm going to teach my children to be wild and free, to have a go, to make mistakes, to be imperfect and to take risks.

And then my newsfeed flooded with #RideForOlivia. Olivia was only 17 when she died on Sunday, she was riding her horse at a competition when the horse clipped a solid fence and fell on top of her. Her parents saw it happen.

I cannot imagine this horror - and as we were asked to post our favourite riding pictures as a tribute to Olivia with the hashtag #RideForOlivia, I wanted to never let my children near a horse again. I wanted to wrap them up and shield them from dangers and risks.

I am reminded of the joy A feels when she rides a pony, the risks she is willing to take, the difficulties she has overcome, the frustration, the falls, the tears and the laughter. And then I realise this is making her brave, courageous and willing to take risks for a passion. For that, my darling daughters, I am very proud.

The Fly

"Why couldn't you have just opened the window?" she wailed, hot tears of real sadness and empathy rolling down her face.

Because flies are dirty darling, and it would have died outside anyway as it's freezing out there.

"Ohhhhh, why did he have to die Mummy, why couldn't we have caught the fly and made him a little house?" she sobbed, her chest convulsing, struggling to catch her breath.

P was distraught. He had got the fly exterminator, a tennis racket-shaped fly zapper and electrocuted the rogue fly which was looking pretty ill and lazy stuck to the kids bedroom wall.

I don't think he would want to live in a jam jar, I explained.

"We could have made him little windows and a door!" she reasoned, dramatically sobbing over the fly's demise all over again.

I soothed her and explained that flies don't have the same feelings as us. How did I know that? Good question.

"Being dead is horrible Mummy, it must have hurt the fly and now he's dead...." cue more streams of tears.

She had a point, I don't know what flies feel and I have no idea if being dead is OK or pretty boring. I did learn that we have to be more careful around sensitive, little P - and just let flies out of the window.

This year

I'm not sure about this year. There were highs and lows, as in every year, but the end of this year has clouded the first part for me. My goodbye to Fletch has been the hardest part emotionally. Well, if it's only a horse that has let you down, I hear you say - then count yourself very lucky indeed.

Yes he was only a horse. He was also my challenge, my reason to work (once the bills have been paid of course), he was my inspiration and a need. I feel very lost without him, bereft and lacking in purpose - but I couldn't take the risk any more, being thrown off a little too often than was safe.

We travelled a lot - discovered spring meadows in Greece, raved till sunrise in Ibiza, trekked with donkeys in Romania and visited good friends in Mallorca. Extremely lucky and proud to have shown our children foreign lands - apart from Ibiza of course, they can do that when they are 18, and I don't want to know. He and I worked hard and developed our careers, mine fulfilling me greatly - his not so.

My main memories of 2015 will be of fixing things. The house was repaired, damp penetrating every part, the cars were maintained, the cooker an ongoing 8-week nightmare, the boiler busting, the computers crashing and a royal blue carpet finally replaced. The house looks nice.

So what for 2016?

I really do not know. A new job for him could take us anywhere. A horse of my own? A writing career?

Certainly I hope to open up the world a little wider for the children. And drink more water.

Happy New Year all, may 2016 be a healthy and generous one.

Daffodils in December

Fragile life

"I'll take the front end if you like, OK, one...two...three..."

We heaved the lifeless beauty to the side of the road, me and a man with a mohican. I looked at her eye, now gone, and touched her warm body - inwardly thanking her for making the world a more beautiful place.

In a moment, a second, a wrong decision - the young deer died crossing the road. In a moment, if life had been 3 seconds slower, the woman wouldn't have smashed her Mercedes. She stood in shock at the side of the road, shaking and near tears - her own life saved, a car and a deer gone. In a second.

I think all three of us took time to contemplate the fragilty of life this morning, waiting for the police on Christmas Eve.

Dear Fletch

Dear Fletch,

Yesterday was the last day I will ride you, being unceremoniously dumped for the sixth time this year was that one fall too many. I feel we have to end it now before one of us gets hurt, that one-of-us is probably me.

This is such a difficult letter to write as we have had so many wonderful times together over the last three years. You have taught me so much, how to ride, how to face my fears, how to be disciplined and how to never give up -  although now I do have to give you up and its breaking my heart.

I don't know why you do those massive leaps and bucks. I don't know what monsters you see in the bushes everyday, I don't know why a small cross pole still excites you to the point of being uncontrollable. I do know that when you behave, you are amazing, taking me higher than I ever dreamed I could.

Maybe you just don't want to be ridden any more. Maybe you want to be free of a rider on your back, I understand that. Maybe you want to graze the fields in your later years. Maybe you are bored of working. You are trying to tell me something and this time I am listening.

I love you very much Fletch, my eyes are swollen and puffy having to end it this way. Your beautiful chestnut body leaps out of walls as photographs show how good we were together. Rosettes prove our prowess.  I hope you make somebody as happy as you made me.

You will always have a place in my heart, you very special horse.

Sxx

My castle

We had the delightful news that we need a new boiler this weekend. I have not showered since Thursday but resorted to the old flannel wash and trying to shampoo my hair in the sink. It's grim to be honest. It comes after six months of such heavy house expenditure that I almost laughed, almost.

It is keeping us in the rat race, get a job to get a mortgage, get a better job to pay the mortgage and keep the house standing when it would like to fall down.

I'm not sure I even want a house any more. A yurt would do, leading a nomadic life, moving when we had grazed the area. Or a campervan, or a horse-drawn Romany caravan.

Of course I romanticise when others would be so grateful for solid bricks and a roof over their head.

Song of the Sea

It's the most beautiful film I have seen in a long while, and had I been alone I might have cried a lot more than did. I would have allowed the tears to really flow rather than hold them back, not wanting to scare my children or all the other people in the cinema.

The animation was just exquisite, magical, entrancing and entirely enthralling. I am sure it was lost on the children although they seemed happy enough when they left the cinema. My heart was heavy with loss, with bottled up feelings, with characters I wanted to meet, with storytellers and faeries. 

It was a truly incredible little film, heart warming and heart wrenching. For all ages, but especially mamas. 

Hope in Trafalgar Square

It's been a tough couple of weeks, there seems to be sadness and unfairness all around. My screen is filled with those images, so terrifying and helpless. The radio gets switched off regularly so as not to give the children nightmares, they may not even be listening. We still don't have a telly so are cosseted from the moving pictures of grief.

There was hope in Trafalgar Square on Sunday. A man writing his feelings in poetry on the ground. An eclectic band of people and musical instruments making the crowd smile. A Turkish man spreading some love by making rings for free, to passers-by who could not quite believe it. We all crouched with him, looking at the intricate curls of the electric wire, his array of cheap beads, a real Aladdin's chest to us all as we chose our jewels. I wanted to ask him about himself, fuelled by the media's fury on immigration and desperate refugees.

But he just wanted to smile with us, enjoying making us rings from electric wire - it would have been rude to ask.

For a moment, on the surface, not scratching anywhere below that - humanity smiled, mingled and took selfies. For just a moment, there seemed hope in Trafalgar Square.

After the high

After the high comes the low.
After the sun comes the rain.
After good health comes a cold.
After the summer comes the winter.
After the heat comes the chill.
After the flowers comes the bare earth.
After the calm comes the storm.
After the glass-full it suddenly seems half empty.

And so the times will turn once again, because after a low, must come the high.

Poo picking

It doesn't sound like a nice thing to do, but I can assure you that it is. Clearing the fields of horse poo is a thankless task to many, but for me it holds so many therapeutic benefits.

There is time to think, to let your mind wander and let all the things bothering you slot into their rightful place.

There is time to observe, all around the spring flowers burst forth. Frothy mayflower and scented bluebells who tower above a carpet of white, starry wood anemone. The insects in the grass, the swallows swooping and diving in between building nests for their young.  A bird of prey, perhaps a hawk, hovers on the thermals in the valley below. The horses graze, heads down, filling their bellies on spring grass.

There is time to listen, to the birdsong unidentifiable but pretty. To hear the silence that is nature. The occasional snort of the horses as they clear their noses and whisk their tails, to swat any early flies out of the way.

Fletch wanders over occasionally to see what I am doing, I talk, he nuzzles in my pocket, sniffs the wheelbarrow and walks away. He comes back at intervals to check all is the same as I work, clearing the fields of his excrement. I think he appreciates it somehow.

It's not a bad job poo-picking. I can think of a lot worse.

Charity shopping

"Why did the man with one hand cross the road?" asked A

I don't know

"To get to the second-hand shop!"

That's a proper good joke that is. I can't walk past a second-hand shop without popping in. I'm not usually expecting to find anything but my well-practised eye can spot a good pattern, some quality wool or a sparkly, bling brooch quite quickly. I have passed my love of the charity shop to my kids where they have soon learnt that their pocket money goes a really, really long way. This weekend we strolled past the Trinity Hospice shop on Wandsworth Common, it had two beautiful whippets peering out of the door, the colour of seals with the velvetiness of moles -  we were enticed in by their kind faces and chocolatey eyes.

And what a treasure trove inside. Rails of designer cast-offs without the prices, jean brands I had only ever heard of in magazines for £10, shoes by Prada and Paul Smith, some red sunglasses so bad they were good and the most enigmatic shop assistant of all. I came out smiling with four items to sip cocktails in, to attend a good garden party and to dance the night away.

Pretty huh? £12 thank you very much

Positive mental attitude

It took enormous courage and positive thinking to go to a show jumping clinic with Fletch this week. I've done it before, and many similar events like it, but Fletch scared me over Christmas. He's feeling fresh, as we say in the game, he's fizzy and spooky - for those with nothing to do with horses, he's like an unexploded bomb. It feels like you are riding an animal who at any given moment, with no prior warning, may catapult you into the air with only the crash landing to look forward to. A life with a horse is a roller coaster, a series of doubts to whether you can do it, you know, control over half a ton of animal. It's certainly not all red rosettes and summer days in cream jodhpurs at shows, it certainly does not feel posh or privileged when you have been dumped for the seventh time in 2 years, onto hard frosty ground. So I had to dig very, very deep to find my inner strength this week. By minimising all the risk and wrapping myself in an air jacket, a back protector and the best safety hat on the market I felt the assertive me rise - and we flew. 

And when it was over I felt that high which lasted all day proving once again that the mental strife I endure is all worth it, proving again the power of positive thought.

IF

If you think you are beaten, you are.
If you think you dare not, you don't.
If you'd like to win, but think you can't,
It's almost certain you won't.
If you think you'll lose, you've lost.
For out of the world we find
Success begins with a fellows will.
It's all in the state of mind.
If you think you're outclassed, you are.
You've got to think high to rise.
You've got to be sure of yourself before
You can ever win a prize.
Life's battles don't always go
To the stronger or faster person.
But sooner or later the person who wins
Is the one who thinks they can.

     Anonymous

Maybe not looking so positive here - if only you could hear what I was telling myself

Looking back

It was a good one, two thousand and fourteen.

I achieved my equestrian goals of competing in a show jumping competition and a Novice dressage test - doing quite well in fact with lots of fluffy rosettes to show for it. I pushed myself further and into scarier realms than I thought possible. It would be easy to sit on my laurels from now on and enjoy the ride, pardon the terrible pun, but I think I will kick on, reach higher until one of us can do it no longer. Fletch being 21 years old and me pushing 42.

Fletch gave me some incredible highs over 2014, and some scary lows - I guess it is all about the yin and the yang and finding a natural balance with your horse. One thing I know for certain is that my parenting, my work, my home life and relationships all benefit from having this huge ginger beastie in my life. He puts the small stuff into perspective for me, settles my jumbled mind by blowing sweet hay-breath on to my face, he keeps me on my toes and never lets me take anything for granted, he's hard work but the rewards are worth more than gold, he keeps me calm and reflective, he soothes my adrenaline and is the cause of it - thank you Mr Fletcher for 2014, undoubtedly the most successful horsey year of my life.

We travelled far and wide giving ourselves a little more adventure than we thought we could manage. We challenged the children to a couple of weeks in India, a colourful experience in Kerala amongst the elephants and saris with stories of leeches and tactical pukes on the side of the roads, between the rickshaws and mopeds. We all loved India, really loved it. I will go back.

The children grew fast, as they do. A has elongated, has an oval face and still the wide blue eyes. Something has clicked for A in 2014, she dances how the others dance, she can tackle maths homework without a tsunami of a meltdown, she uses better vocabulary, she can do the rising trot, she remembers and loves her travels. Still she is kind. P grows too fast, provocative and scary when let loose in H & M. She delegates, ie gets her sister to do it, she does the least amount of work possible to be on the 'best table', she learnt to ride a bike and swim properly. She was the narrator in the school play doing a sterling job - I can see her on the stage in the future.

Perhaps most significantly we decided to stay in Sussex. Dreams of travelling and home-schooling were laid to rest, an organic small holding in Spain was disregarded and a city-life in Barcelona rejected. We decided to stay on the hamster wheel of life, work hard, have small adventures which fit into the school holidays and decorate the house. It felt good when we came to that conclusion in November. 

But now it's January - and I'm not sure that's the best decision I've ever made.

Laos

I need to listen to the rice grow but all I can hear is the never-ending lists in my head. Renew your driving license. Buy my father-in-law a gift. Make panforte. And chutney. Wrap the presents, probably better to buy them first. Order a turkey, poor bugger. A needs some sparkly shoes apparently. They haven't written to Father Christmas yet, not sure if they are doing their advent calender in order. My head hurts, my teeth hurt, my cheeks hurt, the sinus is screaming so I wouldn't be able to hear the rice grow even if I was there.

The phrase comes from how the people of three Asian countries define their characteristics, possibly how the French defined them in colonial times. It is said that the Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch the rice grow and the Lao listen to the rice grow - such as is the pace of life in Laos. I liked it a lot, Laos, we arrived in Luang Prabang with little A fluttering in my tummy, all but 18 weeks developed. I feared not the exotic food and traditions on my unborn baby, but embraced the serene pace of life before the chaos (I had been told) ensued, once she was born. I sipped at the strange drinks, ate the fried seaweed strips topped with chilli and sesame, wandered around temples in the rain and watched geckos underneath whirring fans of times past. We slowed to a pace so hard to find amongst our own lives.

But this Christmas I will take time to listen to the children giggle, listen to Fletch grinding and crunching through his hay, I will listen to their carols - and not let my mind wander - and to the glug of the red wine from the decanter. I will hear the cats delicately paw my duvet, I will appreciate the silence of dawn and I will listen to peoples needs. This Christmas I will listen to the rice grow, Sussex style.

No point fighting it!

I feel a little bit more able to the handle the 'C' word today, it is December after all.

The torrent of decorated Christmas trees on social media last night felt wrong in November, especially after the warm and sunny weekend we had. The panic is setting in about presents, various relatives demanding to know what we want - we don't want anything - you've got to have something it's Christmas - oh OK I'll have a think - well if you don't let me know I will get you a voucher - fine, get me a voucher. Got to get it all done and wrapped, a chore that has to be done at the end of the year. Is there any joy at all in Christmas shopping, choosing a gift a loved one might like, rather than from a pre-determined list? I quite like doing that but have learned to keep the receipts when my idea of what people would like was obviously far from what they wanted.

Anyway, there we are, the first of December today - it is now acceptable to listen to Christmas music, to send and receive Christmas cards, to eat a mince pie and sup some mulled wine. The kids are pouring over our Christmas selection of books and have eaten chocolate before breakfast, the nativity play is next week, the Father Christmas movie been watched and menu's are being decided.

There is absolutely no point in fighting this - it is now upon us - tinsel and all, a big box of chocolates and some cheap red wine will get me through - Merry Christmas everyone, enjoy the build up in all its plastic glory!