There is a light that never goes out

Weekends are always packed in our family with my zumba class, the boys going to rhymetime and football and all of us going swimming. Fitting in anything extra requires logistics that would make the MOD proud. We did, however, manage to find a space in the schedule to attend an open day for a school this weekend. My boy loved everything about it and yelled like a banshee when we moved him from one fun filled room to another as he realised that all of it was geared toward keeping him occupied.

A bit of tutoring with Daddy

As neither Hubbie nor I went to an independent school it was a whole new experience and refreshing to meet teachers who can spell, use grammar and don't dress like I did in my second year at university. I'm not sure why we received a free teddy bear and a big helium filled balloon to take away with us, but I think that is designed to distract from the sting of the fees they charge. I did find myself picturing my son in a school with small class sizes, a swimming pool onsite and an interactive whiteboard in every classroom - including the nursery ones. 

Of course the point of an open day is to show the school in the best possible light and to sell it to potential parents. The main concern I have is whether considering a fee paying school for our son is a sign that we have entirely lost touch with our idealistic notions and rewritten our own history. From being an activist about everything at university to waking up one day middle aged is a salutary lesson.

However, I do console myself that at least I recognise that I'm not a fearless upstart any more. Imagine living with the massive denial that the former frontman of the Smiths labours under. Morrissey has never been a bundle of laughs. Witness the cheerless titles the Queen is Dead, Girlfriend in a Coma and Meat is Murder, as opposed to Vicar in a Tutu and Shoplifters of the World Unite which I thought demonstrated how the Smiths were funny and their lyrics amusing, but now I'm not so sure.

Hand on glove and plant in back pocket

There was a time when Morrissey was the angry young man and poster child for sullen and disaffected youth with his precocious commentary on modern life and all it's failings. Now he's an older man he still deigns to make controversial pronouncements from his cosy ex-pat life in LA where he thinks his teenage rants are still relevant.

Out of loyalty we still listen to his rants, but he's less a national treasure and more a Victor Meldrew figure with a cooler following (my father-in-law thinks One Foot in the Grave is hilarious, but he has no idea who the Smiths were). People of my generation still think Mozzer is like a cool uncle who used to take us to festivals and is now vaguely embarrassing, but we're still loyal to him out of respect for what he once was to us. Anti-establishment and so very clever.

I'm not saying I'm going to get rid of my weird and wonderful music, or give my tour t shirts to charity as a sign that I've grown up. After all I've still got my original Doc Marten boots to show my son when he thinks he's the first teenager to be rebellious and/or misunderstood. 

What I am saying is that when it's his turn he's going to have to go some to find a style of music and a political viewpoint that we find completely disagreeable. If he wanders into the house with a long floppy fringe and a canvas bag with Nine inch Nails written on it in felt tip I will smile knowingly to myself - I just won't let on to him. 

Fear and loathing in the muddled mind of a middle-aged mother.

I was out powerwalking the other evening and I'd taken a short cut across the golf course near our house. As it was evening I guessed it wouldn't be too busy and was pondering the previous time I'd wandered too far along the path and been met with a chain across the dead end that warned 'no public right of way.' As I started to walk back uphill I became slightly anxious as I had low battery on my phone and my feet were getting tired. In my head I saw myself twisting my ankle, being stranded and not being able to call home or for help. As I quickened my pace it became more and more of a worry until as I got back to the top and found a path that I could get back home from. It was this path I was on when the following occasion I saw a golfer waving at me to tell me off for walking through the course. The irony made me laugh. I'd been so concerned about the catastrophe that could happen that I hadn't considered the issue that would catch me out - the tartan legged 'sportsman' showing his son how to use a 5 iron.

A 'cat'astrophe ? 

It's this catastrophic thinking that makes my life a constant worry. I can't stop myself - in idle moments - from taking a mental walk to the least desirable outcome. It takes time to realise that I have worked myself up about absolutely nothing, but I know I'm not alone in thinking every siren is a bad news one for me when Hubbie isn't home yet. During a recent spate of burglaries in our area I actually spent every minute I was out of the house worrying about it. While it would take a lot of pages to list all of my insanity I've decided to share the most irrational ones for your amusement.

1.  Hubbie and I had only been dating for a few months and I was going away with friends on a skiing holiday. We were going to Whistler for two weeks and I was thinking of asking Hubbie-to-be to flat sit for me. I kind of knew he could be trusted, but there was still a nagging thought maybe I didn't know him that well. I mean those people he'd introduced to me as his parents could have been actors he'd hired and maybe it was all an elaborate con trick ? Of course it was all fine (as evidenced by that fact we're married now) and the actual problem that occured was one I hadn't even considered. It was when we were in Heathrow waiting to check in our bags that one of our party decided to tell me that I needed to have at least 6 months on my passport to visit Canada and I only had around 4 months on mine. I spent the entire flight expecting to be immediately deported while Harriet kept saying she'd just show them her police warrant card (I'm not sure what that would actually do). As I was preoccupied with this drama I didn't even have time to realistically consider that I wouldn't have been allowed on the flight in the first place if it was an issue. The plus side was that with this nonsense to occupy my mind I forgot about my fear of planes.

2. I used to work in a job that took me all over the UK and at one point I visited Cornwall for the first time and while there I picked up a leaflet about surfing. Convinced that I should try it I booked myself onto a surfing course in Cornwall and paid a deposit to secure my place. I was going alone, but the accommodation was in a shared hostel so I was bound to make friends. About a week before I bottled it and cancelled. I'd gone from "it'll be great, just like Blue Juice and everyone knows it's always sunny in Cornwall" to "I'll break something or drown, they will all be fit and blonde and I'll be small, dumpy and clumsy." I still haven't gone back. Of course now I'm obsessed with Hawaii 5-O and Alex O'Loughlin so I may have to revisit this plan.

3. It was for similar reasons that I didn't get too far with my fledgling stand up career. I did a course in the early '90's when it was all the rage. Some of my fellow students actually went on to become something on the circuit. I, however, struggled to write material, talked over the laughs (if I got any) and just felt terribly embarrassed. The entire premise of failing at comedy is that you 'die' on stage and that has to be the ultimate in catastrophe thinking surely ? I mean, who wants to die in front of a room full of strangers ? At least with impro you have a group of people to share the laughs and the silences with and I'm still friends with some of my impro pals.

By far the worst of my catastrophe thinking involves my beloved son. Every new scenario is fraught with potential fears, but the example I've chosen is particularly bonkers:

3. I've taken my boy to a playgroup called Little lions since he was 4 months old and it's a lovely group of Mums and babies with the occasional special day with pampering for Mums. On one of these days I had booked to have a treatment for which I had to go downstairs to the beauty room. My boy was about 6 months and would sometimes cry if he lost sight of me so the other Mums reassured me he'd be fine and they would keep an eye on him and bring him down if he got too upset. While I settled onto the beauty couch I tried to relax, but the thoughts whirring round my head included, 'I don't really know these people, What if they are baby snatchers ? What if they steal my baby ? I don't know where any of them live. I don't know anyone's last name.' etc. etc. Needless to say he was fine and I had spent my pampering time winding myself up into a frenzy of fear for nothing.

All this self-induced trauma does is give me sleepless nights. I know that's part and parcel of parenting, but what was my excuse before I had my son ? The positive in all of this is that I am so very grateful that the things I worry about are just a figment of my fevered imagination. If it stays in that realm I am a very lucky woman indeed.