In which there are no camels to be had & Colin Dexter recites poetry.

Someone recently asked me to write about my adventures.  I have obviously lived a very modest and quiet life.  I am probably what Charlotte Bronte would have been like if she had been allowed out to the pub in Haworth, but, still, the request got me thinking.

I suppose there was the time when I went up the Great Pyramid just outside Cairo. (I had gone to Egypt with a girl pal of mine to celebrate my 24th birthday). I ascended holding the hand of the guide (a little old man) who had placed a lit candle stub on my palm, sticking it there by means of applying hot wax to my hand.

The Great Pyramid at Giza, Egypt

Holding my hand was apparently non-negotiable.  He advised me to duck as we entered the dingy and slightly cheesy smelling interior of one of the World's greatest architectural masterpieces. Surprisingly there is not enough room to stand up until you reach one of the pyramid's antechambers and there is very little left to see, but the experience was amazing. You felt the presence of thousands of years of history like a shimmering force field.

On the same occasion, I wanted a camel ride but there were no camels in sight.  There were, however, fine Arabian horses which my friend and I agreed to hire.  Two twenty something girls alone in Egypt with limited horse-riding experience.  What could possibly go wrong?

The camels had all apparently legged it on hearing of our approach.

All was going well until the guide, whose English was limited to the phrase "Tally Ho" slapped the rump of my friend's horse making it bolt across the desert horizon.  All you could see was the horse's and my friend's rear as they vanished in to the sunset with my friend shouting "mum-eeeeeeeeeeee". The guide decided he had better rescue her so cantered off after the bolting steed.  He did this by shouting "Tally Ho" and dragging my horse with him by holding on to my thigh.

Leaving aside the time I got locked in toilet of a Great Western Train en route to the great metropolis of Swansea, my life has been relatively adventure free so far - I mean in the sense of great sweeping adventures that change your perspective for ever.  Times when you meet unforgettable characters, eat unidentifiable food and behave in ways alien to your usual demeanour. Although arguably that could describe a night out in Dinas.

Then there was the time I met the late great writer Laurie Lee in his local pub in Slad.  Being entranced by the beautiful "Cider with Rosie", we were slightly star struck to find him having a quiet pint. Lee himself was funny and down to earth, having to dash off only to return a few minutes later because he'd left a chicken, his Sunday lunch in the oven and bringing us copies of his book of poems "My Many Coated Man".

Laurie Lee - source:  dailymail.co.uk

I also met Colin Dexter (the writer of Morse) at the signing of the last Morse novel, The "Remorseful Day".  Whilst we were waiting for everyone to troop in, the author recited classic poetry (off the top of his head) to keep us amused. He was so entertaining it was almost a shame when he broke off to start talking about Morse.  Some people's intelligence just shines through and Colin Dexter is one of those.

I'm a big fan of literary adventures.  That's why I love Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, the old lady sleuth who solves crimes generally by sitting in her arm chair and applying her knowledge of the psychology of the inhabitants of St. Mary Mead to dastardly criminals.

Julia McKenzie as Agatha Christie's Miss Marple

The thing about adventures is that you have to be brave enough to have them.  I wish I were braver, but these days I find that the notion of a trip of more than a couple of hundred miles is quite a stressful proposition.   That's what having kids does for you.  A trip to Devon when they were babies involved more equipment than going on tour with Motorhead.  (No I haven't, I'd worry about my Tinnitus).

I really hope though that I 'woman up' enough to have some adventures with my kids and that they are braver than I am and explore the world and its wonders.  As long as they remember to phone their mother, of course.

In the meantime, just plump my armchair cushions up for me and put the kettle on, would you?

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It's January - rage, rage against the dying of the fairy lights

It is dark, dank and rain spattered outside.  January is here with all its gloom and unspoken chastisement for finishing a huge box of Thorntons and being compelled to finish all the mince pies currently reaching their suspiciously short 'use by' date.

Christmas 2014 - where did it go?

The school run (I walk, the kids run) is an opportunity to study the various shades of grey the sky can muster up and to marvel at the chocolate brown muddiness of the local brook, swollen with heavy rainfall. 

Is there anything sadder than passing houses which were previously aglow with fairy lights and are now shrouded in darkness?  

Some poor souls haven't even taken their Christmas trees down - generally the people who put their trees up as soon as the last firework has gone off at 1 am on November 6th and annoyed all the neighbourhood dogs.

I am really missing the Christmas tree and the twinkly glow of the fairy lights, the heavenly sound of Carols from Kings and candlelight in every room downstairs.  

It's no wonder we're all watching Broadchurch to cheer ourselves up a bit and considering blowing the budget on a trip to Barbados.  

Incidentally, why do holiday companies this year think it's hilarious to make their slogans sound like swearing?  Will your holiday be totally 'beachin'?' Is your holiday 'booking' fabulous?  

Because we all love to sit in Thomas Cooks swearing like troopers, don't we?  Is that the level of sophistication the Brit abroad is considered to have?  On second thoughts, it's probably best if we don't answer that one. I'm not even sure if you can still sit in Thomas Cooks.

Some of us have become "Dry Athletes", some are eschewing sugar and some are relying on hypnosis to make eating chocolate seems as appealing as a week trying to sort out Tesco's accounting problems. 

We can take comfort in the fact that there are a group of highly dysfunctional people, troubled and entertaining to various degrees who think nothing of baring their innermost souls for all to comment and tsk tsk about.  

No, I'm not talking about Prime Minister's Question Time but that paeon to quality television that is Celebrity Big Brother.

In the name of psychological research (cough), I may have to watch the launch night programme I accidentally recorded.  Whilst drinking up my Disaronno Amaretto before it goes off.

Like what you've read?  Why not join me on the Mother Distracted Facebook page, tweet me on @lindahobbis or follow me on Instagram.

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Monday Morning Lemsip

It is Monday morning in the Hobbis household and I have the kind of head cold that renders you grumpy and out of sorts with the world.  It is the sort of cold that makes you want to retire to your bed with a Mary Berry recipe book,  a milky coffee and a packet of digestives.  My eyes sting, my ears hurt and their usual buzzing has been amplified to an even higher pitched "wheeeeee".

I should have been taking the advice of my many natural health books and making batches of chicken soup, dosing myself with echinacea and drinking honey, lemon and cinnamon but, as usual, whilst I have been mentally flirting with these ideas, the reality is a fresh box of tissues and some Lemsip capsules swigged down with lukewarm tea. I always think it is baffling that whilst we are even now planning to create cities in space, nobody has managed to eradicate the common cold.

Plus now that the kids have settled back into their routine, I'm noticing that, aside from housework, I don't really have a routine.  Certainly nothing mentally challenging is looming on the horizon. The garden is wearing its autumn jacket and there are leaves to be swept. I have a pile of novels to read (I still haven't got around to reading Hilary Mantel's Bring Up The Bodies) and more recipe books to peruse than the cookery section of Waterstones.

I could tidy up my wardrobe, although it mainly comprises leggings and the odd frock for going out to dinner with the hubby. Or, I could attack the nightmare that is 'toy corner' in our lounge and weed out all the broken and outgrown toys.  Previous attempts to do this though have resulted in Caitlin and Ieuan going through charity bags when my back is turned and replacing anything which could be passed on with cries of "but muuuum we still play with it" - when I know full well said toy hasn't seen the light of day for at least three months.

I haven't even got the energy to start planning for Christmas (well, it is nearly October!) or, my other favourite, Halloween. Every year I revisit Martha Stewart's Halloween guide and plan six foot witches and cats cut out of balsa wood and painted black (by the hubby obviously), ignoring that fact that we've nowhere to put them and since our garden is walled around its entire perimeter, nobody apart from us will see them anyway.

I need something to get me out of this slump.  But what?

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My Front Door Gives Me Superpowers

Ours is a pretty unprepossessing, some may say scruffy, front door. It does not, it has to be said, rank in the top ten front doors of history. These include (in a straw poll conducted in the queue at Tesco) the residence of master sleuth Sherlock Holmes at 22l b Baker Street, 10 Downing Street, the wardrobe entrance to Narnia (N.B. not supplied by IKEA) and the bridge doors on the Starship Enterprise in Star Trek. Then there are the doors to the Big Brother House (most likely IKEA) and, as voted for by Ieuan (aged 5), the doors at our local Pizza Express.

Is it our front door - or a portal to a different space / time reality?

Over the centuries, man has always had the urge to protect his home and property and though we have dispensed with a moat and portcullis, alarms, mortice locks, chains and CCTV systems are important weapons in our armoury against burglary and vandalism. Indeed these items are insisted upon by many insurance companies. Some Tory MPs even still have moats.

Our front doors stand sentinel 24 hours a day, being dressed up only for Halloween or Christmas - the latter being the only time when we actively encourage callers.  I have, however, noticed a very strange phenomenon that takes place on a daily basis, whenever I enter through our front door.

From mild mannered and slightly harrassed wife and mother of two, I become ......SuperMum..... a creature forced to inhabit a different reality spanning numerous time zones all at once. My weapons are not, to quote Monty Python, "fear and surprise" (nobody ever expects the Spanish Inquisition), rather a collection of displeased facial expressions running the gamut from apoplectic to zen (the latter required a serious amount of vino to achieve).

When I step through the magical portal that is our front door, I acquire the ability to multi-task.This may often involve heating up a pizza whilst shouting but it's still more than one activity at once, isn't it?  I am caterer, chauffeur, laundress and moneylender. I am seamstress, psychologist, tutor and nurse.  I am regularly called upon to inspect malfunctioning body parts and required to mend toys with the speed of a ninja.

 Working on my 'Supermum' look is very time consuming

It is a job whose description expands constantly and which tests my Supermum mettle to the full. And yet another, equally curious transformation occurs when I step back through that same front door on a Saturday night en route to our local hostelry.  I become - incredible! - an adult (well, grown up) once again. The husband and I are able to talk about things occurring outside our four walls, knowing that our trusty front door will be keeping the kids and babysitter safe and warm.

I suppose given the protection our trusty front door gives us, an extra special Christmas wreath and possibly an extra Halloween pumpkin are in order.  Now that's a job for Superdad.

This is my entry into the Yale Door creative writing competition.

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Where I Find My Story-Telling Inspiration

When I was young I used to share a bedroom with my little sister and, every night, would regale her with (as she recounts it) hilarious tales of her and my adventures in school. Now the clock has turned full circle and I am able to listen to my children (aged 6 and 5) tell each other stories with similarly comedic potential. 

My two are always on the lookout for an adventure

To be truthful, this is because there is a rich vein of barely veiled lunacy residing in our family and its precious archives. At tea, my father used to tell us that the gherkin which resided at the bottom of our jar of pickled onions (nope, no idea why) was a monster similar to Nessie but very shy. I spent many a tea time staring at said jar of pickled onions trying to spot the beast. If conversation lulled, father would either take his teeth out or put the tea cosy on his head and pretend to be Napoleon. If mother annoyed him, he would simply place a tea-towel over his head and impersonate a budgie.

My sister and I would frequently get our own back on father, knowing, for example, that he was terrified of snakes and spiders.  On one occasion we left a toy snake (an adder, quite realistic, from Bristol Zoo) in the upper branches of our apple tree whilst he was collecting the fruit. The resulting scream could be heard at the end of the street.

Mother was completely unphased by my father's behaviour, probably because her father, a man we referred to as 'Flash Harry' was a legendary mischief maker and story teller in his own right. Harry was a bus driver in Plymouth who had been practically blind in one eye for many years. His favourite tale was how he passed his advanced bus driving examination despite his eyesight - hard to believe these days. He would also take my sister and I to look at the scrumpy drinkers collapsed in a heap in Plymouth Market and sing songs such as "Ain't it grand to be blooming well dead" (Leslie Sarony, 1932) and claim he didn't want a funeral, just to be stuck in a black bag and put out for the bin men. Nowadays of course he'd be stuck kerbside for a fortnight but that's local government for you.

My mother's grandfather was a quaint looking little man who greatly resembled Hercule Poirot and who was an excellent violinist, despite having a wooden arm due to a farming accident. Her own mother came from a family of 11 and several of her uncles were bandsmen in the marines. 

So you can see that when I have to reach into the wine o'clock reaches of my imagination to lull the kids into a state of happy peace, I have plenty of material to use. Not least my own, er, foibles and slightly worrying experiences - for example getting locked in a train toilet and having to pull the emergency cord (always a favourite tale), or during a ballet lesson as a young girl doing a pirouette (well, spinning a bit) and having one of the lenses of my black NHS specs fall out and smash on the floor.

My children love all things spooky so I claim to know all the magical healing powers of various gems and herbs. My daughter and I recently made up a 'potion', devised by Caitlin, which consisted of one entire apple, some springs of Rosemary and some wine vinegar plus a rock from the garden which we had left out overnight so it could be 'charged with the moon's power'. Is there anything truly more magical than a child's imagination? They both love tales of the naughty goblins who live in the wood and are just waiting to pounce on unsuspecting children who wander off the path (or annoy their mother one too many times....). 

Halloween is always celebrated by draping lengths of pretend spiders' webs throughout the house, together with black plastic spiders. We have a plastic full sized skeleton we have named Mr Bones who joins us for tea. My father's face last year when he came for a Halloween tea was truly a picture to behold, particularly since we had made sure that there was an ample supply of spiders artfully arranged in the bathroom. This time, though, the extractor fan muffled his scream.

Story telling, to me, is a vital ingredient in a magical childhood because a good story carries with it lessons about emotions, family, morality and even spirituality.  I was, and am still, an avid reader. I somehow managed to finish the school's reading syllabus first out of my classmates and my English teacher, Mr Jones, would let me have free run of the book cupboard whilst the other pupils dutifully read through the prescribed texts. I can still remember reading The Shrimp & The Anemone (L P Hartley) in the warmth of the school room, basking in the sun and watching the motes of dust from the blackboard chalk swirling in the air. I loved Gerald Durrell's "My Family & Other Animals" and was lost on the moors with Cathy in Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights". Books were places were magic resided - where stories revealed landscapes as surprising and wonderful as Narnia.

I also used to write avidly. My favourite English assignment was always the essay writing tasks and I have begun to write again. My first short story is posted on my blog here. I have in mind a children's novel too - featuring a hedgehog and his friends on a magical journey to find an enormous gem buried deep underground which is the beating heart of his woodland home.  

My children's current opus is a series of 'programmes' entitled "Hulk and Puppy" where a very grumpy incredible hulk (played with practically no behavioural adjustment by Ieuan) is accompanied by a small, yappy puppy (played rather fetchingly by Caitlin). Each episode involves the puppy ending up in a scrape and a subsequent rescue by Hulk bursting in and smashing things. I am required to provide the voice over and plot development as and when required.

When it all gets too much for me, I just put a tea towel over my head .....

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Children's Short Story: Moosie-Moo Cow And The Cheesy Moon

Once upon a time, there was a cow called Moosie-Moo who spent her days happily grazing in Poppy Meadow. Her closest friends were a beautiful fluffy rabbit called Honeybun and a wise old owl called Lennon.

Source:  Independent.co.uk

Now Moosie-Moo loved to canter, gambol and kick her heels. She'd race raindrops running down the knobbly oak, she'd race beatles through the long lush grass and sometimes, when the sun was high, she'd even race her own shadow.

Summer turned into autumn. The Harvest Moon rose like a huge blue lantern and Moosie-Moo became suddenly sad. “What's wrong?”, asked Honeybun, bouncing like a rubber ball, eyes shining bright in the moonbeams. A rustle high above in the leaves of the knobbly oak announced the arrival of Lennon who settled on his favourite branch, spectacles perched on his beak. He let out a long “twit twooooo”.

Moosie-Moo sighed and stared at the moon. “It's so beautiful”, she said, “I just want to jump right over it”. Honeybun sat back on her haunches in surprise. “But,” said Moosie-Moo, “I can walk and run and roll on my back but I can't fly like Lennon or jump like you”.

Honeybun considered. Lennon closed both his eyes and seemed to sleep. “Well,” she said, “perhaps you should do some training to practise jumping high enough to reach the moon. Why do you want to go to the moon anyway?”. “That's easy”, said Moosie-Moo. “I've heard that there's a cat who plays the violin, a little laughing dog, a dish and spoon who love each other and it's made of lovely, yummy, creamy cheese! It sounds so much fun!”

Next morning the training session began. Honeybun used her great strong paws to dig a pit filled with warm sandy soil and created a finishing line made from her best carrots at the end of Poppy Meadow. “Moosie-Moo”, she instructed, “run as fast as you can and jump! Jump with all your might!”.

So Moosie-Moo ran the length of the meadow and when she saw the pit and the line of carrots she threw herself into the air but her hooves barely rose higher than the tallest blade of grass and she sank firmly into the pit of sandy soil. “Oh dear”. said Honeybun. Over and over again Moosie-Moo raced the length of the meadow, willing her body to rise into the air. “You make it look so easy, Honeybun” she sighed sadly.

As the moon rose that night, the two friends sat together bathing in the soft moonlight. “I bet it's the best, most creamy cheese you could wish for up there”, said Moosie-Moo. “Have a carrot”, said Honeybun, “you'll see better in the dark”. A swish in the trees announced Lennon's arrival, but he remained silent in the dark canopy of leaves above.

“I have heard”, said Honeybun about a magic device made by a cat named paul”. “I think you mean a catapault”, said Moosie-Moo, “I'm too heavy”. Honeybun thought again. “what about going on that tram with pauline”? “I think you mean a trampoline”, said Moosie-Moo, “I don't think it'd get me high enough”.

Now Lennon could keep quiet no longer. He shook his wings and fluffed out his chest. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Moosie-Moo”, he said sternly, “the moon is there for all to enjoy. It would be a shame if you were to take dents out of it by eating its lovely soft cheese!”.

“Well,” said Moosie-Moo, “it seems as if I will never get there in any case. I cannot fly and I cannot jump. All I can do is walk and run and roll on my back”.

“Moosie-Moo”, said Lennon, his glasses sliding even further down his beak, “you can walk in the sunshine and run in the rain, you can roll on your back in the mud. You are tall enough to see right across Poppy Meadow. I have to fly in the air and Honeybun has to hop till she's breathless to see the sun setting on the horizon. And your friends the beatles barely get to see above the grass”.

“I suppose I am being rather ungrateful”, said Moosie-Moo.

“We all have our special talents and skills”, said Lennon. “It's what makes Poppy Meadow the wonderful place that it is.”.

Honeybun twitched her nose, gently placing her paw on her old friend's hoof said, “We'll always be friends whether or not you can jump over the moon”.

“Indeed,” said Lennon. “It's not how high you can jump but what makes your heart jump with joy that matters”.

And with that, he closed his great round eyes and went back to sleep, leaving Moosie-Moo and Honeybun to happily continue moonbathing in the peace of Poppy Meadow.

copyright Linda Hobbis 8/8/14

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Countdown To My 50th Birthday - Where's My Bucket?

Three weeks to go.  In all honesty I don't know how I got here. One minute I was rolly-pollying down the grassy slopes in the grounds of Sudeley Castle with my little sister, the next sat in a lecture theatre listening to endless lectures on the Romantic Poets in Swansea University.  There I go arranging place cards and menus in a large marquee for cricket hospitality and there I'm lecturing legal interns on marketing.  I remember acting in a French play on the stage at the Sherman Theatre and numerous ballet exams spent worrying if the bun my mum had precariously assembled on the back of my head would hold (it always did).

Me with my two menaces, Caitlin & Ieuan

My memories seem to be a collection of tableaux, variously happy and sad - mostly happy, it has to be said.I remember being an au pair for a French diplomat in Paris when I was 19 and the exhiliration of standing alone on the Champs Elysee thinking that no-one in the World knew where I was at that moment (apart from my employer, of course!). I remember a very grim post break-up holiday in Amalfi where even the splendour of that dramatic stretch of coastline and the scent of plump lemons hanging brazenly from the numerous lemon trees did nothing to dispel my gloom. I remember sweeping into the room at St. David's Hotel on my wedding day and seeing the happy look on hubby's face.  Of course I remember the two births (caesarian) of Caitlin and Ieuan and the wonder of achieving something so incredible ever so slightly late.

The kids are intrigued at the moment by their family tree and ask questions constantly about their great grandparents.  They are also struggling to grasp the concept of death.  I tell them "everyone goes up to Mr God".  Ieuan is adamant that he wants to come back and can't believe we only get one go - depending on whether you believe in Karma, of course - and actually I think I do.

If there's just one go on the merry-go-round, I suppose I should finally get round to some sort of bucket list. Every time I do this, though, it looks like a rather dull shopping list. Some of the things have been on it for so long, I no longer really want them, or at least I won't spend the money, preferring to save it for the kids. The truth is that, the older you get, the more you realise that it's the experiences in life that matter, rather than things.

I watched Lily Allen on Loose Women today and whilst finding her nonchalence and "I do what I like" attitude deeply irritating (newsflash, if you don't approve of Miley Cyrus' antics, don't take your kids - well, thanks for that insight Lil), part of me still admires someone so firmly lost in her own 'cult of the self'. Get pizza on your face and a brand new Balenciaga frock?  Heck, why not, says Lily. "That's what I do". There's a fine line though, between indulging your own passions because you want to and the kind of desperate and rather sad attention seeking that Cyrus seems to have been reduced to.  A one-way ticket to Lindsey Lohan-ville.

None of which is getting me anywhere to deciding what I would like as a 50th birthday present or, more importantly setting some sensible mid-life goals.  If anyone would like to share their bucket-lists, I'd be very grateful.  One year, I asked my mother what she would like for her birthday and her response was "a pack of tooth picks and some new rubber gloves".  She wasn't even 40 at the time.  I think I'm missing the "present gene".

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Spring comes to Gaviscon Towers

Somebody has apparently moved Spring. After the Biblical flooding parts of the UK suffered this year, at least we can show a modicom of British-style happiness now that the sun has appeared (even in Cardiff). 

This happiness is chiefly demonstrated by a celebratory visit to Homebase and hosing down the barbecue. But I have spent the last few weeks being confused as to when the first day of Spring is. Today is the Spring Equinox and I'm pretty sure it's today and not, as the Daily Mail (with its general reliance on research carried out by Brian, the Confused.Com robot), claims the 1st of March. Sadly, many people don't know their equinox from their Ultravox.  Less a case of understanding science and more a case of "goodnight Vienna".  I haven't seen Midge Ure on the TV for ages but the last time I did he was sporting a beard and grizzling slightly about his role in the Band Aid video.  Happy days.

Ieuan & I in full combat mode in the Millennium Centre, Cardiff

I have to say, though, my science knowledge is dreadfully rusty. Yes I know I could google it, but that takes the fun out of it, doesn't it? Plus you miss the opportunity to wind the kids up royally. This week, for example, Caitlin has asked me how condensation works (it hangs around on window panes and creates mold on netting) and whether ducks eat yoghurt (obviously not because you wouldn't get a webbed foot in a Muller Yoghurt pot, particularly the corner bit with the fruit puree). 

And, I have not been feeling all that well. As the clock ticks down to my 50th, I appear to be collecting a new raft of physical ailments which will fully justify, come 28th May, taking to my bed in a starched Victorian nightdress, wafting an embroidered hanky at all and sundry and demanding, alternatively, gruel, smelling salts and my tonic (Amaretto or Baileys, since you're asking). The family will be photographed looking suitably glum at 4 o'clock every Sunday huddled in our bijou sitting room, where the husband will sport a tweed suit, fob watch and monocle. Letters of sympathy will be written and the 1812 Overture will be played on the gramophone to cheer everyone up.  (How can you go wrong with cannons?).  

The Sybil (my walking companion and font of vast tomes of slightly odd information), has already told me to get a grip and that I'm lucky not to be in a far greater state of decay at my age.  Which is nice. I think I will have to recover, not just for the family but because if there is one substance which fills me with dread and makes me heave just thinking of it, it's Gaviscon. Actually, I'm amazed nobody has named their son that yet. Sounds a bit French.   

As they say though,  it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.  Particularly mine.

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A Wee Tale To Support Splashdirect & Water Aid

Did you know that every 40 seconds a child dies from water-related diseases? Or that 40% of the world's population don't have access to a toilet? This is my entry to splashdirect's #Blog4Sanitation Competition in support of World Toilet Day on 19th November 2013.

It was very, very early in the morning and I was suited and booted to travel by train from Cardiff to Swansea.  I had to be there at 9 am sharp because there was a tender document to be drafted and posted out by 5 pm and I was responsible for adding the marketing section. Senior managers were waiting for me.
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The train was on time.  The air was cold and crisp and like most of the passengers I clutched an irradiated coffee from the one small stall actually open at that time of day. The heat seered through the thin walls of the paper cup offering at least a little warmth.  

The train glided into view and we duly piled on, rushing to claim seats facing forward and tables. Mobile phones were brandished; iPod headphones were plugged into ears; tickets were felt for and prepared for inspection.  As we pulled through the outskirts of Cardiff I decided to use the toilet. There were few other passengers in my carriage and the toilet was empty.

I opened the door with the door handle (a pretty common method of opening doors I find) and it clicked shut behind me.  It was only when seated and pondering whether my team members were likely to have prepared their text for editing that I noticed there was no door handle on the inside of the door.  Just a hole where the handle should have been.

Slowly the realisation dawned on me.  I was trapped in the toilet of the Great Western Paddington to Swansea service.  I banged on the door but there were so few passengers that nobody heard me.  I shouted at the top of my lungs but, again, there was no response.

By this time I was feeling quite hot and panicky.  What would happen to me if I didn't get out? Would I be shuttling back and forth from Swansea to Paddington for the rest of the day? And what about the document I need to work on - I could just imagine the hilarity if it became known in the office that I was late because I was locked in a toilet!

The train was beginning to gather speed.  My shouting was having very little effect and so there was only one way out.  I pulled the emergency cord.  The effect was dramatic and very impressive.  The train glided to a smooth halt.  There was no juddering, no shaking, just a smooth skate into complete silence.  There was no sound except for the tweeting of birds outside the train.

The silence was soon broken, however, by my shouts of "help! help!" and a guard finally released me from my closeted prison.  I was frog marched by the guard to the nearest free seat and instructed to complete a set of forms to explain why I had taken an action which could carry a £200 fine.  Having been imprisoned through no fault of my own, I was less than impressed by an additional 10 minutes of form filling, however, I was pleased that I did not have to pay £200 just to spend a penny.

Luckily, I had delayed the train by only a few minutes and we pulled into Swansea on time.  And, happily, I did not have to explain to my colleagues that "oh dear, what a calamity, marketing assistant got stuck in the lavatory". Since then, I am always very wary of train toilets and double check there is a door handle on both sides of the train toilet door!

I am part of the #Blog4Sanitation movement setup by Splashdirect to raise awareness of the importance of global sanitation. Learn more about World Toilet Day.

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The Curious Case of Sherlock Holmes & A Mum's Missing Career

It is a Tuesday. The rain is streaming down Baker Street. Still warm horses are steaming gently, their cab drivers shelting under rough-hewn cloaks, chewing baccy and waiting for fares. Mrs Hudson has let me in and I climb the stairs in anticipation of meeting the great Sherlock Holmes and his faithful assistant, Dr John Watson.

The Great Sherlock Holmes

www.digitalspy.co.uk

I have come to interview Sherlock as my private detective in the case of "The Missing Career Opportunity". His is one of the keenest minds of the last century and, since I have a time traveller's railcard, there is no other applicant so worthy of an interview to help me find the job I have in mind.

The sad wailing of the Stradivarius greets me.  The great man looks me up and down with some disdain. There is a moment's pause whilst he meditates on my somewhat bedraggled appearance.

" I see," he says, nodding to Dr Watson to begin note taking, "that you have recently travelled a path most dank and wearisome; your coat is cut to suit a woman of much smaller stature and there is an indescribable stain on your left collar".

I am amazed by these revelations.  "Yes," I concede, "I have travelled via First Great Western' Steam Service from Cardiff and purchased this garment at Ye Olde Ebay.  The stain owes much to a toxic substance known as "Ribena".  Mrs Hudson winces and retreats to the kitchen to prepare a brew of good, iron coloured British tea. Sherlock has his back to me and is toasting his knees against the open fire. When he turns round, his trousers are smoking slightly. "Well, I just hope it was the toothkind variety", he opines.

Mrs Hudson appears with a plate of cakes. Decent sized cakes made with real ingredients (in defiance to her own arch nemisis, the evil Mrs Kipling). "Now," says Sherlock, "what is this case, this so urgent case that requires my deductive genius and undeniable powers of observation?". "Sherlock," says Dr Watson, "your knees are on fire".  After much flapping of today's copy of The Times, Sherlock throws himself into a winged armchair and steeples his fingers.  His bright blue eyes are piercing.

"It is the case", I say, feeling the emotion welling up, "of the missing career opportunity". "Then, tell all you must" says Sherlock and he closes his eyes to listen to the sorry tale I have come to relate.

"Some six years ago," I begin, halteringly, I had a job. Not just a job. I thought of it as a career.  I worked in marketing for lawyers". A frisson of mild horror vibrated around the room. I continued. "I had worked for many years to establish myself, a humble woman, as a trusty team member, a purveyor of ideas, a steady pair of hands and someone who never shirked from buying cakes".

Sherlock snored gently. Mrs Hudson whacked him with The Times.

"Then, I... well.... I", "Go on" shouted the great man, "relay all! I am ready to hear".  "Well, I said, I had a baby. Planned. Twice. And then, I became a stay at home mother".  "This is indeed a serious case", said Sherlock,  "the wilful throwing away of cakey-fied employment but, if I may be so bold, it's not really up to Moriarty's standard, is it?"

"Oh ho" I say, feeling my dander rising, "You think not?  Do you know what happens to women like me trying to return to a job market awash with frisky young graduates, all with 10 A* levels?  Do you know how many decently paid temporary jobs there are left for mothers?  Do you know (by this point I am feeling an approaching fit of the vapours), HOW MUCH CHILDCARE COSTS????.

"Mrs Hudson, the gin", shouts Sherlock, clearly well versed in the universal language of tear sodden mothers at 4 pm.  I am braced by the aroma of Juniper.  Sherlock gets his pipe out and stuffs it full of something herbal and mysterious.  After the quarter pin of gin, I can no longer feel my feet.

"Your case is simple to solve".  proclaims Sherlock.  "and you yourself are the criminal here".  "What??" I say, gripping the arms of my chair since the room has started to swim slightly. "Indeed, Madam"

"Now Holmes," says Dr Watson, "be gentle, she has to get back on that train".

"Your crime is simply this - you have underestimated your own talent, dedication and hard work. You do a disservice, Madam, to all those for whom you worked before, who trained you, advised you, encouraged you and ate your cakes. Is it right that their investment should be cast asunder for all time?  No! You must take steps to put matters right".

By this point, I am feeling vaguely ashamed. "Take steps, Madam" shouts Holmes, "take steps to right this injustice". "How?" I ask, "Tell me Mr Holmes, what should I do?  What can I do?  My children are young and I am cruelly constrained to be free only between 10 am and 3 pm".

Sherlock picks up his violin. Its mournful tones fill the hazy air. Ignoring the fact that the music sounds uncannily like the theme from Coronation Street,  I prepare myself to receive the Holmesian wisdom needed to purchase my liberty.

"You must contact a strange and mystical organisation. They call themselves a "recruitment agency". They are agents of employment; they help horse-mongers, philatelists, brewers and peelers, nannies and nursemaids and those whose interests are secular and scientific" says Holmes.  "Slow down," mutters Dr Watson.  "How can I be expected to write that fast with a fountain pen?" Sherlock glares at him.

"You must face your fear. You must..." and here Sherlock stands and returns to toasting his charred knees in front of the fire, "stop making excuses".

Snatching the pen from Dr Watson's hands, he scribbles what can only be a clue of momentous importance on the back page of "The Times". You will need this!", he tells me, handing over scrap of newspaper. I look at it.  "Henry Ford builds assembly line for Model T Fords" I read.  Holmes snorts.  "The man is clearly mad.  No - look again".  I stare hard at the paper. My eyes are swimming, my head is pounding and the air is full of a miasma of herbal fumes, gin and fondant fancies (without the annoying paper cases).

And suddenly, there it is - the clue I have been looking for - in the great man's scrawl - "The Revamp-A-Mum Recruitment Agency - We Don't Pay a Maxi-Mum the Mini-Mum".  

It strikes me at this point that the interview I have come to conduct has not gone the way I planned.  I have been roundly trounced in the questioning stakes.  I have learned little about the great man but, it seems, he has learned much about me.  Somehow, Sherlock has solved the mystery without my needing to employ him.

"Mr Holmes",  I stammer,  "You have completed the assignment for which I required your help without us discussing fees.  I will contact this recruitment agency of which you speak. I feel you should be justly rewarded for your perspicacity".

Once again, Holmes steeples his fingers and regards me with some amusement.  "There is one matter, nay one question, one confirmation of a future truth that you can give me".

I breathe in, in anticipation at what this matter could possibly be.

"I had a dream, a vision"  (at this point Mrs Hudson stares hard at the smoking green fug emanating from Holmes' pipe),  "that in the next century to come, all communication will be by means of an Apple".

How could I disappoint him?  The truth needed to be told.  "It is true".  I say. Dr Watson and Mrs Hudson look at me as if I am madder than Moriarty.

"What ho!" shouts Holmes. "Mrs Hudson, pass me a Bramley".

Like what you've read?  Why not join me on the Mother Distracted Facebook page, tweet me on @lindahobbis or follow me on Instagram.

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7 Random Facts About Me [The Versatile Blogger Award]

The Versatile Blogger Award is a brilliant way of drawing attention to up and coming blogs that you enjoy. First up, many thanks to the lovely Megan at missmadaboutnails.blogspot.co.uk for my nomination!

The rules of The Versatile Awards are as follows:-

1.  you must put The Versatile Blogger Award picture on your blogpost.
2.  make sure that you thank the blogger who nominated you in your post.
3.  finally write 7 random facts about yourself and
4.  nominate 7 other bloggers

So, here are 7 random facts about me.

• If I could be anyone from history, I'd be Queen Elizabeth I. Despite the fact that she allegedly went bald, never married and had a mad pash on Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, any woman who said "I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too" is pretty inspirational in my view.  Bridget Jones??  Oh do be serious.

• I cannot knit.  Well, actually I can knit but only long stringy things.  Like scarves for worms.

• I love cheese.  When I was pregnant with my daughter, Caitlin, cheese was the only substance which made me feel vaguely human again.  I didn't have morning sickness, just a horrid gnawing indigestion.  Just thought I'd share that with you. Cheddar, mind you, not any smelly cheese like "Stinking Bishop", although I am partial to a bit of Stilton too.

• Another woman I admire, recently deceased, is Helen Gurley Brown, the woman who invented "Cosmopolitan" magazine.  She wrote a book in the 80's entitled "Having It All" which as a naive twenty something I devoured from cover to cover.  Her philosophy involved not eating much, wearing the best clothes you could afford, exercising every day and working your butt off. She made it to 91 so I think she may have been on to something. She was also ever so slightly obsessed with sex but then everyone needs a hobby I suppose.

• My favourite all time chocolate is Caramac.  Or a Milky Bar.  Or possibly Fry's Turkish Delight. Or..... 

• I make a decent scambled egg.  My secret is two spoons of milk per egg.  And a hefty sprinkling of crushed chillis. After scramble egg, you're pushing your luck if you require anything haute cuisine.

• I'd love to be able to tap dance.  I can remember "heel, toe, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle" from one of the two lessons I had aged 6 but that's about it.

And finally the 7 blogs I am nominating are:-


1.  Lilinha at Lilinha Angel's World

2.  Clare at The Crazy Perfect Blog

3.  Esther at Diary of a Bad Mutha

4.  Lorraine at Squeaky Baby

5.  Jaime at The Oliver's Madhouse

6.  Eileen at ET Speaks From Home

7.  Mandy at Life With ASD And Me

So there you have it, 8 fabulous blogs to check out and you're welcome round mine for scrambled egg.

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Approaching 50? Will it be 50 not out?

Next year I will be 50 years old. Half a century. 5 decades. No other way of putting it and no other way of addressing it without being extremely grateful that I've survived with my health and nearly all of my teeth.

Source: True Brit Blog

Mentally, obviously, I am about 13 but ignoring the fact that I can still name all the Osmonds and remember how Les McKeown's trousers in the Bay City Rollers only reached as far down as his ankles, I like to think I have achieved some vague level of maturity - particularly since I have two children, somewhat belatedly, of my own.

I have no idea why I'm using a cricket analogy since my entire experience of cricket has involved sitting in a deckchair with a glass of warm vino clapping in a desultory fashion as one set of white-clad blokes throw balls at another set of white-clad blokes.  Sport, I'm afraid, has passed me by.  In school, I used to play left back in the hockey team solely because the bib had my then initials, LB, on.  Cross country running involved legging it to hide in the girls' toilets.  I still can't do a forward roll.

What I want, or rather feel like I need to do, is create one of those lists.  "50 things to do before you're 50".   I've found plenty of lists for items to achieve before you're 40 but the 49 year old contingent seem remarkably quiet.  Are they secretly drafting lists which comprise of 1) buy Tena Lady, 2) buy health insurance endorsed by Michael Parkinson and get a free Parker Pen, 3) smother yourself liberally in aloe vera (just in case) and 4) put one of those Airwick air fresheners that look like a modern ornament in every room so you never have to put your back out opening a window ever again.

I'd love to know what is on other 49-ers bucket lists. And, leaving aside the obvious goals of raising happy, healthy children and preventing The Husband from running off with Carol Vorderman, here are some of mine.

• Go on the Orient Express to Venice. I've been on it from Cardiff to Gloucester for lunch but it really wasn't a long enough journey for anyone to be murdered and require a major motion picture about the event.

• Be a TV or film extra. I adore the series Poirot. I am completely obsessed and probably near word perfect. Oh to be an extra in one of those fabulous Art Deco sets in a beautiful 1940's costume. Plus, prior to marrying The Husband, I did harbour a secret crush on Captain Hastings.

• Have tea at Claridges or The Midland Hotel (sorry but this is more of my Art Deco obsession).

• Have a honeymoon. Well, better late than never.

• Go back to Butlins Minehead with the kids. I went in the 1970's when there were still chalets and announcers of the "hi di hi" variety demanding you got up and went to breakfast. Lie-ins? I think not. I can remember doing the dance to The Gap Band's "Oops Upside Your Head" in the Gaiety Ballroom.  Miley Cyrus - you don't know you're born.

• Have a bed and breakfast or hotel. My family members snort with hilarity and pass on all sorts of helpful advice e.g. "you do know you'll have to get up early and cook breakfast" or " you do know there'll be quite a lot of cleaning". Listen up - I can chuck an egg in a pan and make a bed (hospital corners too) with the best of them.  For some reason, my family appear to think I have morphed into Margo of The Good Life.

• Visit Egypt again. Without vomiting.

• Go on a cruise around the Mediterranean. Without vomiting.

• Get back on a horse and managing to gallop (whilst still on the horse). My favourite TV show as a child was "White Horses" and I can still hum the theme tune now.  So there.

• Create a fictional detective on par with Poirot / Marple /Morse/ Lewis or writing anything of the calibre of the great P D James.

• Learn to read music. I can play the piano by ear. I can play out of key like Les Dawson (on purpose I might add), but if I could play like the wonderful Jools Holland I'd be in heaven.

• Improve my cooking - well  I suppose I had better add it to the list but when I think of cooking it usually involves a three tier cake-stand and cupcakes. Not Mr Kipling.  Mr Kipling cakes have shrunk so much I think they're baked by Oompa Loopas.

• Wear a feather boa. No idea why. It works for Edna Everage.

• Hone a unique fashion style which doesn't involve leggings, a baggy top or anything thermal.  This is, of course, highly unlikely and probably shouldn't involve the feather boa.

There are many more completely random things I'd like to do but, 49-ers, I'd love to hear some of yours. I need inspiring.  Approaching 50 is a bit like being parachuted onto a completely new continent without a map. Or a parachute.

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I Like a Bit of "Bleak" on a Monday

"I think that shale may be neolithic" announced The Sybyl, prodding the rain spattered rocks with her hiking pole. It is a Monday morning and we are walking the dogs on one of The Sybyl's favourite routes. She has several routes, all with a unique mood.

There is Cosmeston (up-beat, slightly flowery, duck-filled and, always a plus, with toilets), Cwm George (beautiful, silent, noble, containing an Iron Age fort - and near toilets (my own) and Bendricks Beach (bleak, windswept, rock-pooled and moody - absolutely no toilets).

The battered red van is parked up in a hedge so tightly that I nearly have to extract a blackberry from my eye. We have brandished our poles and released the dogs, Rumpus and Bedlam, to shout excitedly at the scrubby coppice we have to traverse on our way down to the gloomy beach.

Bleakness at Bendricks Beach, Vale of Glamorgan

We pick our way cautiously down to the shore, chatting all the while. We run through our standard checklist which, since we are both around the age of 50, usually involves discussing those of our acquaintances who have suffered an untimely early demise and then a comparison of ailments. Most of the ailments are mine and most of The Sybyl's medical advice involves i) shutting up and ii) getting on with it.  

The rain, which I term a heavy shower and The Sybyl terms "light drizzle" is getting heavier. We park ourselves on an outcrop of rock down on the sand whilst Bedlam chases the ball with excitement and Rumpus sits with the expression of a dog who wishes he was back in the van with his duvet. I wish I'd brought a thermos, or a hip flask with Stones Ginger Wine laced with a nip of something Scottish and peaty. The Sybyl is yearning for tomato soup perked up by the addition of melted cheese - like a fondue for truckers.   

I wonder, not for the first time, what other women of our age talk about. We just don't look or feel our age. Next year I will be 50 and I feel about 13.  On a good day. We have the same preoccupations, the same insecurities.  Does our brain ever catch up with our body? I am reminded at this point of the great moment in Mel Brooks' "Young Frankenstein" where the doctor asks Igor where he got the brain for the monster and Igor replies, the jar said "Abbie someone". "Abbie Normal".

The rain is now what I term torrential and The Sybyl terms "a light shower". I suggest we hasten back to the van. The Sybyl looks at me as if I lack the resolve to get to Base Camp on Everest but grudgingly agrees go back.  On the way back we discuss our teenage wardrobes with a certain degree of fondness and concede that clothes shopping today is quite a chore, no matter what Carol Vorderman says. The dogs are steaming elegantly in the back of the van.

We are soaked through but quite content. There is something about bleak Bendricks beach that is, strangely, enjoyable.  As my grandfather Harry used to say "It's being so cheerful that keeps you going".  

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Tuesday Torpor And Advice From Anthea

Tuesday morning and we are late for school again.

"Mummy", says Caitlin, "I wish I was a bird". That's nice dear I said, sidestepping a recycling bin and the strange pile of furry hair clippings that creates a miniscule drift outside the local hairdressers. "Why's that?" "Because then I could poo over everything", she said winsomely.  

Ieuan was far in the distance in full flight mode wearing his Buzz Lightyear jetpack wings.  He is not currently answering to the name Ieuan. He has to be referred to as "Buzz with a belt", in reference to Buzz's utility belt, which in keeping with most of the other gadgets in the Hobbis Household (or Downton Shabby as I often call it), doesn't do much more than light up and make a noise.

Ask yourself:  What Would Anthea Do?

Back from school, I ponder what to do with the rest of the day. The Husband is back doing things with digits in the Big Smoke. Having ascertained that I have no PPI claims and am unlikely to fall off a ladder, I consider making an enormous Shepherd's Pie for tea but worry that I have not got the Right Dish. Having the Right Dish is very important in my mind. I have a selection of plastic round bowls (previously filled with microwavable Christmas puddings) and a Jane Asher Lasagne Dish. None seem fit for purpose so I dismiss the idea which will no doubt return during the post-school arsenic hours to haunt me. The Husband does not worry, of course, about having the Right Dish. Ingredients are chucked into pans with aplomb and appear steaming on plates as tasty, albeit usually spicy, meals.

I consider clothes shopping for a new winter coat with my mother. This would be a dangerous enterprise because my mother would automatically try to steer me towards anoraks and worse, in colours seemingly offered to ladies over 65 as their most likely preference, viz "eau de nil" (a strange, vapid, bluey green colour) or what I call "beigey beige" - a light to middling Cuprinol type tone. My mum loves her anoraks. To me there's something ever so slightly utilitarian about them. Who wants to go about looking as if you're about to tape up the scene of a crime?

I mull over the possibility of doing some housework. I have a natty assortment of rubber gloves and a vat of Barry Scott's finest (oh, yes, I know how to make the morning go with a Cillit Bang...sorry) so I could in theory remove limescale off anything from a tap to a BMW (although the latter might be grounds for divorce).

Instead, I make myself a coffee and select my favourite episode of "Perfect Housewife" (cough) to watch whilst asking the perenniel question I always ask myself when my lack of Domestic Goddess-ness washes over me.  "What would Anthea Turner do?"

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Autumn - A Poem

My father, John Brooks, is a wonderful poet and I find his poems very relaxing and peaceful.  I thought this one, about Autumn, might bring a moment of calm to anyone who is feeling a bit frazzled this morning!

www.freefoto.com

Autumn

The soft light of early evening

lit the tree whose leaves were

yellow and orange, red and brown;

a kaleidoscope of colour.

A returning crow rattled a branch

which shed a leaf that struck

another as it fell

both dropping with a lazy spin.

And then with the downing sun,

a gentle gust of quiet wind

brought down a shower of leaves,

scooping and hooping them away.

Light faded and a chilly breeze

blew whisps of cloud across

the moon, and in her wake

the line of coming night.

J. B. Oct 06.

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