A few

One, two, skip a few, ninety-nine, a hundred. I’m skipping (cartwheeling in my case) today’s blog.

Walk and Talk

I am trying to write a blog, but it’s really hard work when your child who is off school, sits opposite to you, comments on everything, hums occasionally, pulls faces, articulates, asks my approval in every two seconds on her creative work she’s busy with. Out of all the days she refuses to watch any TV! It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been trying to explain to her that I can’t concentrate like that, she’s pretty experienced in ignoring me. Seems like that it’s all my imagination, like I’d never said anything. I have to admit though despite of my moaning here, she can be quite entertaining.

So I asked her what I should write today. She suggested to write about toilets, because that’s the only one of my blogs she’s read and she seemed to enjoy it (especially the squatting bit. I don’t think she’d find this so hilarious if she had to pay a visit to one of those herself).

Another topic she proposed was on how this morning I had to take her brother to school without her. Straight away I laughed it off as such a non-subject (but later realized what an important part of her daily life it is to go to school all of us together and how it may look small, but actually is quite a change in her day, especially as I left her behind at home with my Mum). So after a consideration I decided to challenge myself and take the second option as a topic today (in respect of her idea and obviously – shame on me for being rude and laughing at it!).

So this morning my son and I had a lovely walk to school, happy for the rain to stop just before leaving the house. We stepped (me) and jumped (him) over the puddles and chatted about all sorts of things, although talking about drops took a centre stage. One of the raindrops fell down his collar and he said it was massive, like one big full of several little ones. So we named it a Family Drop that’s family members were stuck close together becoming one huge raindrop. We were also cleaning our noses from the drops that had gathered on top of our noses. And on top of our drops we made it to school exactly on time (for a change).

I can’t remember my parents ever taking me to school, although they must have done it on my first year. I still do picture the river of children between ages 6-18 walking to the same school every day passing our block of flats and when I was old enough (seven) to go to school on my own, I became part of that river. To be honest walking to school was actually quite a monotonous activity, but walking back from school took much longer with unexpected detours and a possibility to ride on a bus for two stops, just because of having a chance to be part of the group of friends who lived further away and needed to take the bus home. So going back home was pure fun! Of course apart from the time when I had to carry my skis back home at spring time when the grass was green and the trees and flowers were blossoming. I hadn’t been bothered taking my winter gear back any earlier, delaying it as much as possible, hoping naively that I could get away with it. In the end I had to pay a high price for my laziness and stupidity. At that fragile age in front of other school children it was extremely embarrassing to walk home with my skis and poles! And I couldn’t really pretend that I was about to go for a cross-country skiing holiday somewhere abroad either… Or could I?

Or maybe I could have pretended to be someone else...

And additionally on a snowy note – I can’t wait for it to snow or go for a cross-country skiing holiday in Estonia, despite of my last attempt this February when I was going off on my own to the woods onto a skiing track, forgetting that I hadn’t been skiing for years. Yes, I was still able, but yes, I wished several times I hadn't started it, because yes, I did fall a few times (I couldn’t believe how high the hills can be in that flat Estonia. And what a speed!), but I survived and (perhaps) would do it again!

Haha...!

Last week my creativity was abruptly and forcefully suppressed by two of my dear fellow mothers (you know who you are) when we were practicing story writing at our children’s school. I would have written the longest last sentence possible, longer than the rest of the story altogether, full of exciting adjectives, alliterations, interesting verbs, you name it, added a few extra characters and possibly a new storyline with even more adjectives and alliterations (and used all these other things/terms I can’t name, that is why I stick to these two again). I would have asked extra time from our kids’ teachers, skipped the coffee break, just to have this great ending. It would have been such a triumph! …despite of the fact that we were just shown how the children learn their story writing and also no one was even going to read these stories, but I… never mind!

I have to admit (including the fact that I was just joking earlier and didn’t actually mean anything mean towards my friends mentioned above. I wouldn’t necessarily say when I’ve been joking, because I would expect people just to get my jokes, but it’s quite a sensitive subject and once I learnt my lesson in that matter. Sorry, have to tell you this. I’ve always thought it’s an American thing to let your talking partner know that you were just joking after you’d cracked one and also, and more importantly when I was a young girl my brothers taught me that I should never laugh at my own joke. So once upon a time (it’s not a tall tale!) there was going to be a joke telling competition at school and every class had to send their representatives to this main event. And to pick the best ones who could represent our class, we all had to stand up individually by our desks and tell a joke to other classmates. The ones that got the biggest laughter were the chosen ones. So my classmates were telling their jokes and laughed themselves afterwards, some awkwardly as not being used to being funny, some loudly thinking that they’re the funniest, and when it was my turn I knew exactly what to do – not to laugh at my own joke! And as a matter of fact no one else did either. So I sat down, confused how come no one recognised my funny joke (I’m sure it was funny... or at least laughable) and a little disappointed in myself. Unless they were all giggling and laughing inwardly).

I learnt at an early age not to laugh (at your own joke).

I do apologise for going a bit off course as I was supposed to admit in the beginning of the previous extended paragraph that it’s very different, the way the school works nowadays, from the time when I was a school kid. My parents never got a chance to come to school and be a fly on the wall, as that’s how we were attracted to go in to see our children last week, quoting the school’s letter “Have you ever fancied being a fly on the wall and seeing for yourself what your child is up to in school?” Honestly, it’s not like you’re being a fly on the wall, as I don’t expect the teachers involving flies in their studies and ask them to partner up with the children, practice their maths and (creative?) writing skills. Also if I was a fly I’d quite likely end up dead by the end of the session or (even worse?) trapped inside the school for an unknown future.

And additionally on a similar note – it is not at all what I was planning to write today and just for your information I’m aware that ‘fly on the wall’ is just an idiom, but couldn’t resist taking it literally.

How many? If any.

Time to time my children count their hobbies. Yes, count, not simply talk or discuss those, because it’s not about what kind of hobbies they have, but HOW MANY as they think they should have an equal number of interests. They think everything should be fair despite of me telling them bluntly: “Life is not fair!” I would have thought they’d learnt that by now, and that I don’t have to tell them something so obvious anymore, because I’m certain I’ve taught them how life can be unfair in many different ways.

Oh, and their hobbies really mean the after school clubs they take, rather than all the things they are into. For example, cycling and reading wouldn’t count as their hobbies as they go neither to the cycling nor reading club, although they do (and enjoy) the latter more regularly and often than the after school clubs. And occasionally I explain them that even building machines/things out of Lego could be a hobby and then add incidentally when I was a kid how I used to collect little pocket calendars and sweet wrappers and stamps and.. this list could go on... Now I wish I could find my stamp collection! I could probably make a fortune on eBay… or just show these to the children. Maybe they would get my point of having different interests than just the clubs, if they saw my collectables, but unfortunately I left all these valuables behind in Estonia. I guess the longer it takes me to find these sweet wrappers, the better, because obviously their value is raising steadily and increasingly.

I was also quite an avid collector of stickers.

Also I have to admit that when I lived in Estonia I wouldn’t have called ‘walking’ as my hobby, although I did it daily, it involved long-ish distances (for example once when I was 15 I had my appendix removed and when the day arrived to go home, I found out that my dad couldn’t get away from work to pick me up straight away and I was supposed to wait until the evening. I wasn’t happy as I wanted to leave the hospital, but I was suddenly full of determination. So I just discharged myself and walked home these few kilometres, anyway some days had already passed since the surgery and these black stitches looked tight enough. I arrived home safe and sound, just to find my mum’s handwritten note on the kitchen table telling other family members that she’d gone to collect me from the hospital by bus).

Anyhow I guess in Estonia walking was more about getting from one place to another, rather than a purposeful walk in the woods or around the reservoir or somewhere else where you could also enjoy the view. And I certainly didn’t have a pair of walking boots, neither had ever heard of the gaiters before I met Matt and when we were in the middle of planning our first holiday together. It undoubtedly involved days out walking. So now with my modest walking gear I can honestly name this as one of my pleasurable activities, as one of my hobbies. And for my luck there’s a heartbreakingly beautiful place in our local Tring Park that reminds me of Estonia with its tall pine trees, and not far from there, up the hill in the woods every spring there’s another special place where wood anemones blossom. Definitely worth a walk to admire these.

And additionally, but not traditionally to my usual notes, I’m asking from you – what is your hobby?

Black and White

Years ago I climbed over the fence to get to a party, throwing myself onto the ground behind the stage into unknown darkness, then got up quickly, brushed off the dust and blended in with the crowd and danced until the early hours of morning. My excuse for ignoring the official entrance was that I was skint and I desperately wanted to go there, so I was just out of options. Wouldn’t you have done the same? (Please don’t say ‘no’!)

My behaviour has changed a lot over the years though. Last Thursday I went to a gig in London and I had purchased (actually my friend had) tickets quite some time ago. My worry beforehand was – what time do they finish? – shall I make it to the last train to get back home? I made it and actually even to an earlier one! Although I did arrive at home late, when it was already past midnight. What a night! (It really was. It was fantastic performance! I could have repeated that the next night… or maybe the following one instead, after some well-needed rest).

This kind of behavioural change isn’t due to moving to the UK, it’s just me getting older and not being able to sleep in the next morning. But I have noticed a tendency that I’ve picked up in England – I put less effort into what I’m wearing when going out, either to the theatre, concert, club etc. I didn’t even remove my coat the other night at that gig, so basically I could have worn anything underneath that. My (deceptive?) carelessness might be caused by the exhibition opening I was invited to quite at the beginning of my life in the UK, because I was well overdressed for the occasion, wearing my graduation dress (which I then had to have covered by a simple black cardigan for the whole night to look a bit more casual).

In olden days (my early school years) it was simple for the children. When there was a celebratory assembly at school all you had to do was put on a white shirt and black skirt. Always the same, an outstanding look. Later day though when I was older (a teenager who was in the midst of finding her own style) I once decided to wear almost everything red but it appeared to be a bit unfortunate choice. I remember it now as not-the-best-day-of-my-life, because of someone’s whispered comment: “Communist!” That was an utmost insult and it’s obviously still haunting me.

Nowadays it’s quite difficult to wear the same combination of black and white clothing as it feels exactly like being a school girl again and on my way to perform at the assembly (unless you knew me then, you probably wouldn’t believe what a performer I was back in the days, all these poems I recited and songs we sang. Looking back to it now I do feel sorry for all the other kids who saw me standing up in front of them again and again and again… I’m truly sorry!).

So unless it’s stated otherwise I think I keep it simple and casual… but never know as there is also this dreaded day coming up in spring/summer season when I’ve promised to wear my own-made clothes…

No additional comments needed to that…