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…

Smile!

I’d had enough. It had been hanging there since summer. So I pulled it out after I’d given her an ultimatum that either I do it now and she can go to sleep or she has to stay awake while I sit on her bed for the whole night. After a handful of tears, she gave in, I mean my daughter with her loose tooth.

Believe me (or not) I am not always that cruel to my children but for these last three months I’ve been the one giving in to her, her tears and that sad little face. And obviously I wasn’t going to spend my night sitting on her bed either, but she didn’t know this, because I only showed my determination. And thankfully she wasn’t traumatised, but actually very much relieved. Like me.

Once I was a, not a dentist, but a dark-humoured doctor
handing out envelopes filled with some white substance...

If looking back to my childhood, I can’t remember any of my teeth being pulled out by my parents. I have vague memories of the cotton thread tied onto the door handle and the other end to a tooth, but don’t think it was my tooth, more like one of my brother’s and me swinging the door. I might be wrong though.

When I went to school we had a full-time dentist working at school. I guess it was something that was introduced during the Soviet time and carried on after Estonia regained independence. I’m not sure if my parents ever signed any consent forms for the school dentist to repair our teeth, but I remember very well the knock on a door while we were having a lesson. And there she was – a school nurse holding our class list in alphabetical order. Poor kids whose surname started with an A, they never had a chance to be prepared for that, always out of the blue, startled with a demanding knock and such a horrific outlook, everyone’s gaze staring at the very first one to walk out of the classroom and disappear into that little room on the second floor with a bright light and cold leather chair in the middle of it, accompanied by dental drill and metal bowl to spit in. The children might have returned very quickly with a smile on their face, asking for the next one in the list to step out, or they appeared after a while, bloody cotton wool still inside their mouth, unable to speak properly and sadness in their eyes.

I was quite lucky though being one of the last ones in the list because that gave me an opportunity to be under the weather on the next day. It depended how well my classmates did when visiting the dentist before me, the treatments obviously slowed down the process and I had to wait longer, sometimes until the next day, so once and again I “picked up” a sudden bug for that day. It didn’t really save me for good and the nurse always managed to find me despite of our class moving around and having lessons in different classrooms.

To be honest I wasn’t that scared of either dentist or pain she could cause, it was more about the opportunity not to go when there was a must to do it. I can’t remember any anaesthetics being involved to numb you, when you needed a treatment, neither was there a bravery sticker to wait for you afterwards. You just had to get on with it and I think that’s why I wasn’t even crying when my milk tooth was extracted by forceps (supposedly it was a dead tooth, maybe that’s why I was convinced it shouldn’t hurt). So job done and off I went back to the class!

And additionally on the same note – when I visited the dentist here and had the kids along, the dentist asked if I wished their teeth being checked as well. After a hesitation I agreed. That was their very first visit here and I'd come unprepared with that lovely chocolate cake stuck to their teeth they’d had beforehand…

Coffee and cake, please!

As of lacking energy today, my first thought was not to write the blog, but somehow it neither made me feel relieved, nor more energetic. My mind started wondering off: chocolate, coffee, more chocolate, holidays, chocolate cake and coffee on holiday… So here I am, drinking coffee and eating chocolate chip muffins (which I managed to make with the help of the children for that fun, fit and fruity week competition I mentioned last time). Matt has said that I’m the first person he’s met who can eat chocolate for breakfast, although in my view it’s very logical to have it as a first thing in the morning when you’re hungry and tired, rather than having a full English that makes you feel that you’ve eaten too much and could do nothing but just lie down again.

Anyway I wasn’t going to chat about breakfast (think: chocolate), but of holidays instead.

When my friend and I came here ten years ago, we actually came for a holiday without any plan of moving to the UK. Weather-wise it was a perfect summer: sunny and hot, barely any rain – what a wrong impression it left with us! We went to Brighton and I had my first encounter with a proper pebble beach in England, and also acknowledged a merry-go-round on the beach (I was yet to learn a lot more about all the ‘fun attractions’ that traditionally belong to the seaside towns). I had my first ride at the front of a double-decker bus on the top floor and we rode up and down these narrow and winding roads, tree branches hitting the windows, girls (us) screaming and feeling excited at the same time. No need for a roller-coaster!

Our friend took us to see the white chalk cliffs and the Beachy Head, the famous suicide spot, because that’s where you would take the Estonians who’ve come to visit (Estonians were at that time quite at the top in statistics regarding suicide rates... Sorry, I know it’s not really a laughing matter). It was beautiful there though and we got carried away (no, not by the waves of sea) and we missed our last bus, but not the very last bus on these roads. That very last one took us for a little detour to another seaside town before heading our way.

The host and I at the bottom of Beachy Head

A detour wasn’t an option when I was on my first holiday with Matt in Norfolk and enjoying its coastline. We were having a lovely picnic while the tide was coming in. Matt wasn’t worried, so I tried not to be either, but when we realized that water had been gathering behind us creating a river and we were basically left like on an island, we had to hurry. We removed our trousers (there wasn’t anyone around to admire our underwear) and walked straight through that river carrying our stuff above our heads. As soon as we left, the seals came for a swim (it took me six years to go for a swim in the sea in England, no wonder wet suits are ever so popular here), and despite of our foolishness, it was a memorable day, but I have also learnt my lesson – not to trust Matthew, I mean the hurricane Matthew (that I learnt in a later day though), and definitely to be aware of the high tide.

Enough about these sunny holidays and swimming in cold water - it’s time for another cup of coffee. And cake.

Sorry, I also feel no need for my usual additional notes today and just saying – Aloha!

Fun, Fit and Fruity

My daughter’s school will hold a Fun, Fit and Fruity Week next week, but when reading through the activities this involves, it doesn’t sound that fun (park run before school hours when my children are still in bed!) or either healthy (salads yes, but muffins and pizza?). Ok, I agree, probably it’s fun for the kids, but definitely not for me. Especially the cookery competition that involves baking. She’s expected to bake muffins for judging, enough for 12 children, which means I’d end up doing it on Sunday night (as Monday is the deadline), competing with the other mothers, extraordinary bakers who love doing it, failing so my seven-year-old with my poor attempts. Not everyone is made (and has a love) for baking and I’m very sorry that my daughter has to learn it the hard way… Although what time do they close M&S on Sunday? Or open it on Monday morning so I would still have enough time to remove the packaging and use my own containers?

Apart from this all not sounding such fun, I still do like the idea of that coming week (so controversial of me!) and how for one day they’ve been encouraged to go to school on their scooters and another on their bikes to ride around at lunch time. It does remind me of how I never had my own bike when I was a kid. When finally one was handed down by my older brothers it got stolen on the first day. This didn’t mean I never rode a bike again in my life, because my friends were happy to share theirs or I tried out my brother’s big bike, but I guess I never became really strong and confident cycler, but it didn’t stop me feeling less confident in my skills as I was able to go for a long bike ride with my class and even organise a cycling and camping trip with my friends. Most of the friends didn’t turn up on that day, but the core friends were there and despite of the rainy start our plan was to ride to the seaside, which was about 60 km away, to stay overnight in a tent and then come back. One of us had to be back at the wedding in a few days so we were on a tight schedule.

I must admit it was a hard going and although everyone says (including myself) how flat Estonia is and how perfect for cycling, I ended up walking up the hill, pushing my bike. I could blame the bike that I had borrowed, because it wasn’t the easiest one and not the most appropriate for these roads, but at the same time I was quite lucky not to get a flat tyre like one of us did. We didn’t make it to the seaside on the first day (which wasn’t really our aim) but stopped off in a little town on the way, because I’d convinced everyone that there’s a camp site and we can set our tent up and get some rest. When we arrived at the town we saw that it wasn’t a camp site after all, these were just people’s summerhouses in the woods. Oops!

It was raining and getting dark, and we didn’t know if anyone was staying in their summerhouses, because although it was summer, you wouldn’t necessarily use it all season along. We started knocking on people’s doors and eventually luckily for us someone was kind enough to allow us to stay outside on the porch of their empty house. Although our tent was small, because we had to be very considerate how much to carry on our bikes, it was still a bit too big for the porch, but in the end it didn’t matter – we were happy, relatively dry, had a drink that made us feel warm, played cards into late and then slept our feet hanging over the edge.

And additionally in conclusion of our bike trip, we did make it to the seaside, but as it turned out to be so wonderful – just relaxing, swimming, sitting by our own-made fire, sleeping outside, we wanted to stay longer. And suddenly an opportunity of a lifetime arose and we managed to send our bikes back to our hometown in someone’s van, then stayed another night and hitchhiked back home a day later, saving us some valuable time (and painful legs).

YES!

“Hello!”

“Hello! How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks, how are you?”

“I’m ok, thank you.”

Everyone knows here it’s a normal format of the beginning of the conversation, or could also be the whole conversation, and even I can handle it. For now, although occasionally someone manages to confuse me by saying hi and ask if I’m ok, but not expecting me to really answer anything, leaving me alone with my monologue.

There are times when I do get this right, this – ‘hello, you’re alright?’ and I simply reply ‘hello’, smile, walk on and not reveal any further details of my life, but there are also other times when I figure it just meant a ‘hello’, but a hello-er keeps staring at me like I’d have to say something, confirm that I am ok or not too bad or just well. I haven’t discovered yet what’s the safest ground (or ‘the right thing to do’ as the previous PM would put it, despite of the fact that I can’t remember what were these right things he did… oh, well, I’m not getting into politics), instead I’ve started to muddle it all up myself, behaving exactly the same way (as my friends and acquaintances, not as this person mentioned previously).

This sort of (fake) politeness and pleasantries, querying about other people’s doings, is not that common in Estonia and it definitely does not take up any time when ringing to someone. Matt has told me that in the early days of our relationship he thought I was just being funny, answering the phone with a plain “Yes!” But obviously I wasn’t trying to be a comedian, I was just acting (not acting as an actress/comedian) how I was used to. He explained me that my norm was being considered rude in the UK and I had to follow his suit and start saying properly ‘hello’ (which I do now but occasionally find it, honestly, slightly pointless, unless I really feel rubbish or vice versa amazingly excellent and would like to express my non-average feelings to a person who’s asking about me).

Another rule to obey and a lesson I’ve learnt, is that it’s not advisable to write a letter, e-mail or a postcard in capital letters, because it would be shouting (unless of course, if you’re writing to someone with hard of hearing… sorry, I don’t think you should take this note seriously). But then again, that’s how in Estonia the children start learning letters, firstly capital letters, later the lowercase ones. So I guess a lot of Estonian literature for the youngest readers looks to an English-speaker like a constant shouting at a child.

And additionally on a similar note as this learning to read and write, reminded me of my own epic failure, and I find it’s worth reminding it to you too. So once I received a letter from a friend and as the Christmas was approaching rapidly I decided to send him a card, but I have this unfortunate habit of when I rush things I can be extremely forgetful, for example even forgetting a person’s name I’m about to send the card. To make sure I got the name correct, I checked the envelope with his details on. After posting the Christmas card, I went back home and then I realised my mistake – I’d named him Sendei following his handwriting which clearly read on the back of an envelope –  Sender: (and then his initial and surname).

Just FYI his name was Enock, which I’d actually been fully aware of before, and after, this little inaccuracy…