Winter 2009

The rain is apocalyptic. It rained so hard on Friday it set off a car alarm in Bournemouth. I walked through the University carpark when the rain had ‘eased off’ a bit to catch the bus and in the four minutes I was exposed to the various elements my umbrella lost two spokes, my best waterproof was completely waterlogged and my smartest black jeans became sopping wet. Facing a dark, two-and-a-half hour train ride in steaming, drenched jeans with flu has to be one of the highlights of this winter.

Tom and Isobel have been off school all week, but the realities of hourly paid work has forced me to get drugged up on Lemsip to catch the 6.15 and suppress the hacking cough that has kept Sarah awake for five nights, and seen me swigging from a bottle of Benylin on the station platform like a down-and-out. Teaching with flu is one of those stupid, irresponsible things part time workers do that so infuriates sensible full-time employees. I am the moral equivalent of someone with gonorrhea trying to pick up a date at the disco, only I’m having much less fun.


Right now, I’m on my way home again with 45 minutes to kill at Southampton while Tom struggles to turn on the oven and heat a quiche without blowing up the house. Sarah’s works late three nights a week and get’s home at 10 and I don’t get back till 7.30 so it’s a crash course in babysitting and health and safety 101 for our Tom. Hey, he needs to grow up now he’s thirteen for goodness sake! I just wish I could send him down the local quarry and have him earn a proper dollar.

The thesis got submitted in October, a month after the three year bursary dried up, so while celebrating with a bottle of dirt cheap French fizz, the prospect of real penury had already dawned on us as we partied through Halloween at our friends’ magnificently Bohemian house in Frome, surrounded by people playing musical instruments and other unheard of novelties.

That and the news that the sand has pretty much already reclaimed the half built towers of Dubai whose scaffolding pokes uselessly into the dunes like some half-forgotten Ozmidian myth meant there is definitely no going back.

Not that ever really was on the cards – we’re too acclimatised to the tiny spaces, crap weather, bullshit salaries and utter misery of living in Britain to really grasp the nettle of going abroad again. We watched a few old home videos a couple of weeks back and we just marvelled at the palace we used to live in and the relaxed tans we all sported. Our children looked at us with pale, haunted expressions and Tom quietly asked why we had decided to come back - in the same way that a Nuremburg judge might have asked a camp guard about his war crimes.

Midwinter is a real bummer. In fact, I was feeling really positive about Autumn until December – lovely country walks, fairly mild temperatures and dry enough to be able to walk outdoors without wading boots. Then the freezing rains of December arrived with a legion of flu-like symptoms and we all felt like emigrating to Sardinia and living in the rubble of an ancient earthquake.

Worst of all, I was asked by a PTA lady at Isobel’s school if I would play Santa at the Christmas Fair. That’s like being asked to play the dying Grandfather at the school production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I’m only 45! I’m not that fat am I?

...Apparently, I am. I even bought a cushion along on the day, but couldn’t fit it into the costume so stuck my belly out an inch and with the beard and hat – there he was – old Father Christmas himself. That it should come to this…..

Incidentally, the beard tickles like hell and it’s a tremendous responsibility being Santa in his grotto weaving his magic in front of wide-eyed seven year olds. The only way I could manage it was to become Terry Thomas – ‘I say, young man, have you written to Santa this year? My elves get terribly anxious if they haven’t had their list of presents by now you know.’

I’ve no idea what they made of this poorly acted, coughing and spluttering Father Christmas who possibly smelt suspiciously of mulled wine by the end of the afternoon, but I had a tear in my eye. I’ll be volunteering for it again next year if they’ll have me.

In the meantime, it’s certainly not all bad tidings from Dubai – and we have been so pleased to hear brilliant news about our good friends and their son – you know who you are. If you don’t come and raise a glass with us this summer, either in Blighty or in France, we are going to be very cross.

Predictions for 2010. Last years were too close for comfort as far as I’m concerned so I’m going to make some nice positive predictions this year:

1) I will get a full time job.
2) The Israelis will not attack Iran
3) Dubai will use all those empty glass buildings to generate enough solar power for the Middle East
4) There will be a hung Parliament in Britain and the Greens will win Brighton and Hove.
5) Obama will lose patience with the Israelis and threaten to cut off their aid lifeline.
6)They will discover a cure for baldness and find a pill for fat men that means they can eat like hogs, but not look like hogs.
7) There will be good music.
8) There will be great films.
9) There will be massive industrial unrest throughout Europe as the unions fight against massive public service cuts.
10) The bankers will hang from lampposts.

Well, that should do it. See you in 2010! (which sounds like a bad sci-fi film, unlike 2001 which sounded like a groovy sci-fi film).

Lorra love.

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