Tripping Hither, Tripping Thither

'Where shall we take your mum this year?’ asks Tom. After the success of our Isle of Skye trip last year, we warm to our theme and pick another island but one - given Ma’s recent trials and tribulations - a bit closer to home and which comes with added ferry trips, namely the Isle of Wight. Ma has to put up with lots of ‘do you remember whens’ on the way out as Tom and I fondly reminisce about our sailing days in the Solent (see Sailing Kind, but once we’ve disembarked it’s only a short drive to our holiday accommodation which comes - rather splendidly - with its own private beach and occasional flashes of red squirrels in the garden.

Our holiday home is very comfortable and decorated in a slightly chintzy style which - as Tom points out - would have delighted his mum. It’s ‘Peak Rita’ but we’ve chosen it because there’s a large downstairs bedroom with an ensuite and walk-in shower which is perfect for Ma. We don’t discover the hidden drawback until the next morning when I take a cup of tea into Ma and learn that she barely made it into her ginormous and very high bed. The combination of a bad accident (see A Winter’s Tale) and her poor back makes it very hard for her to gain any kind of purchase to lever herself up. I ponder different solutions but Ma - with her usual grit and determination - decides she can manage.

Accessibility - or the lack of - becomes a bit of a theme during our visit (poorly positioned disabled bays, hard-to-reach loos) but three cheers to Osborne House where we can borrow a wheelchair and Ma can see most of the house. I’m by no means a monarchist but I’m rather seduced by Victoria and Albert’s seaside retreat which is unexpectedly charming. I especially like the ‘his and hers desks’ set before a saucy painting of frolicking bare-naked ladies, and the rows of little beds in the upstairs nursery (the consequences of all that frolicking).

After a really lovely stay on the Isle of Wight. Tom and I round off our trip to the southeast with a foray up to London where Tom’s booked tickets at the ENO to see ‘Iolanthe’. Gilbert and Sullivan ‘comic’ operettas are absolutely not my thing, but Tom adores them and I’m always happy to hear live music. The London Coliseum is gloriously over the top as is the English National Opera’s production which opens with a psychedelic riot of colour and yet more frolicking and wire-flying as rings of fairies beseech their queen to bring Iolanthe back from exile. It’s all very silly but it’s a great evening, although struggling up to London and back in the teeth of Storm Babet is a right pain.

We make a final stop on our homeward bound journey to have a pub lunch with Tom’s son and our daughter-in-law and three Sussex grandchildren. My daughter-in-law tells me that this is Tom Hardy’s local, but we’re having such a nice time that I forget to look out for him. So, no sighting of Tom Hardy to report, alas, but I have, at least, seen red squirrels for the first time since I was a very little girl and that’s good enough for me!

Not Tom Hardy

My First Book Signing!

It’s a fine, dry day and there’s an Italian market in the square outside Waterstone’s. Good for a book signing? ‘Bad,’ says Tim. The stalls are blocking the view of the shop and the fine weather’s keeping everyone outdoors. Hmm, that must be why they’ve only put one small poster up for my event, I mean why waste the Blu Tack? Tim demonstrates handing off the marauding hordes After much refolding of a black tablecloth and a rummage around for some books, I’m invited to take up my position at the author table somewhere between ‘fantasy and horror’, children’s books and a poster of the next author, Bobby ‘Iron Duke’ Windsor who’s signing on Monday. Once Tom, Lily, my lovely daughter, and her partner, Russ, are all sure I’m not going to run away, they leave me to it, taking it in turns to make sure I’m all right and bring me tea. Very soon, I notice a small boy watching me. When he returns with his family I learn that he would like to be a writer. His method, he tells me, is to rewr...

Since You've Been Gone

Well, Ma Mère, There have been so many times when I’ve gathered up all the little shiny moments I’ve collected during the day, ready to present to you in our evening phone call and then I remember all over again that you’re not there. But, Mum, so much has happened since you’ve gone - maybe you know, maybe you don’t - that I’ve decided to write to you instead. A few days after you died, we sold our house! After all those months! We even joked about you rattling cages somewhere. At first, nothing happened and then suddenly everything happened at a breathless pace and the next thing I knew I found myself driving (yes, me, driving!) along the M4 to Bridgend and the Time Capsule House, the one you said you and Dad would have bought. I remarked, when we first viewed it that if it was meant for us, it would come to us. Over a year later, when it had been under offer twice, we moved in. Oh, Mum, you and Dad would have loved this house; it’s peak Seventies and the decor - the pampas ensu...

Forever Young

Looking at the blurb for my new Lacura WrinkleStop from Aldi, I see that its active ingredient has been ‘proven to help • Reduce forehead wrinkles by 52% • Reduce crow’s feet by 24% • Restrict 82% of wrinkle muscle activity’ That’s quite a claim, isn’t it? Frankly, after years when my face looked like a lunar landscape thanks to the joys of acne, these days I’m just grateful to see a fairly blemish-free skin. Part of me wants to believe that the wonder cream’s making everything looking a bit smoother and tidier, but, hey, there’s also a lot of ‘aqua’ and ‘glycerin’ in the stuff, too. Besides, I could tamper with my skin as much as I like (and I don’t), but I’ve only got to stand next to my beautiful daughters to see the difference. Ma has wonderful skin, so the chances are there are some helpful genes in the mix, but my dad died far too young of cancer, so it’s not all good news. My dad was a carpenter. ‘You can’t get age from a tin, Miss Chris,’ he’d say when rubbing his hands o...

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