The Magic Kingdom – Young at Heart Photo Album

This photo represents the beginning of my love affair with Disneyland, Disneyworld and Euro Disney (remember that?).  I think I am ten, and unlike too cool for school Laura, who tagged me, I am dressed entirely in yellow, including my shoe laces, but not including my rather fetching Mickey Mouse sun visor.  I have no idea why, no doubt I thought it was a good look in 1982 or thereabouts.  I am standing with my little brother, also fetchingly visored, and Janet, our New Zealand nanny, who we will be spending this Christmas with in Auckland.  It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen her and I can’t wait.

I had never been anywhere as magical as the Magic Kingdom before and it’s a place I still have very fond memories of.  We’ve taken Eve to Disneyland Paris for the weekend, which she was enchanted by, but I can’t wait to take all the children to the real deal in LA.  Before you say anything, Disneyland Paris will never be the real deal.  Most of the staff are French for a start.

Now, on to my tagee, who has sent me this beautiful, sparkly Christmas picture that must have been taken with the aid of a starburst filter.  This tag has an air of mystery about it. You have to guess who she is…

She will be posting her Young at Heart photo and story tomorrow, and revealing another youthful blogger for the photo album, so keep them peeled. And you never know, you could be tagged  next. . .

NOTE: Make sure you include the name ‘Young at Heart Photo Album’ in your title and post so your entry is easy to find in Google. The originator of the meme, Tara, will be looking out for you…

There are no rules as such, just keep paying it forward.

I’ve already done it behind the scenes and she’s all ready to go. And she’s primed her tagee etc. See if you can guess who it is before you click through to find out who our sparkly blogger is . . .

Splish splash splosh

I’m hot, sticky and tired.  We’ve been walking through the jungle in Northern Queensland for about an hour, stumbling over knotted roots on the surface of the forest floor, brushing past trailing vines and avoiding green biting ants as they munch on foliage overhead.

We hear the rushing of water as we emerge out of the dappled sunlight into a clearing and see a rocky pool at the base of a long, narrow waterfall.  “We’ll stop for a few minutes if you want to swim, but I warn you, it’s cold” says our Crocodile-Dundee-a-like guide.  I considered myself part fish as a child, so it’s an invitation I can’t refuse.

The rocky edge of the pool goes straight down some way, making the water too deep to see to the bottom.  I jump straight in, like an arrow and surface, gasping for breath.  The water is gaspingly, skin numbingly, can’t stay in too long or you’ll drown cold.  I can feel my body seizing up as I try to gulp air into my freezing lungs, but I am hooked.  I’ll never forget my first swim in a natural pool.

Since that day, almost 20 years ago, swimming in an indoor pool has lost its allure and I swim outdoors whenever I can.  We don’t get many opportunities in Britain, although the Serpentine Lido is pretty memorable.  But on a snowy February London day, swimming in Hyde Park or Lake Walensee in Switzerland seems like a distant dream.

This time next year, we will be back in Australia and I can’t wait to plunge into the many beautiful, sandy, clear, sparkling pools that are found across the continent.  Being Australia, humans are not the only creatures which enjoy these natural wonders.  I’ll try to avoid feeding the children to crocodiles.

This post was written for Mara at Mother of All Trips and her ‘Monday’s are for Dreaming’ slot.

Are we mad?

Our children go to the kind of school that’s held up as a shining example of all that is right with state primary education.  They build dens, dress up when writing to ‘get in character’, eat healthy homemade food, turn classrooms into campervans and ‘travel’ around Australia, have winning sports teams and get visits from circus performers and the Royal Shakespeare Company.  All this and they also pass their exams.

As you might expect from such a beacon of educational wonderfullness, competition for places is fierce.  Despite taking on 90 children a year, the catchment area stretches less than half a km and about half of places are taken by siblings.

So when we started talking about our trip, we decided that we’d only do it if we were able to keep the children’s school places.  We’d be mad otherwise, right?  Hmmm.

About two years ago, we wrote to the Head of the Infant School asking her what she thought about our idea to go travelling.  She sent us a lovely letter in reply, enthusing about the great opportunity it would be for our children, but dealing a killer blow.  The school isn’t allowed to keep our places open, the council automatically gives them away after six weeks.

For months, we tried to think of ways around it by trimming our plans to fit.  But it just didn’t feel right.  I was already in mourning for the trip that we weren’t going to have.  After talking and talking and talking, we decided to go ahead anyway and keep our fingers crossed that we’ll get places on our return.

Yesterday we wrote to the headteachers informing them that we’d bought our tickets and would be leaving.  Gulp.  Are we mad?

On pickpockets, congealed blood and volcanos

Naples has an aura of danger.  The monolithic buildings made from dark, volcanic tufa are crammed together on ancient street plans.  Sunlight rarely pierces the gloom in this city of narrow alleyways and concealed corners, around which, you are led to believe pickpockets and knife wielders lurk.   Gesticulating, vociferous Neapolitan conversation sounds like aggressive arguing to mild Northern European types, they are probably discussing the price of tomatoes, but they sound  like they are threatening to murder their enemies.

It is a place of superstition where the congealing of a Saint’s blood determines the city’s luck or otherwise for the rest of the year.  If the blood magically liquefies, all will be well, if it remains congealed, disaster will befall Naples.  In a city under the shadow of an unpredictable volcano, disaster is an ever-looming possibility.

But Naples is a fascinating place with inhabitants full of verve.  An unbelieveable amount of care goes into preparing a cup of coffee, or getting dressed for the evening passagiata.  The daily fish market is a theatrical specatable to rival any at Covent Garden.  They worship saints and discuss the best mozarella with an equal passion.

Naples is a city where life is lived joyously.  We were woken one morning by the sound of  a soprano singing an aria somewhere along our narrow street.  We listened, enchanted for a few minutes and then, came a male voice from the opposite end of the street, answering her in song. The rest of the city carried on with their everyday lives as if this was nothing special, while we listened with huge smiles on our faces.

This post is part of Photo Friday at Delicious Baby. For lovely travel pictures, click here

It’s a cheery one today

I don’t know what age I am, maybe five.  My pink bedroom looks grey in the dark.  Summer twilight enters through a chink in the curtains, making a stripe on the floor and my blanket.  I lie in bed, wide awake and full of dread, imagining the plane crashing over the ocean, my brother and I becoming orphans.

My parents used to travel a lot when I was a small child and every time they  went away I would have a knot in my stomach until they returned, safe and sound and bearing presents.  I didn’t tell anyone about my fears, they remained an unspoken shadow throughout my childhood.

I wouldn’t say I was a particularly anxious child, I was always the first to scramble up a rock or dive into a swimming pool, but this was a terror I couldn’t rationalise.  The succession of Aunts, Uncles and Grandparents who died during my childhood, some far younger than is right, did nothing to reassure me.

I was constantly watchful around the beloved elderly people in my life.  I didn’t understand the concept of ‘having a good innings’, being ready to go.  I knew that old age was followed by death.  But I wanted them to be with me always.

I am an adult now, and the fear of death has not left me.  In recent years, the very real nightmare of losing a child has been added to the list.  And it’s not a theoretical anxiety, I know people who have lost babies and children.  There’s no such thing as being too young to die.

In these post motherhood, crying at the Coop advert days, I try to avoid thinking about death except in a seize the day, live life now kind of way.  But sometimes it comes up.

It was my birthday this week and the five year old was guessing my age.  He said 77 and I laughed “that would make me an old lady”.  He slipped his small warm hand into mine and whispered “I don’t want you to be an old lady, Mummy”.  I know just how he feels.

This post was written for Josie’s writing workshop at Sleep is for the Weak.