________________________________________________________________________________________

*terms and conditions apply

My laptop shares table space with an eclectic variety of objects.  Some fruit I bought earlier and haven’t put away, a glass of water, four conkers, a fuzzy gogo and some silver star stickers.  Also the phone, my debit card and paper and pens.  I’ve spent the morning sorting out landlord’s insurance and car insurance.

Until recently, I’d have had a small child in the kitchen with me.  Usually sitting upside down in the armchair by the window, or leaping off it in an attempt to achieve flight.  Now my soundtrack of CBeebies has been replaced by Radio 2.  Despite wincing daily at the dodgy singing of Katie from I Can Cook, I’m still not sure if I like the change.

Sitting at the kitchen table and blogging has become an integral part of my life.  I’ve come to rely on writing things out.  I’ve written about the important things in our life, buying plane tickets, starting school.  I’ve written about my hopes and fears for our trip and what it’ll mean for our family.  I’ve written about not very much at all, lying under a tree on a summer’s day, swimming in the sea.  The writing has been a pleasure.  I’d go so far as to say it’s changed my life.  It’s made me friends, kept me sane, determined my career path.  I can’t imagine going back to not writing.

Recently I’ve not been writing much.  And when I have it’s been short and factual.  As our departure date approaches, the pressure to get stuff done is mounting.  Lots of phone calls to the estate agent to sort out details, cupboards to be emptied into boxes, trips to the charity shop with yet more too-small children’s clothes, emails to be fielded from people wanting to buy our cot.  No you cannot carry a cot singlehandedly on the tube.  Even if it’s been taken it apart.

I’ve not written about swimming, or walking in woods, or visits to the Tower of London.  I’ve not taken part in the Writing Workshop in weeks.  I miss it.  I miss rolling words around in my head, creating pictures, describing my feelings in combinations of twenty six letters.

I won’t get many more chances to sit at my kitchen table before we leave, emptying my thoughts into the WordPress text box.  Soon the  table will be dismantled and carried carefully down to the basement, hopefully without scratching the new paintwork.  I’ll be busy visiting friends, squishing thermal underwear into backpacks, ordering taxis to the airport.

Very soon our adventure will begin.  I shall be writing about it.

___________________________________________________________________

This post was written for the absolutely marvellous Writing Workshop at Sleep is for the Weak.  The prompt I chose this week was “Be present. Describe a moment, something in your now. Doesn’t have to be extraordinary, just be still and take it all in.”

The foamy little waves at the water’s edge wash over my feet.  He’s wrong.  It is cold, not arctic, but still cold.  But I’m here now, the sun is hot on my back, and he takes my hand.  Together we wade deeper, slipping on the pebbles and shivering as the water reaches our first our knees and then our thighs.

You know the best thing to do, don’t you, he says as he ducks down and starts swimming towards the horizon.  But I can’t bring myself to swim.  Not just yet.  I let the waves wash over my legs, gasping as they creep ever higher, splashing on warm, dry skin.

He’s bobbing about in the swell a few metres in front of me.  Come on, it’s better once you start swimming, come with me.  I take a deep, ozoney breath and wade into the chilly water, until it reaches my shoulders.  He’s right, it’s not so bad once you get in.  The bottom is pebble free now, a mix of sand and the soft, velvety clay that oozes between your toes and makes the water murky.

I swim a little way out and find a warmer patch, where I stop, with the tips of my toes just touching the bottom.  All around me are lengths of floating, brown, seaweed.  I catch some and pop the rubbery bubbles.  The water isn’t gaspingly cold, it isn’t even goosebumpy cold.  It’s just cold enought to make my skin tingle and wake me up.  I understand why people do this every day.  Why it’s addictive.  The sun is dazzling, scattering the water with sparkly diamonds. The sky is a vivid, clear, blue.  The roar of the water and screech of soaring seagulls are the only sounds.

The children are otherwise entertained and we are the only swimmers.  The only people.  We tread water in companionable silence, jumping up as waves hit our backs.  For a few perfect moments, we could be alone in the world.  He turns to me and says, the next time we do this, we’ll be in Hawaii.

_____________________________________________________________________

This post was written for the fab writing workshop at Sleep is for the Weak.  The prompt I chose this week is ‘Lucky‘.

I came to The Snail and the Whale quite late in my love affair with Julia and Axel.  We’d read a number of their titles before I bought it a moment of completism.  Its purchase coincided with the germ of the idea to go travelling, and I have never read a more compelling argument for leaving home to explore the world.

The words are gently rhyming and they ebb and flow in a rhythm like the pull of the tide.  Reading them aloud, making the sounds with my mouth, is like a form of poetic meditation.  They tell the story of a sea snail with an itchy foot who hitches a ride on the tail of a humpback whale.  Together they travel the world, experiencing it’s natural wonders, towering icebergs and far-off lands, with fiery mountains and golden sands.  There’s mild peril, a heroic act and a satisfying resolution at the end, everything you could want from a book.

So when I read this week’s Gallery prompt, “A Novel Idea”, I knew straight away that this was the book I wanted to do.  This book, which is inspiring my itinerary planning, this book which is subliminally teaching my children the excitement of itchy feet.  I have lots of photos I could have chosen, from trips we’ve already taken, but nothing appealed.  Nothing that truly expresses the love I feel for this book, a love which is tied up with the joy of sharing it with my children.  And I realised that the only pictures I could use to illustrate this post are pictures I have not taken yet.  Pictures that I shall be taking on the trip that I’ll be sharing with my children.  Pictures of volcanos, glaciers, beaches, rainforests, deserts.  Pictures of shimmering ice and coral caves.

I’ll keep you posted.

My brain tells my legs.  But I can’t make them work.  Slowly, slowly, I move one leg and then the other.  They are like sacks of sand, heavy, awkward, dragging.  My brain says hurry, hurry, you’re going to miss it.  Run.  Faster.  My legs don’t seem to be able to hear.  Every step is an enormous effort, slow and ponderous.  I move my arms too, right arm left leg, left arm right leg.  But I am like a slow motion cartoon character, going nowhere, running on the spot.

The atmosphere is thick, dense, unyielding.  I push my body against it, resistance meeting my every effort.  The whole world is moving slowly, stickily, like treacle pouring from a tin.

Time is running out.  The train is going to leave soon.  Very soon.  I have to hurry up.  I can’t miss it.  My breathing quickens as anxiety pricks my skin like a thousand needles.  I can’t miss it.  What will happen to me?  How will I get there?

I’m never going to make it.  I can’t make my legs work.  Despite willing with all my might, my body won’t move any faster.  Right arm left leg, left arm right leg, inching forwards, slowly, slowly, slowly.  Hardly moving at all.

The train is still far away, I can see it in the distance.  I know I’m not going to make it.  I’m never going to get there.  I am filled with dread as I realise I have failed. The train is going to go without me.

I wake up with a start.

This post was written for the Sleep is for the Weak writing workshop.  This week’s one word prompt is “Running”.

I am planning to drag my family all the way around the world.  Taking my children away from their grandparents, cousins and friends, for nine whole months.  Nine months is a really long time if you’re four.  Almost a quarter of your life.

They have no choice in the matter.  They do what they’re told.  Would they choose to do this if it was up to them?  I don’t know, but I think not.  Any enthusiasm they show is picked up from us.  They really have no idea what it involves.

All the youngest knows, is that he will be sleeping on a plane.  He asked me if his uncle would be picking us up from the airport.  Because the only flight he can remember is when we visited his cousins in Germany.  And his uncle picked us up from the airport.

We wouldn’t be doing this if I hadn’t had the idea.  Hadn’t gone on and on about it.  Hadn’t said that I would be really sad if we didn’t.  We wouldn’t be going if I didn’t want to.

It’s too late to change my mind.  The tickets weren’t cheap.  And we’ve told the world and its wife.  There’s no going back.  It’s a juggernaut that I can’t turn around.

I don’t know how I’ll feel if they don’t enjoy it.  If it isn’t a positive experience.  But I can hazard a guess.  Pretty horrible.

What have I got us into?  I hope it’s worth it.

This week, I chose the prompt “Write about a time you put yourself first” in the Sleep is for the Weak writing workshop.

Almost three years down the line, the toddler is almost six and the one year old is about to be four.  He’s mostly dry at night, sleeps in a bed, walks or rides his bike everywhere.  He can talk in complex sentences, make jokes, spell his name and climb trees.  No one except his own mother would call him a baby.

For the last eight and a half years my life has been defined by my babies.  My days have been filled with nappy changing, breastfeeding, pushing swings, putting down for naps, Cbeebies.   As I lived the last eight and a half years it’s felt like they lasted an eternity, at times it seemed hard to believe that I’d ever come out the other side.  I wished my time away.  But as I stand at the crossroads, I realise they years have passed in the blink of an eye.  With each new baby, time sped ever faster, and now it’s gone.  I’ll never get it back.

I have much to look forward to, in a few short months we shall be embarking on a wonderful adventure, one that we wouldn’t be able to do if our babies were still babies.  And I can’t wait.  I can’t wait to see volcanos and glaciers, to lie on beaches and trek through jungles.  I can’t wait to enjoy spending  long day after long day with my husband and children.

But part of me wishes I could go back and start at the beginning.  To have my time again.  I don’t necessarily want to do things differently.  I would just like to stop and take notice, to pay attention.  To hold my babies once more.

This week I chose prompt three for the Sleep is for the Weak writing workshop, “What’s your magical power? Or what would you like it to be?“  I would like my magical power to be time travel.

It was the fireplace that sold the house to me, before we’d even looked around. It’s a very lovely fireplace, original to the house, with eye-popping cobalt blue tiles. We have them in the kitchen and our bedroom too, with cream tiles, but I digress. What was I planning to write about? Oh yes, I know this is supposed to be a travel blog, but decided to write about something else today. Hey, it’s my blog, if you don’t like it, tough. Normal service will resume tomorrow, I promise.

The theme for this week’s Gallery at Sticky Fingers is ‘motherhood’, and as soon as I read it, this fireplace sprung to mind. I’d like to tell you a little story…

I wake up at about 5pm after a much needed nap and as I move, I feel a small pop inside me, like a bubble bursting. I’m pretty sure I know what it is, but I decide to ignore it and go downstairs.

My two children are being given tea by the assistant at our local nursery school, who started helping me out a couple of days ago. At nine months pregnant, with a four year old and 22 month old, I’m finding it increasingly hard to get through the heat-wavey days. She’s supposed to leave once she’s got their tea ready but I ask if she’d mind staying on to help me get them to bed.

With two people, one of them an energetic 20 year old, it’s an easy job and by 7pm all is quiet. So I called the midwife. I’m pretty sure my waters have broken, I say. Any contractions? No, not yet. Well I’ll be over later, call me again if you need me.

Steve gets home. My waters have broken. Have you called your mother? There’s plenty of time for that. Remember last time? It took two days before I went into labour. Still, you should call your mother.

At 9pm the midwife comes. Still no contractions? No, just the odd twinge. But you do remember that I have fast labours don’t you? And I would like gas and air please. Yes, it says so on your notes, but it could be hours yet. Have a bath, relax. Call me again when you need me.

10pm contractions start. Not too bad, every five minutes. Must be very early stages of labour. Not nearly as bad as with middle child. That was every minute for two hours. One continuous wave of pain. Completely excruciating. I’ll call the midwife in a bit.

10.30. Speak to the midwife on the phone. I think I’m in labour now, I say between contractions. Well you sound like you’re doing just fine. Call me later when you want gas and air.

I want gas and air, I should have said. I’m a calm person, don’t make much of a fuss about things. I’m good in a crisis. I WANT GAS AND AIR. Why didn’t I say something? How soon can I call her back?

11pm. Steve, call the midwife, tell her I want gas and air. She’s on her way, has to go to the hospital first to pick up the canister.

This is my third baby. First one had to be sucked out with a ventouse. Second one, slithered out like a skinny, slippery eel after three pushes in three minutes. I’m pretty sure this one is on his way. I don’t want to panic Steve, so I won’t tell him. Steve, will you please call the midwife and tell her to hurry up.

It doesn’t occur to me that he would leave the room. That I’m making too much noise for him to make a phonecall. I’m not really thinking about him anyway. I’m just getting on with it. Only thinking about one thing.

I can hear him yelling, Oh my God I can see a head! The phone clatters to the floor as he leaps forward and catches the baby, who lets out a loud wail, right on cue.

Ten minutes later, the midwife arrives. She checks us over, tidies up, puts us to bed. Where I lie awake all night, unable to process the thousands of thoughts whizzing around my head like supercharged mosquitos. Thank God I never have to do that again. That’s me done, I am complete. Isn’t the human body amazing? Aren’t I amazing?

And the fireplace? Turns out the mantlepiece is just the right height to lean against when having a contraction.

PS If you look at the photos on the mantlepiece, the two in black and white frames are of Dickon and the midwife, about half an hour after his birth.

High rise buildings fence in the surrounding streets, trapping the heat, noise and smells.  A gold and white temple, all curved lines and painted statuary is an exuberant juxtoposition against the the flat, straight, blank towers.

As I breathe in the clammy humidity, the first thing to hit my nostrils, making me gag, is the sweet stench of  rubbish rotting in the heat.  The nausea inducing smell of decay is cut with the heavy, perfumed fragrance of incense burning at a nearby shrine and the woody smoke of the food vendors’ charcoal burners.  Cooking food, exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke from the people hurrying past join the already heady mix.

The food vendors have set up stall along the length of the pavement.  They squat beside their buckets of fire, cooking a inventive array of snacks and meals, boiled eggs, baked bananas, pancakes, soups, stews, animal parts on sticks, sticky rice steamed in little banana leaf parcels.  Charcoal flames are fanned with one hand while pancakes are flipped with the other.   Customers get their food to go, or perch on tiny red plastic stools, slurping savoury, lemony, soup from large bowls, fiery ringlets of chili floating on the top.

On the opposite pavement, there are a row of fruit vendors.  The ready peeled, chopped and deseeded fruit is arranged in the vendors’ glass carts, like colourful gems in a jewellery shop display case.  Next to the fruit vendors are carts selling drinks.  Bottles of warm, lurid, sticky, fizzy liquid, their colours an artificial counterpoint to the fruit.  Drinks the colour of Smurfs, yellow day glo legwarmers and red London buses.  When you buy one, it is poured from the valuable bottle into a small plastic bag, which is swiftly converted into a drinking vessel with a knotted elastic band and a straw.  I would love the relief of adding ice to my drink, watching drops of condensation form, but I’ve seen it being dragged along the street by men with ropes like icebergs floating down a canal, picking up the detritus of the city along the way.

Life in Bangkok is never quiet.  A cacophany of beeping horns, revving motorbikes, the chirping song of caged birds, waiting to be bought and released for good luck, bouncy Thai pop music spilling out of shops, rhymic chanting and clanging bells from the temple.  And over it all, the soft lilting voices of the inhabitants, a thousand conversations in their melodical tonal language, sentences ending with a polite upbeat “krup” for men or a gentle falling “kaaa” for women.

I stand at the intersection, people rushing around me, bodies brushing past mine as they hurry on their way.  As I absorb the sounds, sights and smells, I know that this is why I travel.  To feel alive.

For this week’s Sleep is for the Weak writing workshop, I chose the prompt “Write about one moment with all of richest, imaginative sensory description you can muster.”

In the distance I can hear cheering from the football stadium, the sounds rising and falling on the breeze, sometimes obscured by the hum of mowers and shrieks of children playing.  Somewhere, an ice cream van is playing its tinkling tune, urging us to come and buy.  I lie back down and close my eyes, the sounds washing over me and the heat pinning me to my patch of grass under the tree.  I could stay here forever.

This is my interpretation of the DIY writing workshop prompt ‘Summer’.