Spooked

I rarely get spooked. Nothing really scares me. Well, ok, I have been known to run a mile from a wasp but really scared? Truly spooked? No.

But today, on this Halloween of days, I was spooked.

Things started well and ended even better. It was our first proper Halloween and we started preparations early, carving a pumpkin on Friday afternoon (which subsequently disintegrated over the weekend, but noone seemed to notice that it wasn’t there on our terrace this afternoon) and making a Halloween mobile to hang over our front door. I’d never entered into the spirit of Halloween before but last year, in a token effort to do something, I hurriedly bought some Marks and Spencer sweets from London Bridge station on the way home from work, in case we had some trick or treaters. Unsurprisingly, come 10pm and with no revellers having rung our bell, Mister and I shared out the haul. It wasn’t that I couldn’t be bothered or that I was fundamentally opposed to the idea of Halloween, I just didn’t get it.

Back in Balgowlah, we had costumes and face paints at the ready and my expectation was that we would dress up, sit on our terrace and wait for a handful of trick or treaters to pass through before calling it a day. I happened to mention this to a friend at school and moments later received a text, inviting us to join up with their family to trick or treat on the streets of North Balgowlah. With no idea what to expect and with costumed children at the ready, I thought, ‘well, why not?’. TJ and Miggins were beside themselves with excitement but it soon became clear that they didn’t get it, either. And how could they? I had been so vague about the whole thing that they were sort of just cobbling along with my sudden enthusiasm for all things spooky. So we jumped onto our broomstick and headed into the unknown.

It was a balmy 24 degrees when we emerged into what felt like film set, with tens of children milling about in various guises, from the traditional witches and ghosts to the less traditional fairies, gnomes and members of the mafia. House after house was bedecked with cobwebs, skeletons and spiders but it didn’t feel tacky or cringeworthy, it felt like honest, wholesome, fun. TJ’s reaction to his first sweet was to promptly sit down and eat it and it took some time (and a small amount of foot stamping on his part) to persuade him that if he collected the sweets they were his, to keep. He moved pretty swiftly after that, quickly realising that the more ground he covered, the bigger his haul. Smart lad. Miggins consulted with me after each house, asking ‘are we allowed these ones’, she, too, in wide eyed wonder at this unexpected, surreal experience.

After an hour of trick or treating and with the children’s plastic pumpkin-pots brimming, we were ready to head home. The sweets were emptied onto the kitchen table and I listened whilst Miggins negotiated some swaps with TJ, at one stage convincing him that the pink lollipop that she was coveting in his pile probably tasted like a dog biscuit. He quickly gave it up. She also accumulated a pile of hard sweets, knowing that as a child I once swallowed a hard sweet whole and came very close to choking and she wasn’t about to let the same fate befall her or TJ. She mixed the unwanted ‘chokers’ and all of the green sweets into our trick or treat bowl and she and TJ waited, now in their pyjamas, for our own trick or treaters to arrive at the gate. As darkness fell and as the sandman paid his visit, TJ and Miggins drifted off to bed, with visions of sweets, pumpkins and happy, balmy nights dancing in their heads.

But I was spooked. Shaken up.

In the heat of the afternoon, my little witches and I decided that we would have a dip in the pool before our Halloween revelries commenced. Miggins and TJ waited patiently on the steps of our pool whilst I, a mere 3 feet away, cleared something from the edge of the pool. At that exact moment, an inflatable toy floated past TJ’s feet in the pool and the last thing I heard was ‘watch me surf Mummy’ before Miggins shouted ‘TJ!’ and I looked to see a blue hat bobbing on the surface of the pool with TJ flailing beneath it. I know I reacted immediately, jumping in and calmly pulling TJ up and into my arms but the replay feels so slow, so tortuous, so frightening. TJ cried for a second then proudly said ‘I went under without my goggles’ and we all carried on. But I was spooked.

So whilst our first Halloween felt more like a fairytale, it didn’t come and go without a scare, without a moment of terror, without a residual feeling of unease and without a lesson learnt. And I, for one, would be happy if I never, ever, get spooked again.

A day of firsts…

So today marked the day of a few firsts.

It’s spring here and the sun is shining. Having just returned from a jaunt to the UK (where the rain gave us a fabulous excuse to rug up, drink wine and eat bread) we were ready for sunshine, surfing and salads. We started the day with a small headache (courtesy of Amy and Blackie’s delicious home cooking and endless glasses of yummy red) but a cup of tea and an unexpected lie in sorted us out (the first of the ‘firsts’; TJ (our son, aged 2) actually slept until 8am this morning, delaying our usual early morning call).

We pootled off to brunch at the wonderful Ash’s Table on Manly Beach, ordering a stack of pancakes and maple syrup with bacon, skim flat whites and juice and then took a stroll along the front, with TJ and Miggins (our daughter, aged 5) happily balancing on the wall, watching the surf school ‘little nippers’ running in and out of the sea with their bright yellow swimming caps.

Returning home and with the themometer reading above 20, it could only mean one thing (with a little persuasion from Miggins): the pool. Now, Mister (my husband of 8 years) is a bit of a wuss when it comes to the cold (he will readily admit) and as I have been swimming in ice cold conditions since I was little (having spent the first 8 years of my life living in a classic 70s house in Suffolk with a pool built by my dad in the garden), I couldn’t resist the pleading eyes of Miggins who very much fancied the first dip of the season. After a count of 3 (very slowly, and with a few false starts) we were in. Freezing. Ridiculous. Impossible to breath. But refreshing, exciting and fantastic fun. Miggins was a little smugger than I, as she was wearing her ‘swimming coat’ (aka a wetsuit) whilst I was just in my swimming cossie, but after 10 minutes of bravely swimming about, we stepped out, wrapped up in our towels and lay on the sun-warmed stone tiles next to the pool and it felt lovely. So lovely.

Mister, in the meantime, had been keeping a sensible distance and TJ was in the land of nod. We made a nice pot of tea and reviewed our second ‘first’, which Miggins and I deemed to be a great success. Miggins thinks we should have a daily dip from now on to get the most out of the pool, enthusiasm uncurbed by the icy conditions. Hmmm…

So we sat down together whilst I filled in the diary for the week and Miggins did some colouring with her new colouring set, a birthday present from the aforementioned Amy and Blackie and a big hit. She asked me to tell her a story from when I was little.

Spring 1982, Worlingworth, Suffolk (aged 5). I had a red and blue bike, rather too large for me and a little rusty but it marked the start of many adventures to come. My dad (affectionately know to me as Pooks) was starting to get a little frustrated, to say the least, at my inability to get going with the bike riding. It all became a bit of a fiasco. Weekend after weekend that Spring we would haul the bike out of the garage with fresh hope, Pooks promising to hold onto the back whilst I got my balance and my confidence. However, as with many things in those early years, confidence in my ability was lacking and I was a keen observer rather than a participator. It’s hard to observe your family heading off on a family picnic without you, though (as had been threatened if I didn’t buck up and learn how to ride) so I had to hurry up and get on my bike, as it were.

One weekend things all got a little too much and after getting halfway down the driveway I turned around to see whether Pooks was still holding on and seeing that he wasn’t, I promptly fell to the ground and started to cry. Pooks gave me a smack on the bottom for good measure, which sounds rather harsh but is actually now very funny and indicative of his frustration giving way after hours and hours of patient tutorial. We laugh about it a lot now, as with the incident of me repeatedly asking him whether I could play a record before bedtime when I was about 8, which was finally met with Pooks saying ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no [smack]’, which unbeknownst to him was caught on an audio tape by my sister who was mucking around in the background. We still have the tape and you can hear the smack, although before you start thinking I was smacked quite a lot, I had a wonderful childhood, mostly smack free; those are the only two I can remember.

Anyway, we gave up for a while until one morning I just thought about my red and blue bike resting against the wall of the garage and made myself go in there and just look at it. And then I thought I would just get on, and see how it felt. I sat on the saddle and propelled it forwards with my feet on the floor, exactly as TJ now does effortlessly with his balance bike, until I got to the mossy top of the driveway. Then I pedalled. And wobbled a bit. And pedalled some more and suddenly I had it, completely by myself, unnoticed by anyone, I had done it. And I think that was it. No more drama, perhaps a few more falls, but I mastered it and never looked back.

Well the story hadn’t really captured Miggins’ imagination at that point so I went on to elaborate about a fictitious picnic in a field full of cows, who chased my oldest sister home, which Miggins found hilariously funny (and I did too once I’d visualised it) but as the story ended she announced: “let’s take the stabilisers off my bike”. So we did, and that’s the third ‘first’. Mister wandered off to look up instructions on the internet for taking stabilisers off a bike, whilst I (ever impatient) took the toolbox down and got stuck in, removing the stabilisers just before Mister appeared again to say: “I couldn’t really find anything about that. Oh, you’ve done it.”

In a much less dramatic episode than mine had been, Miggins wobbled about a bit, made sure that I (and then Mister) was holding onto the back of the bike, did a few stints up and down the driveway and then said “I think I’ll go on the trampoline now”.

And then I thought “I think it’s time I wrote a blog”.

It’s been on my mind for a while, since we had such a huge change in our lives about 11 months ago (more on that later) and I was worried that I wasn’t doing a great job of writing down all of these momentous and not so momentous things. I have also dropped my beloved iPhone numerous times, breaking the camera lens and therefore failing to photograph our day to day lives, as I had promised myself I would do.

So that was the fourth ‘first’ of the day. My blog. I hope you like it.