Birthdays

It's my birthday.

I'm 36.

And for all that I've lost; for all that I've grieved; for all that I've wept, I am suddenly overwhelmed by all that I still have. For the husband who loves me, the children who need me, the friends who send birthday messages by the dozen. For my health, my mind, my heart.

I spend too much time wanting more, and not enough appreciating what I have.

But today I am thankful.

Riding bareback

A couple of weeks ago the children and I went down to Hayling Island for a return visit to Mill Rythe Holiday Village. We had a sensational time and one of the highlights for the children was the family sports day. The kids loved the traditional sack race, egg and spoon, and welly wanging, and they nagged me mercilessly to join in with the team finale. Reluctantly I got to my feet and we made our way to the start line, where we were split into teams.

On my team were a number of large chaps, a couple of women and a young boy.  Our captain eyed us all up appraisingly and manoeuvred us into size-appropriate pairs for the first race: piggyback relay.

'Alright, love?' my partner Jeff grinned at me. I nodded, feeling rather reluctant to leap onto his back. It was an exceptionally hot day. The sort of day summer memories are made of. And Jeff was shirtless. His back glistened with sweat, running in rivulets through a carpet of hair and coming to rest on top of a perfectly circular roll of stomach protruding over his waistband.

Just as I was wondering if it would be bad form to offer him at the very least a towel, the whistle blew and we were under starter's orders.

Jeff eyed my skirt and winked. 'I think you're going to have to hitch that up a bit, love.'

Gritting my teeth, I tucked my skirt into my knickers and clambered aboard, losing my grip as my fingers clutched at his slippery shoulders. Jeff grasped my thighs firmly (and, I thought, a little higher than strictly necessary) and as the second whistle blew, we were off with an alarming lurch.

Never have 100 metres seemed so far. With each lumbering stride I shot into the air, feeling the welcome rush of cool air on my bottom before I slammed back down onto hot flesh with a squelch.

'We're gaining on them!' Jeff grunted.

'Brilliant!' I managed, shuddering as I felt my knickers grow damp with the sweat of a man whose last name I'd never know.

As we reached the line, Jeff executed a surprisingly neat turn, which caused me to slide to the side like a jack-knifed lorry. I clung on for dear life, arms tight around the largest neck I had ever seen, my face pressed against an inky-blue mermaid tasting, appropriately enough, of salt. With a final grunt of exertion Jeff hurled us both across the finishing line. He released my legs with a chummy squeeze of my thigh, and I slithered down his back.

'Light as a feather!' Jeff proclaimed, gallantly.

I felt a sudden urge to wipe myself on the grass like a dog, but I settled for surreptitiously squeezing the sweat from my hem as I thanked him for the ride.

I have no idea if our team won, as the entire experience left me deeply traumatised. I rounded up the children and bowed out of the remaining team games before anyone could suggest a wheelbarrow race.

Doing a Prince Harry

Everyone's up in arms about Prince Harry getting his kit off in a Vegas nightclub. Personally I can't see what the fuss is about - I'm all in favour of a bit of nudity. In fact, I'm so keen on the idea that last month I stripped off for a nude shoot with Cotswold photographer Kate Brown. Kate runs All About Eve, a female-focused venture offering boudoir photography with a twist: it all takes place outdoors.

My own shoot took place in the dramatic grounds of Abbey House, Malmesbury, home of the Naked Gardeners. I met Kate when the dew was still glistening on the grass, and had a whale of a time cavorting through the gardens, frolicking in the fountain and gazing dreamily into the river wondering if I could get away with fish fingers again for tea.

I had had vague thoughts that the photos might make a good birthday surprise for my husband, after the rather flat reception he gave last year's electric screwdriver, so I kept schtum about my antics and tripped back from Abbey House with soaking wet shoes, an enigmatic smile and cramp in my left buttock.

The birthday surprise was somewhat scuppered when I wrote an article on my experience for The Guardian. When the editor emailed me at lunchtime to say the feature had just hit 50,000 page views, I had a brief moment of anxiety. Who did I know who read The Guardian? Pretty much everyone... However, I figured the likelihood of anyone being able to pick my bottom out from a line-up was pretty slim. Which is more than can be said for my bottom itself.

Then my editor at Cotswold Life suggested he run a piece on my All About Eve experiences. 'Let's make it a spread,' he said, and I sniggered childishly. 'Why not?' I said, gaily writing up a feature and selecting more of Kate's fabulously flattering photos.

With a month to go until my husband's birthday, I decided I would have to come clean. It was a matter of days before the September issue of Cotswold Life hit the shops, and the thought of him casually thumbing through a copy in WHSmith was too much to bear.

After a candle-lit and rather boozy supper, I brought down the ribbon-tied box in which Kate had put a selection of my favourite images. A stunned silence ensued.  I kept my fingers tightly crossed - if he thought I was a brazen hussy for this...

But the silence was short-lived and my husband was wonderfully, flatteringly delighted with the photos. 'And you did this just for me?' he said.

'Well,' I said, pouring more wine, 'not exactly...'

You can read the full story and see more of Kate's wonderful pictures in the September issue of Cotswold Life, out now. 

Wanted: the Time Thief

Parents are warned to be vigilant after UK-wide sightings of the Time Thief reach an all time high in the run up to the start of the school term. Particularly prevalent among communities with a high population of young children, the Time Thief preys on the vulnerable and the needy, stealing time from parents of children aged 0-7 years. So accomplished is the Time Thief, that some mothers won't even notice they are missing time at all, until they look up from their copy of Fifty Shades to discover a ninety minute DVD appears to have finished in about five minutes. On the rare occasion parents find themselves sans enfants - a morning at nursery perhaps, or a day with grandma - they shake their watches in despair as their hours of free time soak away in an instant. And woe betide the parent who thinks they're on top of the school run. You might think you're on time, but the Time Thief will suck away ten minutes when you're not looking, so you're forced to race to the school gate in pyjamas, force-feeding frozen crumpets to the children on the way.

Not content with stealing time, The Time Thief compounds his evil by leeching back his ill-gotten gains to parents already at the end of their tether. Spending the day indoors to escape the rain? The Time Thief will slip in a couple of extra hours when you're not looking. Having the morning from hell with a teething baby and a tantrumming toddler? Be on your guard for the Time Thief, who will stretch the last hour till your hair turns grey.

Parents are warned not to approach the Time Thief, and encouraged to call Crimestoppers in the event of any sightings. Please share this information with anyone who may be vulnerable to time theft. Should you be affected by the contents of this public information report, please leave a brief comment below, and someone will get back to you.

 

Where children lie

The churchyard is still and quiet, no matter what time of the year I visit. The church sits squarely in the centre, its heavy oak doors never locked, and few sounds to interrupt those seeking sanctuary. A cobbled path meanders through the churchyard, between ancient chest tombs and gravestones too weather-worn to read. Years ago I would run through these monuments, racing late to school with my mother as the church bell rang nine, the hidden histories of the churchyard nothing more than a playground to me.

On my wedding day I smiled to think of that four-year-old girl. I picked my way on silver heels across uneven ground, holding tight to my father's arm and giving no more thought to the scattered headstones than which would provide the best backdrop for our photographs.

I didn't see the children's garden. I didn't know it was there. I must have walked past it a thousand times without so much as a glance. It occupies a corner of the churchyard beneath an enormous pine tree, branches reaching out to cover each of its charges. The ducks in the pond swim past with a seemingly endless stream of fluffy ducklings, and I am at once comforted by this reminder of new life and pained to see it so close to the rows of tiny headstones, each name framed by a bracket of time so impossibly short.

Today I sit beside my son and clear the weeds which stubbornly creep across the rectangle of ground I am equally determined to keep clear. I need to see the earth, I can't bear to think of the grass closing in and shutting me off. Now, I can place my hand flat on the ground, the damp earth pulling at my skin, and know he is just beneath me. Almost touching me.

I tip out the rainwater from the little metal vase and fetch fresh water from the dripping tap in the corner of the churchyard. I cut short the yellow roses which are really too big for such a small grave, and replace the vase in the base of the stone. His headstone is simple: a square of white marble, the lettering picked out with a gilt which shines as I rub a cloth over it to remove the lichen and fallen pine needles.

I work methodically, feeling lighter as the grime comes away and the stone is once again clean and bright. I don't talk to him - at least, not out loud, not in the way I see others doing, their lips moving as they stand beside well-tended graves. Instead I think. I think about how I should be tidying his bedroom, not his grave, despairing at the Lego figures scattered across the floor, the balled-up socks under the bed. Sometimes I rail inside at the injustice of it all, screaming silently at a world which lets children die. But mostly I test out my grief. I open it up, just a little, in the way you probe a sore tooth, to see if it's still there. To see if time has healed. It never has, of course. Even just that tiny chink releases a bolt of pain which knocks me sideways, the familiar tightness forming in my chest and closing my throat until each breath is an effort.

I realise that someone has left a small pewter angel by the side of his grave. I didn't put it there, and the flowers of those few who visit regularly are never accompanied by anything more permanent. Looking around, I see there is one next to every grave. Two dozen tiny angels, placed with care to watch over these babies. It doesn't matter to me who put them there: it is enough to know that there are others who care, when so often it feels the world has forgotten.

I say a silent goodbye and leave my son with the other children, safe beneath the outstretched arms of the pine tree, in our quiet corner of the churchyard.