W*rk is a four letter word.

It has been 5 months and 2 days since I officially ‘worked’. Actually, if I’m honest, that’s 5 months and 3 days. I’m not sure all the final day cuddling, weeping in stock cupboards, and swigging prosecco in the staffroom before heading pub-ward at noon, can really be called work.

Sometimes I can’t believe I’ve done it, that I’ve actually gone and left. I turned up at that establishment (that’s my place of work – not just the Westbourne pub) through its different incarnations and my various and evolving professional roles for nigh on 10 years. It was the best of times and the worse of times. And no matter how exhausted, stressed out, angry or overworked we were, the job never bored me. My colleagues were incredible and I always felt it was the right place for me. Big personalities, educational politics (literally – Ed Balls and the Right Hon Michael Gove making regular visits), daily troubleshooting,  youth culture, social diversity, absorbing histories and shaping futures – all in the heart of West London. As far as I was concerned, I was always right where it was at.

So I am truly surprised now at how little I miss it.

GET ME OUTTA HERE!

And what have I replaced my all consuming ‘work’ in the inner city with? Omitting the obvious and ongoing feeding, nappy changing, general housewifery and structured activities for child etc, here is an account of how I have filled in the gaps today. This is absolutely the truth, in chronological order (believe me I wouldn’t make this up as it doesn’t say much about my ‘work’ as a ‘Midsomerville mother’ on a precious day at home with my little one):

7.30am: Remove L’Oreal’s ‘Raging Ruby’ nail varnish carefully and impressively applied to every finger (including nails to be fair) from my 2 year old’s hands. I only slipped away for 4 minutes for a shower, yer honour.

(Please note, this kind of activity – having a sneaky shower – can only generally be carried out using a method I have pre-trained her in: I call out her name every 20 seconds or so and she dutifully replies “Yes Mummy!” This ascertains she is not choking to death, or already unconscious, in the next room. This routine however has its flaws; its main flaw being that, if not choking or unconscious, a small child can quite quite happily shout “Yes Mummy!” while carrying out any number of indescribable operations.)

8.30am: Remove contents of bowl of warm Reddy Brek from Brown Teddy (he is still sitting in kitchen sink soaking wet as I am unsure what to do with him next).

The good hand; quite fine motor skills for 2!

9.30am: Restore all books diligently hauled from main bookshelf and dropped down the stairs back to their former shelf positions (No simple task: I am an English teacher – book order and categories are of utmost importance).

10.30am (Whilst on phone to a friend):

a) Retrieve child, stuck fast and wailing, from under guest room bed where she had wedged herself between the old fold up camp bed and a step ladder.

b) Realise in horror 12″ record collection has been defiled and records removed from sleeves before toddler indicates enthusiastically that the ‘wheels’ are ‘over there’ … Er, where’s that then? That’ll be down the back of the radiator which, on this chilly morning, is very much on. Naked vinyl and hot metal … Nooo! Thankfully Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear the Reaper and various rarities by the likes of The Only Ones and The Jam are made of tough stuff; evidently songs that endure both the test of time and attempts at physical annihilation.

Nooo!! Not the vinyl …

11.30am – 1.30pm: (Whilst logging on and attempting to draft a new blog post with some academic reference and intellectual depth):

a) Cajole child into telling me where my bank card is – the most critical of the cards and receipts tipped out of purse and currently lying on kitchen floor. The ‘little horsey’ one (well done, I’m with Lloyds) is eventually located in her small wicker basket amongst her other treasures: a small conch shell, some pussy cat wrapping paper and various bits of lego which she has an irrational attachment to.

b) It is now, after scrubbing at the wooden high chair joyously scrawled over in black eyeliner pencil (surprisingly hard to remove – the nail varnish remover already out from earlier has come in handy), that I shall give up thinking about adding any deep and meaningful comment to this blog.

Although, I shall attempt to return later to add some reflection on my day …

Order and organisation: there is evidence of clarity of purpose in my current lifestyle, there is.

The trench at the bottom of the drive.

8pm: So, the strains of Eastenders are now receding and my perfect little girl is in the sweet realms of a deep sleep; her peaceful, rosy beauty takes my breath away. Events have continued in pretty much the same vein for the rest of the day. Edited highlights include a tantrum about wearing socks, squashed ham sandwiches down the back of the sofa and two complete outfit changes – how the kid managed to sit in a raw egg in her new Verboudet tunic I just don’t know. But before continuing, I need to add a little note for I know what all the parents out there are thinking: the reason we did not spend a substantial amount of the day out at playgroups, the library or the park, like most normal people with ‘active’ toddlers would, was that we literally could not leave the house. We were barricaded in – by red plastic security fences, flashing JCB diggers, and a 6 foot trench on the entrance to the drive.

The jolly men in yellow hard hats were prepared to seal off the road, dismantle the red fences and lay a temporary board over the drive for me should I need to get out but quite frankly, I reasoned, a quiet day at home was just what we needed.

Barricaded in.

Ah, and now how to judge the achievements of my day? Well, Poppy is alive, clean and fed, and the house is pretty much in the same state as it was when we woke up this morning. That’s it. I have ‘worked’ non stop and that’s it.

And man, do I feel proud of myself.

So, instead of reflecting on identity and one’s carefully crafted online presence (which I do have lots of ideas about, honest, especially about the nature of Facebook ‘friendship’), I shall treat this as a stop gap post, and pour myself a large glass of red wine. Ooh, there’s that new episode of Lewis to catch up on… (Shame the Midsomer Murders this week was a repeat). Night all.

“Forty, mumsy and wry / I moved from London and I … “

Well, alright, I’m not quite there yet – but not far off, and the temptation to manipulate a Morrissey lyric in this fashion is irresistible. “Sixteen, clumsy and shy/ I went to London and I…” he proclaims in The Smiths’ sweet, melancholy little ditty ‘Half a Person’ (worth a click if you are new to The Smiths). I find that, as my title implies, not only am I now a whole person in my own right, I have in effect acquired ‘half a person’ in the last couple of years. An extra little person, that is, and not that extra ‘baby weight’ I still vow I will be rid of.

Hands up Baby! Love ’em.

So, Midsomerville has become a more permanent reality in my life. Having torn myself from my cool London teaching job, I am now forced to treat my home as more than a fantasy weekend retreat (where we occasionally wear fake moustaches and drink port).

The decisive factor in this move? An enchanting little creature, whose thoughtful brown eyes, quirky pout, artistic little hands and hilarious mannerisms have captivated me utterly. It’s easy to wax lyrical about one’s own children and the effect they have on you but, hey, to cut a long story short, I really do like this kid. I think she’s dead cool. Poppy rocks my world in a way that I suppose London used to. Poppy Julia Liberty. She is named after my dear friend Jules, my sparkling soul sister, who I shall miss every day for the rest of my life. And The Libertines, whose reunion gig I survived at 9 months pregnant in the mud at the Reading Festival in 2010.

What? I’m sick, let’s get through this however we can …

Today the snowy magic of Midsomerville has been transformed. Even the most idyllic scenes have taken on that post-snow, shabby, ‘down-market’ look. Dirty lumps of greying snow hang on to lamp posts, garden shrubs, roof tiles and wheelie bins. Bit depressing really as what this place really has going for it is it’s “outstanding beauty”. We missed the opportunity to illustrate our blog with the glorious and abundant ‘cozy’ images of our winter wonderland as we were confined by our sickness. We are still not 100%. Today’s blog is prompted by our need to venture out as we are beginning to behave strangely. Poppy has not been to nursery. I have done nothing but take baths, wipe things down incessantly (the child mainly) while developing an unhealthy dependence on CBBC‘s Mr Tumble.

If we were in London now, I have an idea that we would be wrapped up warmly and heading up to the Natural History or Science Museum. Big, airy spaces perfect for buggies, they are cheaper than trawling an indoor shopping mall (which if we’re honest has just as many exciting artefacts and activities for a toddler). Museums usually provide just the right amount of contact with other children, have decent coffee opportunities and are acceptably edifying for both her and me.

But we’re not in London.

And here are our options:

Ready for action at the Natural History Museum

• Visit the Post Office – this is always an event. But as we have nothing to send to anyone today, a bit pointless. Oh, hold on, we could post my application for a new Tesco Clubcard.
• Walk to the pond by The Butcher’s Arms and attempt to engage some fed-up ducks; ducks who are now so bored with us, they wait until we leave before eating the breadcrumbs we have lovingly thrown at them. This is true. I have sneaked a look back when we are departing and seen them waddling over to eat when they think we are no longer watching them.
• Hang on. We could go into ‘town’! Reading town. Apparently, there’s a big, airy, edifying museum there. There may even be a bus running out of the village today. It’s called … the Museum of Rural Life -hmmm. Well it’s that, or the shopping mall. And after our last experience in H&M, which involved an unpaid for pair of Hello Kitty earmuffs, I am not so keen.

So, if there’s anyone out there (seriously, we haven’t seen that many humans in the last week), we shall report back on our day’s adventures. That’s if we really can make it out of the village…

Welcome to ‘Midsomerville’!

Ok, so this is not going to be the brilliant first splash into the blogosphere I imagined. The snow lays 20 cm thick outside the house; there is very little movement and it’s eerily quiet out there…

And in here?

My head is fuzzy, my nose fizzy and my throat burning – and I have totalled only 3.5 hours sleep over the last 24 hours. This is mainly due to my 2 year old daughter, who is also unwell. Same symptoms, but with the exhilarating bonus of projectile vomiting thrown in. Result: we are on our fourth bath of the day, the washing machine is providing a constant background drone, and we are not moving from the suitably resourced bedroom where I have just logged on, and she is watching Kipper the Dog on a drowsy yet determined loop.

Not used to feeling genuinely rubbish, we are not enjoying this at all. The cosy relish of all day TV watching, and excuses to eat and drink things one usually wouldn’t (those little comforts when one has a mild sniffle) are not to be had here. This just ain’t fun.

For a start, it’s the weekend – the illicit excitement of days off work/school is therefore not valid. Secondly, everyone has panic bought all the milk and, more importantly, all the good red wine from the local shop (lack of plural to be stressed). Finally however, and perhaps most crucially, I need somehow to get a scintillating blog on the go that doesn’t reveal me to be a complete moron, or worse still, a dullard.

Ok, so as I said, this is not going to be the brilliant first splash into the blogosphere I imagined… And you can hopefully understand why, today in particular, my ‘musings’ could tend towards the ‘murderous’. Hey, who knows, with a bit of sleep and a lot less vomit around, future posts may be quite different.

For those of you confused by my blog title, you may not be familiar with the TV show Midsomer Murders, a traditional ‘whodunnit’ crime drama characterised by its quintessential Englishness. In looking up this brand of crime drama (see, I am taking this seriously), I have established that it is a classic example of the ‘cozy’. The ‘cozy’ murder mystery is a genre represented by the iconic English ‘tea cozy’ (a little woollen jumper worn by a teapot to keep its vital contents warm) thus setting the tone for the genteel machinations of a range of stock English vicars, little old ladies, eccentric aristos, tweedy bookish gents and bored middle class housewives etc. Indeed all those who are most likely to regularly ‘take tea’ (of the teapot and chintzy cake stand variety).

Frankly astounded by the range, creativity and absurdity when googling images of this item. (Image via Etsy.com – Andrea Lesley Crochet)

Set in the fictional county of ‘Midsomer’ (which I find to be a much more true to life depiction than I ever imagined growing up in the multicultural and eclectic high streets of North-West London), these ‘chocolate box’ mysteries, revolving round the thatched cottages, picturesque churchyards and country lanes of the English home counties, have always held a fascination for me. So much so that I left my London flat and bought a charming ‘project’ Edwardian semi in one such place. Many who meet me now almost always find this quiet obsession a surprise. I suppose it’s not quite in keeping with grimier obsessions I’m perhaps more well known for. For example, passionately following dirty ‘indie’ rock bands, blagging backstage ‘passes’ and stalking ‘poetic’ drug-addled musicians in ‘n out a’ London’s dodgiest boozers. I once worked out I had been to see one trilby-clad, grubby-fingered, tabloid fiend 20 times in a 12 month period. Along with the huge financial implications, I dread to think of the impact on my students whose media education was inevitably tainted with my enthusiastic and disproportionate anecdotes surrounding him.

The American poet Sylvia Plath once said something along the lines of how she would be ‘flying between two mutually exclusive places/things for the rest of her days’ (apologies SP for misquote). I think she linked it to neurosis or some such syndrome, but I have always found this comforting when I think of my own ‘mutually exclusive’ obsessions: the buzz, the colour, the pace and the brash ‘reality’ of London life versus the quiet politeness, seeming order and idyllic rural ‘prettiness’ of the English country landscape. A place where people still pride themselves on wearing traditional green wellies, polishing the family silver (no joke) and hiding the microwave in the converted outhouse. I have been ‘flying’ back and forth (‘flying’ being metaphorical as my mode of transport has been the generally unlucky First Great Western Train service) from the West London academy where I work to ‘home’ in a South Oxfordshire village for a few years now.

The fact that Plath ended up putting her head in a gas oven at 31 years old is something we won’t dwell on, as I centre now on being properly ensconced in my ‘alternative’ fantasy world of ‘Midsomerville’ after years of trudging the London streets. Drunken lock-ins at ‘historic’ pubs, sleeping on strangers on Piccadilly night buses, boho Soho breakfasts, dubious gigs in Brixton, lectures in Bloomsbury and markets in Notting Hill, the smell of the Underground is as natural to me as the smell of a freshly baked Victoria Sponge to Miss Marple. I was there when we won the Olympics cheering with the Turkish cab drivers who ran the joint next to ‘my’ sandwich bar. And I was also there the next day, as the same Turkish cabbies and I shared looks of shock and incomprehension, when we realised that the Edgware Road Tube Station had just been blown up, and I was frantically ferrying school children with tube dust in their hair off the street for registration…

So for me, it really is ‘London ’til I die, mate’ – it’s in my blood.

Down and dirty in the Big Smoke with Amy and Pete…

My roots: the buzz of NW London
(Image courtesy of LondonTown.com)

Why then, do I hanker after quaint tea rooms run by matronly old ladies, ivy-clad church porches, hedgerows and country lanes, jam-making and village halls? Why do people who spend their lives continuously improving their ‘Farrow and Ball’ period properties or playing ‘Bridge’, and are so bored with their idyllic lives that they have to officially break up their afternoons with a gin and tonic, intrigue and delight me so much? I’m not sure. Growing up on a diet of Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie may have something to do with it. I love Inspector Barnaby (John Nettles only of course) and Miss Marple almost as much as I do say Morrissey (OK, an honorary angst-ridden Londoner) or Amy Winehouse or The Clash.

Now that I have had a child and have given up the London job, the flying between ‘two mutually exclusive places’ has had to cease – on a daily basis at least. How I adjust to this and life now more heavily weighted to this English ‘cozy’ ideal is something I shall attempt to share in coming posts. I am quite pleased with the ‘Midsomer’ pun in my blog title, I feel by compiling a title that includes my surname, I am fulfilling the egocentric nature of this blog and indeed the whole personal nature of blogging. So, here it is again: welcome to the actually more mild than murderous musings of ‘Midsomerville’. And do feel free to leave whenever you please (once you’ve had a nice cup of tea, of course) …

My spiritual Great Aunt – I adore you, Miss M. (Image via Little Grey Pixel)