I always greeted the first week of the Summer holidays with relief and gratitude, a time when I could finally take my foot off the gas pedal, switch off the alarm and ease myself into the glorious weeks ahead. When I first started teaching, the Summer holidays caught me unawares; I didn't really know what to do with myself; how I should spend the days which stretched before me without purpose or punctuation. My partner was still working, and too tired to do anything but eat and roll into bed at the end of his working day. For the first time in my life, I experienced the daytime silence and solitude in an otherwise unoccupied home. I didn't want to turn on the television, my mother's opinion that daytime TV, along with daytime naps were slovenly, ringing in my ears. I was not a fan of stately homes and gardens; garden centres were the domain of the elderly, and the parks were full of parents trying to escape from their children. With a limited field of options, I chose to spend most of that Summer with my own parents, who lived the other side of town. We were often joined by my sister and her young children, and it was during those times that I was first introduced to a 'plate of bits', which I think was my mum's invention. It usually consisted of cucumber, raw carrot, cubes of cheese, pickles, crackers or bread and butter, a boiled egg, haslet or corned beef and crisps. Most families have their own name for this thrown together Summer holiday lunch, I've also heard it called a picky tea. It was the lunch of choice of my young nieces and nephews, and my sister would often come prepared with a couple of baguettes (always with the ends chewed) and custard tarts to bulk it out. Her eldest son who is twelve years younger than me may also have had a hand in the invention of the plate of bits, having once been scarred by a bad sandwich from my mother's kitchen.
When I was 17, I worked in a petrol station called The Apex, which sat behind the Pioneer Pub, on Links View. Although the pub is still there, the garage is long gone and a small row of houses now stand in the place where I spent many early Sunday mornings dipping the tanks. My brother had also worked there, when he was studying for A Levels and I was 6 or 7, and I remember pleading with my mum to let me take my guinea pig up to visit him one weekend. She said no, so I asked if I could walk up with my doll's pram instead, then smuggled Bubbles the black and ginger one beneath Rosemary Tiny Tears' crocheted blanket, trying to hide his squeaks until we were out of earshot. I must have thought she was really daft and she must have had more faith in my looking after guinea pig skills than was justified. I digress; one of the Apex customers worked in market research and would frequently drop in with products for us to try; and one week, it was a large bottle of Vosene Shampoo. I had to commit to washing my hair for a number of weeks using Vosene, and then to complete a survey, before she would hand over the bottle. A month or so later, she returned, asking how I had got on. I said I had left the survey at home, but would bring it next time I was working. She asked if I could also return the empty bottle - which was a bit of a problem, as it was in the bathroom at home, unopened, although I didn't tell her that. Just before my next shift, I rifled through the larder at home to find something in which I could store the unused shampoo (the children of parents who grew up during the war are frightened to waste anything, and I imagine that this habit will stay with me until my dying day.) A jar was found, the shampoo decanted, and the empty bottle and completed survey returned. I left the full jar in the bathroom, satisfied that I had done the right thing, and that the shampoo would be put to good use by someone who didn't mind their hair smelling like toilet disinfectant (which ruled me out). And when the jar disappeared a few days later, I didn't give it a second thought, until one day, I was alerted to a problem in the kitchen by the sound of my wailing 6 year old nephew.
'It's horrible, I can't eat it,' he insisted indignantly.
'You wanted it, now eat it!' The women in my family show little tolerance to faddy eaters. However, the appearance of bubbles at the corner of the little boy's mouth suggested that there was more to this than fussiness. As I looked around, I spotted the honey jar I had filled weeks earlier with Vosene.
And so, a plate of bits became the most requested lunch time dish, knocking the honey sandwich off the top spot forever.
Nowadays, my own fridge and larder are always filled with suitable ingredients (although no Vosene) for a plate of bits during the Summer holidays. When the children were little, we often ate them in the garden, or took a blanket and the picnic basket to Abington Park, or Brixworth or Sywell Country Parks. I would try to make sure that we always did something, went somewhere every day, as a reference point to differentiate the days. Whereas now, in these Summer holidays, every day is very much the same, to the point that last week, I lost a whole day. I have no idea which one it was, but I was so convinced that Thursday was Wednesday, and had to check on my phone when my friend insisted I was wrong.
My children's favourite outing was always the annual trip to Woburn Safari Park, the source of many of our favourite family anecdotes - the grumpy camel who insisted on leaning of the bonnet of my blue Fiat Punto, and who just wouldn't budge, no matter how loudly I honked my horn. 'Just ram it,' they screamed, terrified that it was going to crush the car. The black bears who were 'stuck' up in the trees - my niece G was petrified that they were going to fall and hurt themselves, and demanded that I should summon the rangers immediately, and would not believe me that bears could climb trees. The monkeys who pulled the rubber off our windscreen wipers, and the tiny baby monkey who jumped onto my friend Rachel's rucksack and tried to rob her sandwiches from her rucksack in 'the jungle walkthrough' enclosure. There is a terrific photo of her looking a little alarmed, which I have been searching for. No doubt I will find it as soon as I have posted.
We would usually go on our big Summer holiday in the last couple of weeks, to France with Key Camp or Euro Camp. They were perfect holidays for a family with young children, cheap and cheerful, with plenty to keep everyone occupied. We did the tourist treks, Paris, Bayeaux, the Normandy Beaches, Pegasus Bridge (fabulous for my son who was more than a little obsessed with WW2. My favourite thing to do was to go to the markets, which were fabulous and sold everything you could ever wish for. The children were always part interested, part scared to death by the macabre objects dangling from hooks on the boucherie van, the likes of which they had never come across before in Morrison's - the unplucked pheasants, the dead rabbits, and my own particular favourite that T spotted one day,
'Mum look, there's a giant caterpillar.' It wasn't of course - it was a long pork loin, tied into segments with string; her imagination was working overtime and she must have wondered whatever next. We visited the castle at Falaise and, recalling a school visit there, I asked one of the guides in pigeon French where was the tiny room in which William The Conqueror had been born. He laughed and said it was now part of the gift shop, and when I gasped in horror (what is French for philistine, I wondered?), he revealed that WTC hadn't actually been born in the castle at all - that was something they told the tourists, and it was widely acknowledged that his real birthplace had been a hovel on the banks of the river, where his mother Arlette was the daughter of a tanner. I was in good company, falling for their tricks however, as even Wikipedia believes he was born in the castle.
When I met Mr C ten years ago, he took us to Southwold, and that has been where we have spent most of our Summer holidays ever since. Many happy memories (and some dreadful ones too), and yes, lots of fighting on the beaches, as well as in the pubs, cafes, but mainly in the caravan over games of Uno, and who ate all the Jaffa Cakes.
Mr C always says that as long as the weather is good, there's no place better. As usual, I disagree with him; even in the driving rain and the howling wind, I still feel most at peace in that scruffy caravan on the campsite between the beach and the harbour.
Summer holidays, even when the weather was rubbish, were always a glorious haven from the rest of the year; giving me time to spend with my family, my kids and dogs, just being, rather than doing. We spent most of our days together, as I hoofed them out of their bedrooms, and made them come with me wherever I went, at least until they were too big for me to carry under my arm. We travelled by train to visit my brother in The Isle of Man, spent a few days in London with Singapore Sal and her two, went to Carfest for a banging long bank holiday weekend, and stayed with cousins in Dorset. This year, I feel as if I have already had my long Summer with them - spending 14 or so weeks confined to barracks, walking the dogs, eating in the garden and shouting a lot, and I am ready for a bit of time away from them. Not because I don't like them, but because all three of them are adults now (or at least two are) and they don't want to play cards any more, or have picnics or come with me to the beach. They just want to watch Drag Race and Teen Mums in Prison, and lie in their beds until mid afternoon. And whilst it might be fun for them, it's certainly not for me. I need to be lying on that beach, eating ice creams and reading my book; watching the sun go down over the harbour and rummaging through the rails in the local charity shops looking for another Harrods raincoat. I am ready at last for the Summer of peace and solitude, having only having myself to please. And I would give anything to still have the luxury of my mum and dad to visit, but in their absence, Southwold will do. And if you happen to be passing, I will be very pleased to see you, just as long as you don't bring any stroppy kids with you.
In other news, Mr C shaved his beard off and instantly looked twenty years younger. Sadly, the Sid James laugh which appeared at the same time as the beard is still with us. I washed my hair (and instantly wished I hadn't bothered, as I suddenly realised that it was only the natural grease which was stopping it from being flyaway old lady hair.) The hairdresser is still two weeks away, and I will be avoiding public places until she has been.
Writing endeavours: I have received three rejections emails from the literary agents I applied to in June. There are two more submissions outstanding, and I've approached another two. I am trying to distract my attention from the submissions process by focussing on book #2. I am loving doing the research, which so far has taken me to Cambridge and Russia, and the plotting stage is well underway. The protagonist in my first novel, Magpie is very unpleasant, and it felt only right that the next one should be a kind and affable character who will have the reader rooting for her. Writing bad was great, let's hope that writing good will be as much of a pleasure.
Venturing out I called in to Vintage Retreat for lunch with T this week, although don't ask me which day it was, and we had a mooch around the shop, which has undergone many changes since our last visit. It was great to browse in Bohemian Finds, which has relocated there from Peacock Place, and is run by a very good friend of mine. And today T and I went to Aldi to buy flowers and sushi, but ended up with a trolley full of Cinnamon cereal, which I seriously need to avoid. I am getting used to wearing a face mask, although I am finding it very hard to look down, and consequently am rubbish at following the one way arrows on the floor. I wish they would have signs at eye level instead. I am also keeping an eye on the news, as there have been some recent suggestions that Northampton may shortly be subject to a local lockdown, due to increasing infections, well above the national rates.
We will just have to wait and see what happens, but I am hoping that to be in Suffolk very soon. I miss those wide skies, the pale golden sands and most of all the peace.
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