2016 was a mixed bag for us.
Between Brexit and President elect The Donald, it has been a discombobulating
year to say the least.
Most of our highpoints were our times away from home. In February, we travelled to Barcelona and
had a fabulous time visiting the sights and sampling tapas. The kids didn’t think much of the Picasso
Museum. They felt he started off alright but later work such as his ‘Las
Meninas’ were beneath contempt.
In addition to planning a fabulous weekend in Paris kicked off
with a conspicuously chic picnic on the Eurostar, Andrew pulled off a surprise
getaway to Madrid for Cynthia’s 50th. For the remainder of the year, we sponged
shamelessly off our relatives with breaks at Tig and Andrew’s enchanting
cottage in Lyme Regis, as well as the Colemans in Paris and Normandy.
Workwise, Andrew changed tack and became a Latin teacher across
three schools and various tutoring gigs.
He’d last taught at his old boarding school when Thatcher was PM and has
had to adopt a more softly-softly approach to students who are no longer
motivated by the threat of swift beatings.
You may have heard that Latin is a dead language, so no great changes in
that industry since those heady days of his unbridled youth.
Cynthia has also stepped back in time to take on insurance
work. Now that site visits are partly superceded
by sitting at home downloading satellite images, risk reports can be filed from
the comfort of her bunny slippers and fetching onesie or moth-eaten leisure
garment. Hypothetically speaking. Not that she owns a onesie but you get the
point. I vow to wear normal clothes when
the children have friends around next year.
That said, such fun to slip into my trusty Madonna holdovers from the
“Desperately Seeking Susan” era when they are all out of the house.
With Alex now 12 and in Year 8, we have a form of live-in aftercare
for Emily. He usually remembers to pick
up his sister who is 11 and in Year 6 at a school across the road. Alex has stunned us with a fantastic report
card given that much of the time he opts not to review for exams stating that
he “can’t be bothered” and that “life is too short”. I will
be adopting his laissez faire bonhomie as the first of my New Year’s
resolutions and will retort similarly when Alex is next hoping to locate rugby
socks or a fresh school shirt.
Drumming continues to grip Alex’ interest as does table
tennis. You’d think hanging around parks
in various European capitals waiting by a ping pong table for someone (anyone)
to turn up appears a little suspect but not in his world where language and
lack of social intercourse of any kind is no barrier to picking up a game with
random passers by. I am greatly
comforted that he keeps words to a minimum and grunts at perfect strangers so
it isn’t behaviour reserved for home life!
Emily is perfecting cartwheels, backflips, walkovers and various other
bendy moves learned in her Saturday gym sessions. This follows an extensive campaign when she
insisted she wanted to take classes despite our unwillingness to indulge her in
this pursuit. We had our reasons, namely
that when an 11 year old spontaneously wants to pursue this dream, the entire
West London gymnastics community snorts derisively that to attend this or that
class, you’d have to have signed your daughter up at conception. Andrew and I stood shoulder to shoulder,
united in parental we-know-bestnest while she slowly eroded our will to live
and applied stealth like tactics to make us doubt every decision we ever made
on her behalf. In a final offensive, Emily
wore nothing but a spangly leotard she’d purchased, from the back of a sales
rack in an industrial estate in Normandy for 9 euros, day and in day out for a
solid week and we finally caved. So she
attends a weekly dance, tumbling, gymnastics, cheerleading hybrid class that
keeps her off our backs.
Emily is busy preparing her 11+ exams and it won’t be long before
she’ll know where she is going for Year 7.
Following loads of visits to schools rated by her on the basis of
uniform style, cafeteria smells and presence or absence of boys, she has
created a shortlist. I’m not going to
name names but some of the schools we visited were scary places full of very
precocious girls in smart uniforms—at least from the waist up. From what we could see some skirts weren’t
strictly speaking of approved lengths.
Nor where they even, technically speaking, skirts at all. Call me old-fashioned but a nice ankle-length
tweed wouldn’t go amiss.
Upon reflection, we had much to be thankful for this year although I
was unable to channel that sentiment into a reasonable looking pumpkin
pie. Being half American, it is my job
to muster up treats at Thanksgiving and July 4th – the latter being
great fun when you live in England and are married to a Brit. Nothing like painting one’s nails red, white
and blue and waving a cheery “Happy Fourth” to every passerbye on the Chiswick
High Road.
But back to Thanksgiving, I resorted to remaining unflappable and to
act like the recipe came out exactly as a distant ancestor or the inhabitants
of some remote location intend. I have
yet to be questioned and suggest you try this for yourselves. Soggy base on that pecan pie you say? Not a
bit of it. It’s a traditional
family recipe from Mooseprout where my Great Aunt Vonga ran the women’s local
"Stitch and Bitch" sessions. She was known across county
borders for her reinterpretations of Amish quilts integrating family jockstraps
and tea towels (Beautiful work from a woman with hands the size of meat
cleavers). She used to chew tobacco and whistle motown tunes to stay
alert blah blah blah…by the time you are part way through this insane family
recollection, they’ve lost the will to live and the pecan pie has been
eaten/discarded.
Voila!
We hope
Christmas finds you with loved ones and that 2017 will kick off full of great
plans. Do drop us a line if with your
news and come visit!
