Christmas 2013

Dear all,

2013 was a truly fruitful year for the Sparkes. In addition to a fun-packed roller coaster of failing white goods, plaster cracks and blocked gutters, the house had plumbing issues that left water marks all over our kitchen ceiling. People often caught themselves rolling their eyes heavenward at the table and then staring in fascination at the Rorschach pattern above while we sat in suspense awaiting the end of their anecdote. They’d lose their train of thought and we’d never learn what happened to the Pole or the Irishman in the tale.

Lest we forget, Alex and Emily caught nits off each other for a few weeks. Back and forth and back and forth until we cracked their “secret sibling head rub” game. Then there was the “What does Fox Say” incident when zany Norwegian band Ylvis hit a gazillion whatnots on YouTube with a song by that title. We, logically enough, assumed Alex was yelling at his sister “what the f%$k are you saying???” and banned him from opening his mouth ever again. And no, he does not have unsupervised computer time, it was just there, suspended in the ether, and all the kids in his class seemed to be singing it by osmosis or something. Those fandangled “pooters” get my goat.

Alex is at an age where he doesn’t know whether he wants a build-a-bear or an ipod for Christmas. Emily is more focused on wanting to see loads of age inappropriate apparel under the tree better suited to the Moulin Rouge than West London. What does an 8 year old need with a tutu, leg warmers, flamenco shoes and a bikini top trimmed with marabou feathers, I ask you?

This leaves me somewhat trapped between my mother and daughter as the sartorially challenged Jessica Fletcher of “Murder She Wrote” sandwiched between Emily’s confections at one extreme and my mother’s fabulous sense of colour and style. Those of you who attended our wedding still talk about “THE” hat.
Emily demanded a lot of answers this year and I had to fess up to Father Christmas, the Easter Bunny and exactly how the daddy’s seed gets to the Mummy. Through it all, she remained sanguine until it dawned on her that the exchange rate meant losing teeth to the euro tooth fairy was a far less interesting proposition than to her Sterling counterpart in London.

Most of the time, Andrew and I just ride their quirkiness out and try not to fixate too much on the inherent contradictions of the pre-adolescent. When things get stressful with Alex, for example, I remind myself that I have an arsenal of secret weapons at my disposal such as standing at the school gates at drop off sign languaging “I love you my little bunny-wunny” as he files into 5th grade.
Andrew has been busy working on three businesses and most recently a recipe aggregation app called Zest. When home, he commandeers the kitchen table working late, typing furiously on the ipad, yelling his opinions at Radio Four during Women’s Hour, taking calls around the clock and responding to emails while whipping up a family supper.

My work is going fine and I am hoping to have my book out early this year. I know you’ve heard this all before but this time, I really really mean it. Enter “Cynthia Coleman Sparke” on Amazon and you’ll at least see what will neither be the cover nor the pub date.

But enough about us. We hope you are well and merry, wherever the season finds you.

All our love,

The Sparke Family

Drop us a line with your news on cynthia@coleman-consulting.co.uk and/or andrew@iskratv.com

Christmas Letter 2012

Having been laid up with ‘flu in the lead up to Christmas (not man ‘flu, the real deal), I got a bit behind this year. Apologies to Kirstie Allsopp who is England’s buxom answer to all that is evil about Martha Stewart. I have neither extracted ink from virgin squid to write upon homemade papyrus nor have I pressed poinsettia leaves to the backside of my envelopes...I resort to the e-letter.

Once again, I can’t point to ground-breaking news or enviable achievements: We’re fine, the kids are fine. Andrew and I have all our teeth; the kids less so.

We had a year to weave stray twine and twigs into our family story. Wonderful memories to us, such as Alex on the beach at Lyme Regis, filled with the unbridled joy of an 8 year old boy experiencing his first dramatic coastal storm, yelling “WELL DONE, WAVES” at the sea. The four of us on Halloween night, snuggled under duvets in garden chairs at Dorogaya (my parents’ home in Normandy) and staring at the stars. Another I keep close to my heart is spinning out a bedtime story with Emily whispering sleepily “you’re taking me into a wonderland”.

We shared some fabulous travels over the course of the year, and perhaps best of all a magical trip to Amsterdam. I include the only documentary evidence of the four of us from 2012 taken by a passing skater on a frozen canal. Note the tragic sartorial misstep that IS that beret when I don’t wear it at the proper angle. Note too, that Emily hadn’t wiped that frown off her face for 48 hrs due to the cold. Added to Plan Amsterdam were crackling fires with my parents at Dorogaya, two weeks by a pool in Spain, theatre outings in London, cheering Andrew on at the Royal Parks ½ marathon, outdoor food festivals, bike rides—mostly anodyne “you had to be there” sorts of things but moments we treasure none the less.

The kids didn’t break any world records but they learned to try things they hadn’t imagined they might be good at. Emily’s long legs are made for running hurdles. She draws beautiful peacock feathers and has a kooky sense of style (ref her mother’s headgear???) Alex can play off-key on his electric keyboard for hours, fix most of my IT issues and make pancake batter from scratch.

Outside of work hours, Andrew continues to work his socks off volunteering for the kids’ school, singing at church, and cooking for friends and neighbours. He is patient, resourceful, calm, soothing where I am neurotic, anxious, and short-fused.

You know when Maria von Trapp looks mistily off camera and sings “…somewhere in my youth, or childhood [chorus: OOORRR CHILDHOOOD] I must have done something good”, then leans into Captain von Trapp’s arms and continues “for here you are, standing there, loving me”? It’s kinda not like that at all. Instead of Salzburg, I’m in our kitchen in Chiswick wondering how in blazes I got so lucky?? Not that we’ve converted our interlined draperies into matching lederhosen but picture this: After shooing me out of the house last summer and onto my bike so that I could re-boot along the Thames, I was welcomed home with the word “better?” and handed a cool drink. Or recently when I was chilled to the bone waiting for the 94, he collected me at that bus stop in our toasty car. 10 years on and Andrew still doesn’t do the hearts and flowers but, jeez-o-flip, does he blindside me with impeccable timing.

I have continued to consult for Bonhams and finally completed my book on Russian Decorative Arts. The snappy title is “Russian Decorative Arts” and is due out this Spring 2013; available near you on Amazon pre-order. This to explain much of my tantruming over parts of this year as various deadlines loomed.

Tomorrow, practically on the eve of Christmas, we set out to Rugby to attend the Christening of our newest little cousin, Clara. They tell us it will be a small celebration for family and friends; a moment to remind us of how precious life is and how much we have to be thankful for. Then on the 24th, we will go to a crib service at St. Michael and All Angels and hear Alex in their junior choir. Nadine and Fred have arrived from Paris loaded down with delicacies. Having my parents and my brother Eric around the table on Christmas Eve, to be joined by my in-laws on the 25th, will bring huge joy (as well as lashings of washing up).

May you have someone in mind to kiss under the mistletoe but most importantly, your own reasons to celebrate the end of 2012 and the dawn of a New Year. I know we all say we are “SO over” making resolutions but who doesn’t look forward to a fresh start?

Merry Christmas and much love from the Sparke Family xxx

Christmas letter 2011

Dear friends-
As another year draws to a close, it seems fitting to reflect on the past 12 months and to share our proudest moments with you. This is where we will casually drop names and list our children’s achievements in no particular order. The goal is to amuse you and keep you feeling in touch with our lives.
Except that waxing lyrical about our smug life isn’t actually going to make you feel warm about us at all. We think our offsprings’ little habits are darling but given the extra drinking many of you are doing this season, reading such bile will only serve to exacerbate your hangovers. With this in mind, I think it worth trying to share the unvarnished truth.
We have neither moved house, travelled extensively nor completed any triathlons. We haven’t traded in our car, acquired a pet or had any run-ins with stars of Xfactor. No one has been identified, recruited or headhunted. Alex and Emily haven’t particularly distinguished themselves at school, business has been patchy for both of us and Andrew’s corns have played up. My book isn’t finished and, in certain light, I reveal the unmistakeable signs of a permanent moustache problem.
That said, loved ones who waited endlessly for children either adopted or through the miracle of science became parents. THAT is joy to behold. Other A-listers in our entourage were given the all-clear or came back from unspeakably dark places. We are endlessly thankful for the forces that guided and/or granted these outcomes.
Our families are well. On Andrew’s side, the oldest generation is travelling far more than we are. My brother is enjoying his new job and my parents are too busy with their own lives to be on tap whenever the need to call or visit happens to strike me. When it works for everyone’s diary, we enjoy their amazing hospitality as a precious getaway or they come to us and smother the kids with nibbles and treats.
Andrew makes me weep with laughter. Through thick and thin, he makes me snort, giggle, cackle and literally wet myself with mirth. That has to be worth a great deal. He has been incredible about keeping his weight low. This has in no way inspired me to visit the gym any more often.
The house is alive with Alex plonking away at the piano. I’m not saying he’s good. I’m saying he enjoys it. Emily spends an awful lot of time turning art supplies into stuff. I’m not saying she has a gift of any kind. I’m saying it absorbs her.
There are fingerprints on the walls and dust bunnies where there shouldn’t be but the house is alive with laughter and music—of sorts. We do loads of things together like snuggle in bed on weekday mornings, ride bikes and picnic and cook. The things we do at church make us feel happy to belong to something bigger. They also contradict that biddy who said we only went to church to get into the school.
There is always a duvet waiting for you and a meal to share. Just make contact on andrew@iskratv.com or cynthia@coleman-consulting.co.uk and we can take it from there.

All our love this Christmas.

Because I Wannid It

“Because I wannid it”.
This was the sum and total of Bratgirl’s explanation for why she had a shiny keychain in her hot little hand. An item that she had not traded for any form of currency and which her “grownup” had told her specifically she could not acquire due to lack of any funds whatsoever. Stupid me had given her a few Mauritian rupees and some disused Pfennigs when Bratgirl showed an interest in counting coins but even these were nestled safely at home under a mound of Barbie limbs surplus to requirement.
Getting the point across to a five year old that taking something because you “wannid it” is actually theft is challenging. First there is the absence of any context for commercial transactions. You hungry, you eat. You naked, you dress etc…etc… All needs are provided for by the parents in our household, a model I daresay not unique to our family unit. We appealed to her conscience explaining that there was a Science Museum staff member out there who was being brutally punished for being one keychain short at stock count. Nothing could countermand the glazed look of “are we done here?” that Bratgirl had perfected by the time she was out of nappies. Ok, perhaps we were complicating matters but we finally resorted to scaring our little girl by telling her we were considering calling the police.
In order to circumvent our daughter’s certain path into crime, I dragged her the very next day to the Science Museum gift shop in time for opening. Having scanned the room, I smugly selected a salesperson who appeared to be eeking out the last few weeks before his statutory retirement. Here was a dour looking fellow who had chastised a gazillion thieving children over his long and rich career working the tills at the aforementioned museum. I pointed accusingly at Bratgirl proffering her pilfered goods to Tillperson. “She who has stolen this is here to make amends” I said grandly hoping to sear this momentous occasion into our daughter’s subconscious. She turned to him with her watery blue eyes and bleated “msory” at which point he kneeled down and said gently “Aaaah that’s alright, I’m sure you didn’t mean it”.
Well yes actually she did!! After being told she couldn’t have it, she snuck it into her pocket yesterday at approximately fifteen hundred hours. And another thing, Mister Tillperson, I didn’t drag her out of bed, locate my Oyster Card, and frogmarch Bratgirl onto public transport at rush hour to teach her that her watery blue eyes would make everything a.o.k.?!?!!?
By this time, the nervous tick in my left eye was jitterbugging but didn’t keep me from spotting Securityguy. Actually it was the mismatched epaulettes that gave him a faux military look of authority. So off we headed to explain once again that museum property had been stolen and to explore the various implications of this grievous act. The creepy eyes facilitated our hitting the correctional jackpot. “Well little girl, we usually call the police who take thieves to prison. But as this is your first time, we won’t do that. HOWEVER, you see this camera over here and that one over there, they have your picture now so if you ever try to take something from the gift shop again, we’ll know about it”.
Now I realise that we could have used another approach but talking it through and underlining that we are unconditionally proud of her with every breath of our beings but that it was not nice to take the keychain would not have made the same impact. A few weeks ago, the same child asked to spend her pocket money on a portfolio of "Match attacks" football cards. When I questioned her motives, she looked me straight in the eye and said “so I can swap them for something much, MUCH, better.”

Biker dude

A woman reaches a certain age when she wishes builders would start whistling again and that people would stop looking through her. Did I say that out loud?
I met a man this summer who made me think deeply about chivalry. I never found out his name but it all happened one balmy morning in the hills beyond Castelnaudary in France.

Of the families sharing our villa, only S. felt the same acute need for baked goods that I was experiencing so we took to the rusty bikes that had graciously been included in the price of our holiday rental. My dinky panier lept off its hooks by the time we reached the end of the drive and a little further on came the amusing discovery that one of us had brakes and the other had working gears. Hell, we had a working bike between us and as the kids were happily splashing around the pool with husbands, life was gooooooo---ooood.

Undeterred, we cycled on until we reached a sign informing us that the closest village with a Boulangerie open on a Sunday was a mere 5 kilometers from the very spot we were at. S. led the way, skirts tucked fetchingly into her knickers and hair frolicking in the breeze. I puffed along behind---very much the emphysemic great aunt struggling to vaguely keep up with S's tanned calves. She was magnificent. I was drenched in sweat, pasty mouthed and starting to sunburn.

Returning empty handed was not an option. Calling the husbands on our mobiles for a lift back home wasn't an option. We vowed to complete our mission. As God was our witness, we would be worthy of "Operation Pain au Raisin."

Perhaps 45 minutes later, as we rounded yet another hill to find a curious lack of villages or bakeries of any description, a dashing man caught up with us. He wore distinguished mustaches and the country casual attire of a fellow entirely at ease with 80 odd years of picking up English girls.

As he overtook us, we gasped in a rather unattractive gaspy way: "Can you possibly tell us where this Godforsaken village is?". His eyes twinkled merrily as he swept his hand vaguely across the landscape and instructed us to kindly follow him. We struggled to keep up with our escort who seemed at one with the hairpin turns and hilly topography. Our thighs shook from the exertions of yet another massive hill as he beckoned to us from the next valley.

When we finally caught up with him we were in rough shape. Despite quite seriously hyperventilating and dehydrating, we made inquiries as to the secret of his vigour. Was it the air or simple clean living? He answered with the accent of his region "ma bicyclette est dopee". True enough, his bike was fitted with a tiny little motor that permitted him to effortlessly glide up Kilimanjaro and down the Himalayas.

With that, we reached the village boulangerie and thanked our guide profusely. The old goat requested sloppy kisses be dispensed to both cheeks in full view of the late morning queue for baguettes. Despite much arm waving from the baker himself who came around the counter to harangue our new friend for being up to his old tricks again, our very own biker dude managed an intriguing statement as we parted. "Perhaps now you will believe that there are still people in France who are nice to the British."

French customer service. NOT!!

I don't know if anyone else can relate but I find that I need to vent.
In a big way.
Now.

Based on the fact that I now live in London but used to work in Paris, I have a bank account in both countries. Now imagine, if you will, that upon rising you decide over your morning coffee that you want to send money from your account in London to your account in Paris. We are not talking funds to reduce the debt of a small country but housekeeping or pin money. So that when I am next visiting my parents in France, I am at my ease when purchasing a frippery such as an eyeliner, an espresso or some postcards. Are you still with me because I want to be clear that I am sending my money from my account to my account?

Never having been into racketeering or money laundering, I was perplexed to find that my bank in Paris was not accepting my transfer from London and that it was hanging in limbo somewhere between MY two accounts. I found this out because the money just wasn't showing up in my online statements.

Rang my bank in Paris who told me to talk to my personal banker at my very own branch. I think I last visited this place when I lived off my parents and had a curfew so wasn't really on a first name basis with the person who occupies herself with my "compte." Sorry this just cracks me up in an Inspector Clouseau "Is that your Compte" way. But I digress.

It turns out my "compte" is suspiciously inactive for long periods of time (guffaw guffaw) and then I have the audacity to try to top it up with a hundred euros here and there. As to where my money is, she cannot look into the matter unless I send a fax requesting that she follow up. I am told in shocked tones that I may NOT email. That is to say, as I have not subscribed to the email service that would permit me to email her. She tells me that she will be able to look into the matter armed with this fax in a way that she is unable to without this piece of paper to hand. The subtlety is lost on me so I do some parallel thinking.

Having lived in the Soviet Union while growing up, this conversation could have gone two ways. Either I was going to have to go around or through whatever Gogolian scenario a bureaucrat was sending my way. A bottle of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes probably would have put us both in a weird contravention of banking etiquette and as this was not 1986 Moscow, definitely the wrong tack.

Going around her, the call center was able to confirm that the money was in limbo but now I needed to get it into my French account. Again I dialed the agent in charge of my "compte." She told me that as I had not sent a fax requesting that the funds be accepted, her hands were OBVIOUSLY tied. I sent a fax in my most flowery diplomatic language entreating her to accept the transfer and still nothing on my statement.

It turns out I had failed to add a photocopy of my passport which apparently proved beyond reasonable doubt that I was the very same housefrau who had been haranguing the call centre to accept her meagre pin money. When I cackled down the telephone at the keeper of my "compte" that she could see how surreal this was becoming she gathered herself and snapped back that without identification, Madam could be trying to access any number of "comptes".

Well I never!!

Nanny Porn

My colleagues wanted to know why, as a work-from-home consultant, I was spending an inordinate amount of time in the office. The answer was simple. I was hiding from the nanny.
Being my own hyper-efficient self, I decided to put the finishing touches to a book proposal while giving the kids a snack and spending quality time in the same room as offspring. Our Childcare was, at that moment, transformed into our Cleaner and not, strictly speaking, on duty.
The kids drifted away in that grumpy way that young children have when you have not answered the millionth question asked in a 3 minute period. "Do elephants fart through their trunks?" and other conversational jewels would have to wait while I spell checked one last time.
Sending them upstairs to where the nanny,cleaner,school picker-upper was ironing so they could watch a DVD seemed logical enough when they left the room. As a result I had about 20 minutes to myself to concentrate on ME and MY needs on MY own. I want to say here and now that I do not condone TV watching as a replacement for the nurturing ministrations of a blood relative but, as I said, this was about MY needs.
What followed was our youngest bursting into the kitchen, asking "what that lady she is doing with thah fruit?" Having left my two little angels to chose their own DVD, they opted for Almodovar's "Kika" which was way up high in the Mummy and Daddy section of our shelves and not in with the Disneys at toddler height. What about the fruit you ask? So a man segments an orange and dips it into a lady's err...thingy. It is one scene in a much longer art house film, ok?
The nanny stormed into the kitchen hot on the heels of her charges, although strictly speaking she was ironing and not on the clock as their looker-after, but I digress. She then flung the DVD in the manner of a former Eastern Block shot putter at my left temple and spat "THIS is not for children I think, YES??"
This left me having to explain that Almodovar is certainly NOT for children, NOT characteristic of the sort of film that my husband and I watch on a regular basis and very much NOT for children YES.
She thought me so repugnant at that moment that I could hear her inner-self reviewing her contractual obligations to my family. Am pleased to report she stayed on but my nerves are frayed after her verbal warning. I have resolved to be much clearer to her about my responsibilities towards my kids and to use appropriate language like "Willy and Wonka" to designate...errrr....private parts.