Musings on the Mundane

‘This is the life!’ sighs the Nearly-Beloved, sipping his complementary cup of East Midlands Railway tea, ‘No airport chaos, no security cattle pens and no idiots trying to find their seats.’

I nod in half-hearted agreement, thinking of the not so cheap or fast journey ahead. Still, it means I can get some eco-points and ‘green brag’ about my city break in a boutique Amsterdam hotel.  Plus, a special first-class deal ensures that we won’t be sitting in the corridors or perched on the luggage rack. My Yorkshire thrift is trying to make the most of this upgrade. So, I’ve already commandeered two bottles of fizzy water, four packets of biscuits and a bumper pack of crisps from the buffet trolley whilst awaiting our hot breakfast buns.

To my surprise, we arrive on the dot at St. Pancras, saunter through security checks and passport control and settle down in Euro-Star’s near empty lounge to await our connection. Maybe for once the Nearly-Beloved is right. ‘Train travel is so civilised,’ I message the Family WhatsApp.

But, oh, why did I press ‘send’? The moment I do, the board announces a 10-minute delay on all outbound trains, that goes up incrementally, just like the travellers overflowing the waiting area. When the seething masses force passport control to close for safety reasons, there is a brief respite. Then there is an announcement that our driver is making the final checks. The Nearly-Beloved, who likes to be ahead of the game, leaps up in readiness. ‘If we head for the escalator now, we’ll be first on,’ he says determinedly, yanking me up. But his excitement is short-lived as, minutes later, we are informed of a ‘police incident’ on our train and, now, with no seats, we are forced to ‘stretch our legs’ for over an hour.

Eventually technical and criminal issues are sorted and, with cramping calves, I board the train, turning right into carriage D. Except it is carriage C. So, I quickly turn left into the glowering face of the Nearly-Beloved, who frogmarches me towards my seat. He is not happy and any lingering vestige of cheerfulness disappears when we are informed that there is a limited buffet service.

Thank goodness for my bag of edibles! But as we cross the border, this morning’s sausage buttie decides it is not compatible with stress, shortbread and salt‘n’vinegar, so bids ‘Au revoir’ as we exit Lille. At least the ‘eau gazeuse’ stays down and the journey through Belgium passes without mishap. That is until ten minutes outside Brussels a rumour circulates amongst the savvy Dutch that the train is going to terminate there. Surely this is misinformation? Unfortunately, not!  An incomprehensible tannoy message in three languages leaves us none the wiser, so we tag on to those misinformers and head to platform 8, then platform 4 until we finally strike lucky at platform 6 and clamber on to a local train to Amsterdam.

This sets off promptly but grinds to a halt five miles later, due to ‘unidentified objects on the line.’ By now the Nearly-Beloved has lost his love of train travel and is soon to lose his love of bougie accommodation when he is informed by phone that the hotel staff will shortly be shutting up shop for the evening, so our key will be left in …  At this point the train jolts forward into a tunnel and phone service is cut off. It reconnects briefly at the other end to stutter ‘chocolate box,’ a series of garbled numbers and a rather inopportune, ‘Have a good stay!’

Thank goodness then for those helpful Dutch fellow-sufferers, who manoeuvre our suitcases over the turnstile at Amsterdam South station when our tickets to Amsterdam Central are spat out in disgust. And thank goodness for the Nearly-Beloved’s excellent sense of direction, which takes us to the correct street and a wall-mounted safe opposite a Chocolate Shop. And thank goodness for my linguistic skills that help crack the code to the hotel and a quirky room with complementary bottle of wine.

As the Sauvignon Blanc starts to work its magic, I sigh, ‘This is the life,’ whilst inwardly vowing to ditch my green credentials, forego any future train trips and refrain from all WhatsApp messaging.

Buying into the idea that it’s good to get out of your comfort zone. I sign myself and the Nearly-Beloved up for a Segway adventure in the Forest of Dean, unaware, until I come to sign the waiver, that this is considered a HIGH-RISK ACTIVITY!

My pen hesitates for a moment until I remember this is the 21^st century, where everything is deemed dangerous and potentially litigious, whereas my Boomer childhood visits to the park involved no parental supervision, no safety surfaces and no holds barred. I’m sure the risks of a Segway ride are nothing compared to launching yourself off a swing onto concrete. So, signature secured, I queue up with my fellow adventurers, Carly and Dwayne, to get a helmet – another protective measure  absent in my youth.

And here we meet Ian, our instructor and Health and Safety millennial evangelist. He is not impressed with Carly’s on trend top knot. We wait whilst she unbraids it to secure a snug fit. Meanwhile, Dwayne, who has completed his outfit with sunglasses and a bandana, is looking like a potential bank robber, rather than an acute hay fever sufferer. Then, the Nearly-Beloved, who is gung-ho about injury, is berated for wearing his head gear at a jaunty tilt. Luckily, Ian does not hear his muttered ‘Snowflake generation!’ reply.

We are now ready for ‘the talk,’ where Ian invokes the fear of God. The Segway, it appears, is a manic monster, with a mind of its own, capable of throwing us off at great speeds. It is sensitive to the slightest movement, irresistibly drawn to potholes and ditches and rears up at the sight of a dog. We must follow the three commandments or end up in A&E!

Ian stares at us with religious fervour and intones:

Always make slow, deliberate movements!

Keep both hands on the Segway at all times!

Be alert, look ahead and NEVER back!

We assent with a nod and a whispered ‘Amen’ before progressing to the practice test, where Ian will determine if we are to be let loose on the forest paths. And he’s already sussed out that I am the weakest link, whilst the Nearly-Beloved is judged ‘a natural’ after just one circuit of the track. Fortunately, Carly is also a tentative rider and Dwayne, who is operating with limited vision, needs a second attempt before getting his L-plates. Finally, we line up behind Ian, emergency whistles around our necks, in case of trouble. But for now, all is well, so off we Segway.

It takes a little getting used to, as any small movement causes the machine to change direction, and tilting your body forward increases the speed. However, after a while, I start to relax and enjoy my woodland surroundings. Bird song fills the air, squirrels watch us curiously from the branches and the noiseless Segways allow us to cover ground quickly, without disturbing the nature around us.

All is calm and peaceful until in the distance I spot a Golden Retriever. It is racing towards me, with a snake in its mouth that it hurls in my direction!  Immediately, I swing to my left, narrowly avoiding the hissing reptile and causing the Segway to veer towards a pothole. There is no time to get the whistle out whilst focusing on keeping my balance and both hands on the handles. So, I resort to old-school yelling, which certainly gets Ian’s attention. He executes an impressive U-turn and returns at full-throttle to rescue me from what turns out to be a plastic dog toy.

Once order is restored, we continue onwards, over bridges and streams, as Ian points out the assorted wildlife and shows us where beavers have been reintroduced into the forest. By now I’m at ease with my Segway. I’ve befriended it and it has got a handle on me. It knows I appreciate a nice steady pace, a clear line and a slow descent on any slope. Carly and Dwayne’s rides are also in synch with mine and so we proceed in an orderly manner.

The Nearly-Beloved, on the other hand, has a different relationship with his beast, which is chomping at the bit to overtake – a definite no-no, from Ian’s extensive list of forbidden actions. I can sense his Segway catching up with mine. He’s definitely closer than Ian’s 3-metre ‘safe zone’ but I daren’t look back.

‘You’re too near,’ I warn him.

‘But you’re all so slow,’ he groans, ‘We’ll never reach full speed at this rate.’

And then to his further annoyance, the Segways in front come to a stand-still, as Dwayne, despite all his preventative measures, succumbs to a full-blown sneezing fit.

I find my Segway’s biting point, balancing expertly to keep it from advancing. But the Nearly-Beloved is done with this health and safety lark. He lurches forward and, in blatant violation of all three commandments, sails past, one fist in the air, looking back at us all in jubilation as he hurtles off into the distance.

Needless to say, Ian is not impressed, we are now in the discomfort zone, and the Nearly-Beloved has been barred from any future HIGH-RISK ACTIVITIES!

Bruce Springsteen’s ‘The Land of Hope and Dreams Tour’ kicks off in Manchester and I’m lucky enough to have a ticket.

So, I queue up with the other concert goers, who, despite being of a certain age, seem reluctant to relinquish their youth. No blue rinses, sensible tweeds or hush puppies for them. Bandanas are out in force amidst an abundance of bald heads and white hair. Denim is stretched tight over dodgy knees and ankle supports. And the place is awash with drugs – blood pressure tablets, cholesterol lowering pills and acid reflux lozenges.

But gaining admission to the Arena proves exhausting in itself. The mental and physical dexterity needed to engage with digital tickets is beyond the capacity of several tech-challenged oldies. Body scanners beep overtime at the multitude of hip replacements.  And, once inside, the ability to scan bar-coded burgers means the difference between eating or not.

But at least this sea of sixty-year-olds ‘does not go gentle into that good night.’ The ‘White cliffs of Dover’ will never make their play list, for they are born to run and dance in the dark.  And when specs have been put on to find seats and discreet hearing aids adjusted to minimise the bass, then the audience is ready to welcome ‘The Boss’ to the stage.

And what a performer Springsteen is! He may be a grandad, but he’s definitely got a gym subscription. I’d like to believe that inside his funky red shoes are comfy orthotics, and that his rock’n’roll, leather bands conceal arthritic wrist aids. But whatever vitamin supplements that sexy senior is taking, they definitely do the job!

He owns the stage and works the crowd. The mosh pit, where all the under forties have been corralled, goes wild. Because everyone has a hungry heart for his music, his lyrics and, most of all, his energy. He not only sings, but plays guitar and harmonica and his passion for his message shines through.

As the songs keep coming and the fans keep singing, I realise that Bruce has been the soundtrack of my life for the last forty years – so many hits over so many decades! And as he works his magic, a subtle change takes place. Wrinkles unravel, muscles untense, aches are forgotten and the audience is transported by the music to a timeless zone, where the message in the lyrics is what truly inspires and uplifts. It reminds us that, whatever our age, we can all make a difference. Mother earth is our home town and our city may currently be in ruins but, even if it’s a long walk home, we can all rise up.

And so, we do. Fists thumping into the air, we harness the power of a youth forgotten. We are only as old as our energy, not our age, and tonight belongs to love in this land of hope and dreams!

Little Angel is immensely proud of herself. She’s sitting up all on her own. Who knew that balancing took so much effort? She wobbles to her left but counteracts this with a panicky wave of her right hand. She sways backwards slightly but a well-placed cushion realigns her. She beams in delight at her newfound skill then suddenly nose-dives into the carpet. For a moment it’s all tears until equilibrium is restored and this strange new world becomes manageable once more.

That’s also the reason I’m babysitting today so that Darling Daughter can re-surface from the seabed of responsibility and float once more on the ocean of carefreeness. Because parenthood is the biggest balancing act of all, with mums and dads walking the tightrope of insanity between euphoria and despair. And sometimes we all need a break and a helping hand.

Or sometimes we need to find the right balance. Grunting Teen has just learnt this lesson the hard way. It turns out that too much socialising and hanging out with friends on the PS4 does not equate to high marks on your homework. Apparently, all play and no work, also makes Jack an educationally dull boy.

Still at least he’s now back on track, unlike his father, whose injured knee has plunged him into an abyss of self-pity. The Nearly-Beloved’s grumpometer is off the scale as he can no longer release the stresses of the day through playing tennis. Chain-eating Hobnobs is not the answer and tips the weighing scales even less in his favour. So, it’s just as well that the sun has been shining and that salad and short strolls have been on the menu.

If only our planet as a whole could find that balance. When the world’s wealthiest 20% account for 75% of total private consumption and the poorest fifth just 1.5%, the figures don’t add up. And with an Oxfam report showing that the richest 1% of the world’s population is worth more than the other 99%, then something is surely wrong? We see this need for levelling up on a national level too. Our north-south divide has grown to Grand Canyon proportions and it’s hard for us Yorkshire folk to comprehend. It might even make us look unkindly on our luckier southern countrymen because the reality is that some people will always be more equal than others. But when more of us become less unequal, then we will finally be heading in the right direction. And if a baby can learn to find a point of balance, then surely, we supposed grown-ups can too?

As for me, I’ve been juggling too many plates recently – work, family and a new writing project.  So, it’s time for me to retire from this blog for a while to find that balance in my own life. I hope that you all can find it too.

Hair! Or lack of it. It’s got a lot to answer for. One person’s idea of a joke can quickly turn into an Oscar winning slapping offence. The Nearly-Beloved, who himself is follicly-challenged, generally pre-empts comments on his appearance by announcing, ‘I’ve got wavy hair… It waved goodbye.’ In fact, it vanished from his scalp whilst he was still a youngster, in the days when balding pates were associated with middle-aged darts players, rather than handsome X-men. So, he took the ribbing with good-humour, was forced to grow a thick skin and discovered that inner confidence is even more attractive than a shiny mane.

Our elder son thought he’d escaped this hair loss heritage. In his teens, too lazy to visit the barber’s, he sported a massive ‘Wafro’.  Marge Simpson would’ve been proud of it. He got invited to a lot of parties since his parlour trick was hiding pencils and miscellaneous objects inside his giant birds’ nest. But then common sense, age and genetics kicked in. Thankfully, he’d mastered his father’s self-assurance, so no need for expensive toupees or footballer’s hair transplants. And luckily, close-shaven heads are now in fashion.

Grunting Teen, however, is not convinced. As the one remaining male in the family with hair, he’s decided to embrace the shaggy dog look. Unfortunately, his beauty routine is less high fashion model and more grunge down and out. A comb or brush have never touched his barnet, so his tresses are of the tangled variety. Only time will tell whether he too has the ‘wavy’ gene.

And it’s not only men who have issues. Darling Daughter, whose crowning glory glistened and gleamed throughout her pregnancy, now finds her hair falling out in clumps and its lusciousness rapidly dulling. She at least though does have a reward for this fall from heady glory. Creating a brand-new human being is surely worth a tumble down the charts in the hairdresser’s style book?

But neither has Little Angel remained unscathed. Born with an impressive head of hair, sadly, several months of lying on her back have worn patches where curls used to be. She’s currently sporting a monk’s tonsure, which society no longer deems acceptable. Hence the sharp rise in the accessory market, with bows and baby scarves being this season’s must-haves.

I, on the other hand, have the opposite problem. For years I cultivated a short hair-style that was quick to wash, easy to manage and required no styling skills. Then lockdown happened and my locks grew down, until one day I realised I now had shoulder length-hair. Oh, the novelty of swishing and flicking. And the realisation that I actually had the ‘wavy’ type, with the added benefit of it being still attached to my head.

It’s been a subject of many comments, the vast majority favourable. I’ve even gone unrecognised by some, more used to my GI Jane look. But every silver lining has a cloud.  It now takes forever to blow-dry my coiffure. Grips, slides and bobbles have become part of my vocabulary. What’s more, the Nearly-Beloved has bequeathed me the task of unclogging the shower.  He hands me some tweezers and the baking soda. ‘Just keep my wife’s hair out of your drain,’ he jokes. And for a moment I feel like slapping him…

Life is full of challenges. It’s natural to want to stay within our comfort zone. However, in my opinion, challenges make our world more interesting and are an opportunity for growth.

Few things are more challenging than parenthood. Those of us who’ve seen our children overcome their upbringing to emerge as relatively unscathed adults might look back on the whole experience through rose-tinted glasses. But watching my own daughter become a mother reminds me of all the obstacles that need to be negotiated. The very act of leaving the house with a squalling infant is an achievement in itself. It’s a full-scale military operation. Unfortunately, the commander-in-chief has been subjected to sleep deprivation torture and is no longer capable of rationale thought or coherent speech. The temptation then is simply to stay within the safety of the familiar four walls. So, it is with no hint of irony that I cheer Darling Daughter on when she tells me she’s survived a pram-trip into town on the tram.

Little Angel also has to deal with more than her fair share of trials and tribulations. After all, a human body takes some getting used to. That head is so heavy it’s impossible for a baby to hold up all on her own. And the concept of rolling over seems totally impossible. Until one day, there she is, sitting up straight or performing acrobatics on her playmat. This ‘baby-mindset’ of never giving up is useful to adopt at all ages. For them, there’s none of ‘this transferring food from hand to mouth is far too complicated, I’ll just have a servant feed me for the rest of my life’, or ‘This walking malarkey is beyond me, I’ve decided to remain seated forever’. No, they get stuck in, smearing banana in their eyes and hair. They fall down and then get up again ad infinitum. All accompanied with equal amounts of tears and laughter.

Then suddenly, before you know it, they’ve reached anguished adolescence. This is the no-man’s land where the challenge is to escape the trench of childhood and scale the barbed wire into adulthood. There are so many decisions to be made and paths to choose. What subjects to study? Whose party to go to? Which PS4 game to play? Our own Grunting Teen is doing alright at the moment. He’s keeping up with his school work, has a part-time job and a social life. What a long way he’s travelled from the anxiety and isolation of lockdown life.

And yet the challenges keep coming, as the Nearly-Beloved has recently discovered. That lean, mean body machine of his youth is now in need of a full service. His rugby days have taken their toll on his knees, the Aikido did his back in and the tennis has finally reached his elbow. He could so easily call it a day, sit back on the couch and become a potato. Instead, he adapts to the situation. Competition is part of his nature, so if he can’t be king pin of the bowling alley, he’ll make sure he beats you at tiddly winks.

As for me, my current challenge is to run the Manchester marathon on April 3^rd. The training has been long and arduous. The weather mainly inclement and unkind. The pain both physical and psychological. I’m still unsure if I’ll be able to reach the finishing line in one piece.  But I’m running to raise money for The Brain Tumour Charity. I’ve been inspired by a fellow runner who kept on racing until the end, and a friend who never gives up, despite the daily difficulties she faces. You see, everyone’s circumstances are different, as are everyone’s battles. The main thing is not to limit your challenges but challenge your limits .

You can support Judith in raising money for The Brain Tumour Charity at Judith Watkins is fundraising for The Brain Tumour Charity (justgiving.com)

I have an interesting relationship with clothes. Whilst I appreciate looking half-way decent, I’ve never enjoyed the process of shopping. It’s far too stressful. Crowds, changing rooms, the concept of an ‘outfit’. My wardrobe used to consist of multiple ‘tops’ and ‘bottoms’ none of which ever seemed to match. So, imagine my delight when I discovered the ‘personal shopper’ experience. Once every two years, I’d turn up at my designated safe space, complete with comfy armchair, coffee machine and magazines and wait whilst the fashion fairy worked her magic. Not only was it a free service but I’d come away with a capsule wardrobe and strict instructions about what went with what.

I would have clothes for my work life, leisure and socialising. And, ok, occasionally something would fit too tightly, something wouldn’t feel quite right, or my complexion would crave a particular colour. After all, who doesn’t have fat days, off days and positively anaemic days? But in general, this ‘dressing by numbers’ suited me well. Then the pandemic struck and comfy Zoom wear became the on-trend craze.

‘Are you wearing those trackie bottoms again?’ the Nearly-Beloved would ask, rolling his eyes, ‘It’s like living with a wannabee Olympian with no hope of a medal.’ No thanks from him for the fact that I was saving on washing and ironing by re-wearing the same comfort blanket garments. And certainly, it’s not as if his fashionista advice is ever helpful.  I mean, this is the man who never throws anything out. He just hangs onto his 1980s Hawaiian shirts and bomber jackets waiting for them to come back into vogue. In the meantime, double denim is his favoured retro image.

So, what a nightmare to emerge from lockdown to discover that my style miracle worker is no more and that department stores are a thing of the past, unless the perfidious John Lewis can tempt you to Leeds. I’ve tried online shopping but I find it too overwhelming. Too many websites, too much choice, too much time wasted. What’s more, my numbers never add up. On some sites 12 equals 10 and on others it increases value to 16. At any rate, nothing ever fits and the process of sending stuff back is beyond my mental capability. For now, I’m doomed to remain in 2019, pretending I’m rocking a vintage look and praying the moths stay away.

Grunting Teen, on the other hand, is turning into quite a shopaholic. He has his own signature style that the Nearly Beloved finds most confusing. ‘A pink T-shirt? Flowery trainers? Isn’t that rather girly?’

‘Dad! You’re so non-PC,’ replies our snappy dresser. ‘Besides, it’s sick, innit?’

‘Definitely,’ agrees his father, whose command of teenage slang is as good as his grasp of the latest couture.

But the family member with the most up-to-date outfits and the largest walk-in closet has to be our Little Angel. She is the best dressed of all of us and ready for any photo shoot or Instagram opportunity. Her wardrobe knows no bounds – one-pieces, two-pieces, jeans, dresses, casual wear and outfits for special occasions. All accessorised with headbands, hats and stylish bows. And yet she never spends a penny on herself. What a life she leads and one that I aspire to. Oh, to be five months old again and have an army of personal shoppers at your beck and call!

‘How is it possible for anyone to make such a mess opening a box?’ mutters the Nearly-Beloved surveying the ripped and crumpled cardboard from which my breakfast is spilling out all over the table. He, in contrast, pours precise, concentric circles of muesli from a pristine packet into his bowl. I smile sympathetically at my poor perfectionist husband. He is outnumbered. Cue the teenager, who lollops into the kitchen, one eye on his phone. Reaching for his cereal, he shakes an explosion of cornflakes onto the floor. When he’s eaten enough to satisfy his hunger, he crunches the rest nonchalantly underfoot.

‘What?’ asks Grunting Teen in confusion, noticing the apoplectic expression on his father’s face.

‘Why can’t you and your mother do the right thing? You are so alike in your incompet…’ The Nearly Beloved’s voice falters under my steely glare. ‘Just – you are so alike.’

‘Genetics, innit?’  replies our son, unperturbed by the unfavourable comparison. ‘We’re doing it in Psychology. The nature versus nurture debate. You know – whether your physical and personality traits are determined by biological or environmental factors.’

‘You’ve certainly not inherited anything from me,’ snorts his dad, surveying the post-breakfast apocalypse. ‘And, regarding your body’s thermostatic genes, can I remind both you and your mum to put on extra layers. Now that the world is facing a gastastrophe, only Russian oligarchs can afford central heating. So, do the right thing and turn down the temperature.’

I sigh. It’s alright for him with his lack of sensitivity to the cold. What the Nearly-Beloved deems to be an intolerable sauna, is merely an acceptable luke-warmth to us. But he’s right. We do need to watch the fuel bills now. So, that evening, my boy and I huddle together under several blankets to listen to the latest doomsday revelations on the news, whilst Mr Radiator, in his shorts and vest, rolls his eyes at our rough-sleeper look.

‘Can you make us a cup of tea, dad?’ asks Grunting Teen hopefully. The Nearly-Beloved is not impressed. ‘You should be able to do it yourself, at your age,’ he snorts. There’s a look of outrage from the adolescent as he makes excuses for his ineptitude. ‘But you’ve never taught me how to use the kettle. Or light the oven. Or work the microwave. That’s nurture, that is. Or lack of it! I can’t help it if the way you’ve dragged me up sucks.’ And he does have a point. He’s our youngest. We’ve babied him and let him get away with far too much. But at least we’ve nurtured his self-preservation. After all, he might not be able to cook a meal, but he does have Uber-Eats on speed dial.

‘You should count yourself lucky, sonny’ continues the Nearly-Beloved, pointing at the bleak pictures of current events on the TV. And although Grunting Teen doesn’t deny his privileged position, he scowls, and I hear a mumbled ‘Dad’s being proper mean to me’ from under cover of an extra rug.

The next day, however, our son is looking more cheerful. Unlike his father, he has no genetic predisposition towards hoarding possessions. So, when the Nearly-Beloved returns home, he is left speechless to discover half his clothes mountain has been donated to a refugee charity. As he opens his mouth to object, Grunting Teen butts in quickly. ‘Dad, I might not have inherited any personality traits from you. But you’re always telling me to do the right thing. And I have. That’s Nurture triumphing over Nature, innit?’

Recent world events have sent my mood swinging between despair and optimism. Who would’ve thought I’d now be looking back to the pandemic with nostalgia? Oh, for those halcyon days when all we had to worry about was a virus. And at least we discovered a vaccination to counter it. Unfortunately, world leaders can’t be Pfizered out of the present psychosis…

I fall into deep gloom thinking of the younger generation already scarred by the effects of lockdown and currently facing the reality of escalating conflict. My own teenager has just emerged from his Covid chrysalis, trialling his fragile butterfly wings. But how will they fare in the winds of war? Ukrainians his age are already taking up arms to defend democracy, not in an exam question but in a street battle. Yet maybe the youth of Europe will be the ones to save us? They are often less entrenched in old-fashioned, nationalistic values. Many have a more global perspective, looking outwards to the bigger picture.

Whilst I harbour little hope of peace being brokered by the power-hungry who rule through fear, I find comfort in the fact that ordinary people still retain their sanity and compassion. At the height of the Cold War, I spent five months studying in what was then the Soviet Union. I had no idea what to expect and was initially apprehensive. But I soon learnt that, beneath the politics, our so-called enemies were just like us. I now have friends both in Ukraine and Russia. Some are fleeing for their lives; others face prison if they protest. No one wins. But they still remember they were once family and that this is not a war of the people but a consequence of ruthless ambition, greed, and broken diplomacy.

As for our politicians, some seem more interested in photo-shoot opportunities than cease fires. For them, post Brexit seasonal fruit picking work appears to be a handy solution to the refugee crisis. Thank goodness then for those who open their arms to their neighbours and those who stand in solidarity with the oppressed. Sheffield, like many other cities in the UK, welcomes the displaced, and has rallied in their support. Local residents have already started collecting food and clothes to be sent over to aid the relief effort.

Watching the news, it’s easy to be overwhelmed by despair. This conflict is on our doorstep, so for now it’s to the forefront of our minds, overshadowing the many others taking place around the world. When bullies are in charge of the global schoolyard then playtime stops being fun, unless you’re part of the mobster’s gang. And there’s no sign so far of Supernanny being enlisted to give us all a time-out on the naughty step.

So, what can we as individuals do? For a start we can refuse to let the darkness engulf us and give in to hatred of ‘the other’. The Dalai Lama tell us that ‘Peace starts within each one of us. When we have inner peace, we can be at peace with those around us.’ So, let’s try to be more tolerant of different viewpoints. After all, if Blades and Owls fans can coexist, then there’s hope for all of us. Being kinder to each other is important too. But what does that really mean? All emotions carry an energy that affects those around. If we’re constantly surrounded by bad news, our spirits sink. But if the adolescent in the family does the washing up unbidden, a friend sends an unexpected sweet text or a stranger holds the shop door open for us, it can turn our day around.

We can show our kindness in practical ways too, donating money or useful items to those in need. We can lobby our governments to fast-track green energy solutions and sustainable farming so that wars arising from access to natural resources and food no longer occur. And when it all becomes too overwhelming, we can hang on to the knowledge that laughter is a powerful weapon, ‘always looking on the bright side of life’ is a viable antidote to fear and that the light always prevails.

February is a short but sweet month. It’s over in a blink of an eye, yet manages to pack in a couple of celebrations and a hint of spring. For me, it starts on day one with a wedding anniversary. You see, the Nearly-Beloved was so enamoured of me in his youth that he didn’t realise he was getting hitched on a Welsh rugby international day. But now, many moons on, I’m never sure if the dreamy look on his face is due to marital bliss or the fact that the Six Nations Championship is about to kick off. Plus, he struck lucky. Not only is the 1^st of the month hard to forget, it also functions as a ‘buy one get one free’ date as my annual bouquet of flowers never wilts until gone Valentine’s Day.

After so many years of marriage, we no longer succumb to the commercial pressure of February 14^th. Not for us an overpriced restaurant or eye wateringly expensive chocolates. Grunting Teen, however, is new to this game. And it turns out he’s a closet romantic. He orders a red rose and a picnic hamper full of goodies to offer his dainty girlfriend. As I’m banished to my study, he and Polly Pocket breakfast on strawberries, pink waffles and heart-shaped brownies. For a moment I’m filled with nostalgia and a pang of jealousy, especially when my own Prince Not-So-Charming returns home to seal our love with a Tesco meal deal and a bag of Revels.

But he makes up for it the following weekend with a day out in the countryside and a pub lunch in front of a roaring fire. As we walk through the woods, it feels as if we’re finally coming out of hibernation. The days are getting longer and lighter. Bird song fills the air and snowdrops dance in the breeze. It’s time for looking forward and hatching plans.

It’s been nearly six months since we last saw our older son, lost to life in another country. Freedom Day has come and gone. We grabbed the window of opportunity whilst we could. Then Omicron closed the door once more. It’s our turn to visit him. But whilst tourist dependent countries welcomed the Brits back with open arms and shop tills, the Netherlands were more circumspect. ‘Keep your Covid-caked clogs’ to yourself was their message. All through the long, interminable days of January I kept checking their government web site. But to no avail.

It takes until February for the windmills of bureaucracy to turn in our favour. A city break abroad is a luxury when you factor in the extortionate PCR tests still needed to enter the country. But at least our return to the UK will be swab free. So, we’re jabbed up to our eyeballs and raring to go. A travel itinerary has been set. We just need to confirm the dates and click ‘pay’.

But, oh my Gouda! And Edamnation! Our best laid plans are put on hold. It’s been nearly two years since this pandemic started and it’s still causing chaos. We are one of the lucky families that have managed to avoid the virus… up until now. When the family WhatsApp pings with a photo of two red lines, there’s none of the joy of a positive pregnancy test. Just a sickening feeling in the pit of the stomach. Our Lost Boy has Covid!

Thankfully the symptoms are not severe. He’s young and healthy. He’ll survive. And thank goodness it’s happened before money and tickets change hands. February hasn’t turned out to be as sweet as expected, but at least it’s short. March is just around the corner. Spring beckons. Bulbs are ready to bloom. With any luck and a quick recovery, we’ll be celebrating soon amongst those tulips of Amsterdam.