Letting them Go

“It is always sad when someone leaves home, unless they are simply going around the corner and will return in a few minutes with ice-cream sandwiches.”

Lemony Snicket

As new parents, the moment we gaze upon our newborn child, we begin to experience a sacrificial but also interdependent love like none we have experienced before. Our child depends on us but we too begin to depend on that feeling of being needed by them. We feed and clothe our children while training them for independent living. We even fool ourselves into thinking this time of nurturing continues forever – but eventually, for most, the time arrives, somewhat brutally, when we have to let our children go and begin their own journey in life.

The moment my eldest daughter entered her final year of Sixth Form, the day when she would leave home and go to uni came into view on the horizon. Not like the welcome first sight of the sea, more like the beginnings of a massive industrial build about to block your view of the countryside.

Still, I courted that day by helping my daughter choose which universities to apply for and taking her to their open days. I would sit in a lecture theatre listening to someone talk about the wonderful time my daughter was going to have at said institution – how she would even have the opportunity to study abroad, in some cases – for a whole year! I would feign enthusiasm until I believed it, while looking round impersonal halls of residence and imagining my daughter all alone in one of the little, bare rooms.

A gut-wrenching homesickness and sense of not belonging had tarnished my own time at university, forcing me to eventually leave after a year. I travelled home every weekend. Every Sunday after I waved my Mum and younger brother off, as they kindly always drove me back to London, I would cry into my pillow and hope Friday came quickly. The Top 40 countdown jingle on a Sunday evening and the view of the city just near the Scratchwood Services (now London Gateway), still bring feelings of unease even today.

None of this I wanted for my daughter. So, we talked about the importance of Freshers Week and getting to know people, of joining groups she was interested in and that any investment in settling in to uni during that first term would make the rest of her time there so much easier.

The dreaded day arrived and as I fussed around helping make her bed look homely, breathing in the slightly nauseating smell of noodles that was coming from the communal kitchen, I could feel my toes on the edge of a cliff of misery. We eventually dropped her at a meeting point on the college campus, where some nerdy types were going on a Pokemon Go walk and we said our goodbyes. I thought I would choke trying to stay cheerful. As we drove out of sight I sobbed.

For those of you with young children, that day for you must seem far off. But, believe me when I say that it comes around in an instant. I still hate the goodbyes. Four years down the road I still feel a tightness in my chest as I drop my eldest daughter outside her current house-share. The times apart are fine, strangely. It’s just the parting again after a visit – but it’s more of a tug inside my heart than full-blown tears now.

This year I start the same rollercoaster ride with my youngest daughter as she ponders the university courses she is interested in. I worry she will feel like I did. But maybe not. And so I paint another enthusiastic , encouraging smile on my face and brace myself once more for a slightly broken heart.

Ten Year Challenge

January. Some people see it as standing at the foot of a glorious ascent into the magnificent unknown. For others it’s a clean slate – a new start – maybe a chance to make amends to others, ourselves or the body. And for those like myself, it can seem like a leap into the yawning chasm of uncertainty as the friendly hand of the old year releases its grip. I seem to anticipate loss rather than gain. It seems safer than to be hurt or disappointed.

The start of the New Year brings the obligatory looking back at the previous 12 months. In addition, this year has had people reviewing the past decade as we move into the 20s.

Social media has had its new decade ‘thing’, with people posting pictures of themselves 10 years apart. For the young this is an often funny, sweet delve into the cute clothes, smiley faces and chubby cheeks of their childhood snaps. For me I found myself poring over Facebook photos from 2009/10, trying to pinpoint where my thoughts were at that time, whether the age spot on my face was smaller then – if I had fewer wrinkles.

In 2010 my children were still young – 12 and 7 . They needed me every day and the kitchen table was a hive of activity rather than the solitary work station it is today. Life revolved around school, dance classes, nit-combing, helping with homework and cuddles. I often felt exhausted and overwhelmed. As it all became too much to juggle, I took a two year break from work until my youngest had finished lower school.

2010 was also the time I parted ways with organised religion. I had spent the previous 20 years exploring every flavour of Christianity there was – and found myself back at vanilla. I needed space to ponder and ask questions – the answers of which I hadn’t yet found in the four walls of a church building or amongst the ‘other worldliness’ of the Happy Clappies. I was feeling let down by it all.

Some friends too appear to be cyclical. The school gate and church seem to account mostly for these. Friends I was close to a decade ago I hardly ever see today. I knew their landline number by heart and yet now I know nothing about their lives. Social media allows a brief connection to some, but those who never joined or who are concerned about privacy, have slipped away, along with my memory of their phone number.

So, what have I achieved in the past decade ? Sipping a ‘rather too heavy on the gin’ and tonic the other evening I had declared to someone who had popped up on Messenger, who, coincidently I hadn’t spoken to for a decade, that I hadn’t achieved anything since I last spoke to them. It feels like that sometimes when I look around at my physical surroundings. My kitchen drawers certainly feel that way as they bravely hang on in for another decade. In truth, though, I have achieved quite a bit – just not things that can be easily measured .

* In 2012 I started the job I am still in today, This brought me some new, wonderful friends and a wealth of new knowledge.

*I have learnt to question my faith and be happy with that, without losing it completely.

* I have done my very best to be a good Mum to my girls and today I have my eldest, a confident young woman, living , working and studying away from home and my youngest, happy at 6th form college.

* I took on a little rescue dog from Cyprus, who has brought so much joy to our family.

* I have learned to fight against myself less -to make a decision and stick to it and to not expect change from others. That has been the primary reason I feel more content than a decade ago.

* I am now honest about what I like and don’t like – I have learned to say ‘No’ and not seek the approval of others for my decisions. I probably like myself better than 10 years ago too.

The next decade will have different challenges. I am ageing – gah ! – and so are those I love dearly, including my little dog. The risk of unwanted change is greater as you age – especially when you cross the half-way line !

At least there is one thing I can nearly be sure of when this next decade ends. I won’t be counting more grey hairs – not visible ones anyway, and not on my scalp ! My lovely hairdresser sees to that.

The Long or Short Straw ?

There’s something about your fiftieth Birthday that makes you confront your own mortality. It’s a major turning point and there’s no dressing it up. You remember your own parents turning fifty – and you thought they were old. Now you are them.

You have become the target audience for over-50s life insurance, funeral plans and Saga holidays and when you reach fifty-five you can then add retirement housing to your list. Advertisements aimed at you have greying, benevolent-faced men and women, sporting chinos and Cotton Traders shirts. They, of course, are beginning their fun-packed, travel-filled retirement – I, on the other hand, am desperately making up my pension years, with little chance of retiring before I have to re-apply for my driving licence.

On the health front, I liken myself, this side of fifty, to a ten year old car. Things have started to go wrong and I probably need my cam belt changing. I am not as reliable as I once was and use a lot of oil. Sometimes I have the enthusiasm and drive of my youth, but mostly I prefer a calm life and taking it easy. Just a couple of prescription meds keep my show on the road, for now. And gels. Lots of gel.

I have both longevity and premature death in my genes. My Mum died at the age of 57 from a massive brain haemorrhage. She was otherwise healthy and in good shape. According to the neurosurgeon, she had probably had the aneurysm that caused the bleed since childhood. All sorts of factors could have contributed to its rupturing, but the main one was Bad Luck. And so I wonder about my luck. Do I have some ticking time bomb inside me like she did ? Has Fate marked my card denying me my old age, or will I follow most of my relatives and reach my 80s. It would be good to know because I could adjust my behaviour accordingly.

The other week, Spring poked its head around the corner and Costa decided to refresh its frozen drink range. I had walked into town during my lunch hour and had settled down in a corner with my frozen Fruit Cooler and a piece of tiffin to watch the street outside. On taking a sip of my drink, a searing pain shot up my neck to my head, just above my eye. ‘So, this is it,’ I thought. ‘It’s the short straw I’ve picked and it all ends here in Costa Coffee !’

Of course, it didn’t. It was simply a reaction to the icy drink and after a few grounding exercises I was back planning what I was going to cook for dinner and my pain was gone.

Joking aside, though, I regularly take my blood pressure at home and I keep a couple of aspirin by our bed in case of a heart attack. Other than that life goes on as normal and I allow myself to dream about the next phase of my life, where our girls are both independent adults and my husband and I can start running around sand dunes in our chinos and walking sandals.

Being a Square Peg in a Square Hole.

Conformity. From an early age it is something we are taught – to fit in, to be like others, to want to be like others. Society operates that way. It works on our deep-seated desire to belong, to act in a certain way, to meet approval , to want what we see is desirable that others have, or to own the things society expects us to have. A home, perhaps a car, a job – children maybe. It is a form of control, without which, I suppose, life as we know it wouldn’t function.

The majority of teens, today, will follow a pattern – hair styles that are deemed on trend, clothing from popular chain stores – nothing too ‘out there’, make-up inspired by YouTubers and of course the ubiquitous Sports logos. If you follow these rules you fit in. Those who don’t, risk the ridicule and suspicion of their peers. A sad but true fact. And many of us, as parents, buy into that need because we remember times when we, ourselves, didn’t fit in at one point and how that made us feel.

In my teenage years there was a trend to be ‘alternative’, which of course by becoming a trend, wasn’t at all. Depending on who you hung out with, you conformed. A punk rocker sitting in a pub on the King’s Road, London would barely have raised an eyebrow – but walking down a suburban high street may have rustled many a feather. Maybe you belonged to a group of Goths in your local town – but still you conformed to the group. To truly rebel you would have to have gone out with your black-eyed, spikey-haired friends, as a Nick Haywood/ Simon Le Bon look-alike to the local Goth drinking hole !

I am aware that I have always modified my behaviour, desires or appearance to fit in with others. Having to wear spectacles from the age of 6 to 13 was a huge dent in my confidence. I hated being ‘Four-Eyes’. When I hit my 13th Birthday I was told I could have contact lenses. Not the soft, comfortable sorts we wear today but lumps of glass that took forever to get used to. But it didn’t matter. I felt normal again.

School crazes are also part of this need to belong. When I was 8 we had a bizarre class craze of using Vicks inhalers. We would sit there unscrewing the things, sticking them up our nostrils then putting them back in our pockets or pencil cases – all day long !

Throughout my school life, there was always the girl that wore the best version of the school uniform, that I wanted to emulate. The hue and thread of the pullover would be slightly different, the skirt would be perfectly fashionable, the shirt collar just that little bit trendier than most school shirts. The rest of us would be playing catch-up.

Nowadays, I try to pretend not to bother about trends or brands, but I can’t help but get a feeling of gleeful satisfaction if I am bought something that modern society has declared desirable – a pair of Ugg boots or a Jo Malone perfume, or I treat myself to a lipstick from a high-end cosmetic company. It feels special. I feel I have bought a little piece of belonging to a different lifestyle. I remember my first pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. They felt so good. I wore them with pride, happy to show off the logo. That sense of belonging to something better. Weird and somewhat embarrassing to admit !

In many ways, though, my life has not conformed. I dropped out of university. I married a foreigner. I have never had to worry about rent or a mortgage and I think that, in turn, has made me less ambitious. I turn my nose up at spending money on bettering our home and prefer, instead, to spend money on a holiday every year, much to my Dad’s bemusement as he observes the state of our kitchen floor and misted double-glazing.

Sometimes, I wish my home life and marriage was more like others. But of course we all think that. We all have the version we present to the outside world and the truthful reality, with all its nuances, known only to the people involved. And life has shown me that there is no right or wrong way to conduct a relationship, as long as both parties are happy.

It takes bravery and supreme self-confidence to truly buck the trend of ‘normal’ living – to not care what people think of you and your choices – to know that all that matters is that you believe in you – to not seek the approval of others. I still find myself wanting to be a people-pleaser and to fit in, but age and experience now allow me to feel more comfortable in my choices and not to make it my goal in life.

It’s OK to be different.

Feel the Panic and Carry On

The first time I experienced a panic attack I was standing in a hotel foyer, as a teenager, in Lisbon. It was completely overwhelming. I felt distressed, my heart was racing and I felt lost, afraid and tearful. I frightened the person I was with and it took some hours to feel normal again. The exuberance of youth, however, allowed me to push it to one side and move on.

The first day on a new temping assignment when I was just married, was my second one. It crept up on me during the day. I felt a tingling around my mouth and a feeling as if someone was stroking my leg. Eventually, I had to ask to leave and on my way home I was convinced I was dying. I felt weird for the rest of the day and frightened that it would happen again.

After having seen my GP, I realised I had suffered a panic attack. We were planning a move to Portugal at the time and subconsciously I think I was worried. But this panic attack completely rocked my confidence. I became anxious about being outside in public places. My heart would race and I would feel light-headed.

As I went through my twenties I learnt how to deal with them. They always crept up on me unawares. And often when I was alone. Pins and needles, tingles, lightheadedness . Once back in a familiar place with people I knew, I would gradually feel better. By my thirties they had become so infrequent I no longer thought about them.

Recently, having gone through menopause, I suddenly feel vulnerable again. I worry about losing those I love. I am feeling my age. And with that those familiar feelings of panic have reappeared. . When this happens I feel I want to pull a blanket over me and hide. I cope with work – if anything it is a distraction. But days off bring over-thinking, which is exhausting. I lack motivation and a sense of purpose and forget how to be my own best friend. Instead, I accuse myself of not doing enough, not stretching myself and I have to make do with achieving the bare minimum. Sleep is my friend. It puts my scrambled thoughts into order and quietens and soothes any distress.

But on the good days I remind myself that the bare minimum is ok. It is keeping the show on the road. It is being Claire. That’s who I am. An over-thinker, a worrier, a frequently disappointed , yet continuing optimist. I will find my sense of belonging again in this new chapter of my life. And until then I will just be.

I’m sorry but it hurts !

The pain was excruciating. It hurt so much. I had to tell them to stop. She hurt me. He hurt me. I was in tears when I left. All from the mouths of women who have had bad experiences at gynaecology clinics. Today I had yet another conversation with a friend who felt they had been hurt and had their request for anaesthetic seem an annoyance to the clinician.

Why does this happen ? Why is it ok to think that it isn’t painful for women to have their reproductive organs examined or treated ? Is it because the access to them is a well-trodden route ? Sex, tampons, coil insertions and of course childbirth, when 3-4 kilos of baby is released into that superhighway, the vagina, all take their toll. Surely such a used, sometimes scarred and weathered place must be able to withstand significant pain ?

But the fact is – for all the vagina’s traffic, it doesn’t mean that you can prod and poke around at what is at the end of it, without it hurting. It isn’t fair to make women feel as if they are being fussy and causing trouble to ask for an anaesthetic. Many times a local anaesthetic isn’t even offered unless it is requested. Women are just frequently expected to put up with invasive and painful procedures with nothing but gritted teeth.

Females are generally hardy, with an exceedingly high pain threshold. But are they really ? Is it just that they have been conned into thinking that pain is normal – for them anyway. From personal experience it is interesting that you can have an operation on your hand and be deemed worthy of having your meals brought to your bed, yet the local hospital post-natal ward is a self-service affair. Women who have endured hours of painful labour, shuffle along the corridor in dressing gowns, wincing with each step, like something out of a zombie movie. No special treatment for them – just another day at the reproduction office.

Sadly it is the elderly women, the shy and the ones who don’t like to make a fuss that get the worst deal in all of this. They are the ones who won’t ask for pain relief, who won’t say no to the student audience, who will walk away in silent, painful acceptance of whatever happens.

It is a nonsense that women should have to endure pain. Discomfort admittedly – but not pain. To my fellow Eves, don’t suffer in silence. Ask for pain relief – decide who can watch or accompany the procedure. And if you feel that somehow you have been treated uncaringly or made to suffer unnecessary pain, then make sure you report your feelings to PALS – the Patient Advice and Liaison Service.

Heaven is ….

Sitting in the sun, but under a parasol, with a good book and a view of the sea. Hotel accommodation – but not all-inclusive and not in an isolated spot. Within a four-hour flight from the UK, but not the UK. Accompanied by my husband and two daughters. That is holiday heaven for me .

Sun and warmth are a key ingredient for my annual holiday. Partly, I think, because so many childhood holidays were spent in pursuit of that elusive bit of blue sky, when you could briefly predict being able to expose your flesh to the elements. Jumpers and cardigans were not an unusual sight on a beach, even in August. We were a hardy bunch and as a young child it didn’t bother me at all – in or out of the water. As I entered my teenage years we all wanted that Duran Duran ‘Rio’ suntan and unless we slavered on the innovative (at the time) Duo Tan it just wasn’t going to happen on a beach in Westward-Ho !

The Parasol is important. Firstly, it protects from the blazing heat of Southern European summers, yet it still allows some rays through. You still feel as if you are sitting in the sun. Along with my Factor 50, a lesson learned too late to save my mottled skin from the die-hard sunbathing of my youth, it allows enough protection to spend the day outside enjoying the sun’s rays without burning or over-heating.

Reading – I love good story-telling , so definitely not non-fiction. I always feel self-indulgent as I pack my reading selection for any holiday. These books represent that I will have nothing to do, nothing to feel responsible for. That I can choose to pick up any one of them to read, whenever I want, without feeling as if I should be doing something else. And no, not a Kindle. I tried that and discarded it. It has to be a proper book.

Having lived in one of the UK’s counties furthest away from the sea, the first sight of the sea has always filled me with a deep sense of joy, relief even – like being able to take a deep breath for the first time in ages. For us Inlanders, who didn’t play The First Person to See The Sea on their family holidays ? For me, no view surpasses the sight of sea meeting land and so it is of absolute importance for my summer holiday. And it has to be sea – I have dismissed the Italian Lakes for this very reason.

My house is at the end of a no-through road. I don’t see much from my front-facing kitchen window ; the odd delivery person, the postman, the neighbour next door or the inquisitive sort who thinks it’s a short cut to somewhere else then has to turn round and do the walk of shame back past my viewpoint. Hotel accommodation, therefore, is preferable to a villa holiday because I like to people-watch. I enjoy the hustle and bustle for a change – especially a hotel in a resort rather than one standing alone on a headland.

Villa holidays also mean self-catering – which involves trips to the supermarket and preparing food – even if you eat out once a day. Yes, you get more space – but space isn’t an issue for a week or fortnight when your holiday isn’t going to be blighted by bad weather. Villas can also have a tendency to be dark inside, partly to keep out the heat – but the result is rather gloomy . I like the white, brightly lit walls, silky sheets, and generic art work of hotel rooms, along with a balcony to sit out on in the evening -somewhere to spy on the world from above.

Half-board is my preferred meal option. All-inclusive can make you a prisoner of your hotel – and the quality of food, drink and the inevitable queuing frequently unappealing. However Bed and Breakfast isn’t enough. As a family we are poor at making choices – we make good choices but take too long to make them. This can have a detrimental effect on finding a restaurant for an evening meal. In the past we have finally sat down for a meal only for a younger eldest daughter to announce that she was not hungry, tired and wanted to go to bed. The meal was aborted. Half-board has solved this issue. We all know where we are going and at what time.

A four-hour flight maximum from the UK. Yes, it is limiting and I could be persuaded to travel further, but why for the holiday I enjoy ? All the necessary requirements are reachable in four hours, with enough variety there to keep it interesting. Why spend a whole day of my precious annual leave, sitting on a plane sipping room temperature white wine, hemmed in behind the seat in front for longer than is necessary ?

But the UK itself will not do. The uncertainty of the weather, the slightly sad and quirky seaside hotels with their carpeted bathrooms, the abundance of pebble beaches and freezing waters is only really week-end material. Then, it doesn’t matter if you have to pack a brolly and scuttle between teashops to avoid the downpours.

And finally – my preferred companions – my husband and girls. Yes, we argue, yes we like doing different things – but it works and we can be ourselves. No-one is going to feel offended – well not for long, anyway. Irritation can be addressed freely and still we shall all be talking at dinner time. Holidaying with others, whilst enjoyable, does require a bit too much compromise and biting of tongues to be a truly restful break.

So that’s the kind of holiday I would like this year. As my eldest daughter forges her own life now, the opportunities for just the four of us to be together are fewer and therefore more precious. I hope this year will be one of them.

Those who Run and the Rest of Us.

There is a section of my trip to work favourited by those who like to run. In the morning, lycra-clad Mums, sporting the latest designer leggings and heart rate monitors – or whatever it is they strap to their arms, with not a bouncing boob in sight, jog and puff their way along the pavement. I imagine their fridges full of halloumi and almond milk and their kids packed lunches a homage to healthy eating.

Men feature more heavily on the evening run and also groups of women running together. During the winter months, some have lights on their heads – like surgeons. I imagine how great they must feel, mentally and physically, at the end of it , when they finally kick off their running shoes. These aren’t amateurs or the Couch to 5K crew (although some will hide in their midst for a day or two before falling away ) – they are the elite crowd – the die-hards. They shame those of us who drive past on the evening run, just thinking about dinner.

I have tried many times to become a member of this club of people who get high on a sprint down the park. But try as I might – from an early age, running has always brought pain and wheezing.

Who can forget being forced to run the 800 Metres at school ! Even as a skinny 10 year old, by the second lap of the field I would be struggling to catch my breath and have a pain in my side. For the rest of the school day, I would wheeze each time I breathed. In fact, all through my life, whenever I have attempted to jog or run, each time thinking that today would be the day I relished the blood pumping through my veins as I pounded the pavement- the same thing has happened. It was only recently that a nurse told me I probably had exercise-induced asthma and that I had coped with it by avoiding the triggers, such as running. Hence why I wasn’t affected by it on a daily basis.

At this moment in life my dodgy knee rules out any chance of joining the Run for Fun brigade. Walking, pain free, is my aim these days and things are definitely improving. But any lycra I may buy in the future will probably only grace the hall of a Pilates class or Beginners Yoga and I think I will stick to black.

If you are a Runner, though, I salute you. Those of you who run, rain or shine, dark or light and think nothing of a cheeky half marathon at the weekend, for pleasure alone – you belong to a select breed of human being !

Russian Dolls and Parties.

Russian Dolls. I have a small collection of them. I love their colourful designs and themes. The fact they contain smaller, sometimes different versions of their outside shell, that can’t be seen, unless we take the time to open them. Some have as few as 3 pieces and others have as many as ten or more – each one beautiful but slightly different. Some are simpler in their design as each doll reveals itself and they become smaller. Others have an unvarnished, unpainted wooden exterior, embellished with a little gold -yet when they are opened the ones inside are painted in vibrant colours. All rather like people, I think.

People are complicated and rarely do we get to see the smallest, simplest versions of them. It requires time and effort on both sides. We need to listen and observe more in order to see beyond the exterior. For our own part, there is also a freedom in allowing our inner versions to be exposed. But it requires honesty and bravery.

Age gives us the confidence to be more honest. On the one hand I can easily stand up in front of a hall full of people and speak or read and even enjoy doing so, but as my friends now well know, I find parties very difficult. At this point in my life, I find it stressful having to socialise with lots of people. The woman who happily exchanges smalltalk with the public at work or at the checkout in the supermarket, really dislikes social occasions doing the same thing. I love just being at home. I talk a lot at work and I like peace, quiet, comfy clothes and my own company in my free time.

The whole getting ready to go to a party has become stressful. I can guarantee that any outfit I have planned to wear will look dreadful on the night and I end up with a bedroom littered with clothes and a longing to stay at home. I feel bad-tempered and hijacked. Even the anticipation of this feeling increases my anxiety. When and if I finally get to the party I wonder when it would be polite to leave. It sounds ungrateful and unfriendly, I know.

I feel the same about committing to going out as a group in the evening too – in fact any social arrangement involving a group of people. However much I love those I am supposed to be meeting, when a ‘night out’ is arranged, I can’t get enthusiastic about it. Dread would be too strong a word, but in the past I have been thankful for reasons not to attend. Putting that into words seems shocking but I have become protective of my ‘Me’ time.

One day, as an evening out was being arranged, I finally decided to be honest with my work colleagues. I admitted how I felt and asked if it would be ok if I decided on the day whether to go or not. Their complete understanding warmed my heart. Now when booking a table they always call me a “maybe” -but say that it will be lovely if I do come – and with that freedom I mostly do – and I have a great time.

Knowing that friends understand if I don’t attend has made life much easier. By peeling back a layer I may have made myself appear more vulnerable – weird even – but I have removed a source of stress from my life and I feel closer to the people I have shared that with.

F for Fish

At what age do we start to worry ? When do we stop expecting the best to happen and start to contemplate the worst ?

When I was three, I started attending a little school called The Kindergarten. Up until the age of five we were in the Nursery – a room that had the Alphabet along the wall that we would recite phonetically each morning. I can still remember most of it to this day. A for Apple, B for Balloon, C for Cake , D for Duck, E for Elephant , F For FISH….

Life in the nursery was mostly carefree. We finished at midday and activities were informal and play-based. At the age of 5 we moved into the Schoolroom on the other side of the cloakroom and we would stay for the whole school day. With that came school lunches and, at some point early on, Fish Pie.

Fish Pie was salmon pink with potato on top. On its first appearance the enthusiastic school cook, hair in a bun and flushed with heat from the kitchen, dug her spoon into the cooking tray and put a large dollop on my plate, smiling reassuringly. As the steam hit my nostrils the unfamiliar smell of fish turned my stomach as I took my plate back to my seat.

We didn’t really eat fish at home. My parents would occasionally have fish and chips – but I always had a sausage instead. The only other time I remember fish being cooked was when my Dad brought a trout home from a fishing trip. It lay there staring into space, glistening on the kitchen side. Then, my Mum, with a certain reluctance and my Dad, the proud hunter-gatherer, decided its fate would be in the oven. I stayed in the garden because of the smell and wondered how anyone could eat something like that. In the end, only my Dad partook of the catch.

Yet, here I was, at school, with a plateful of it. I picked some of the potato off the top -but most of it was touching the fishy filling. I could eat no more.

It was customary for us to parade past the teachers’ table with our plates after our first course. It was at this point that it was observed, and a comment made, that I had ‘barely touched’ my food. I wasn’t forced to eat it, and that was all that was said – but for the people-pleaser that I was – and still am to some extent, it shattered my confidence. I had done something wrong. A grown-up was unhappy with me – and Worry fired its first fiery arrow into my life.

From that day forward my whole experience of going to school was over-shadowed by worry that today would be Fish day – and that I wouldn’t get away with not eating it. Up to this point my life had been worry free. I had lived in the moment, not anticipating anything but normality or good things.

Dad used to drop me off at school on his way to work and I was often the first to arrive. I would wait in the little cloakroom and play with the owner’s kids until the others arrived. The lady who owned the school lived upstairs, and one day, after sheer panic on my part in the car on the way there, Dad agreed to go to the bottom of the stairs that led up to her accommodation and shouted up, “Mrs. Hughes, Mrs Hughes – if it’s fish today, Claire doesn’t have to eat it !” The relief I felt was overwhelming . I knew she knew I didn’t have to eat fish- and my Dad knew she knew. I was safe !

But once wasn’t good enough, you see. Adults forget things. Mrs Hughes might forget that I don’t have to eat fish. So EVERY day I made my Dad go through the same ritual and Mrs Hughes would yell down, somewhat impatiently, that she understood.

Nowadays, I suppose a written letter would have solved the problem, or a little meeting to make sure I understood that everyone was onboard with the Fish issue. But somehow, things didn’t work like that back in the seventies.

And so Fish Pie – in fact Fish anything for school lunch became my first real worry. This, in turn, became a kind of phobia that I carried through to my next school, where I ingeniously managed to convince them I had an allergy to it. Instead, they would give me a slab of cheese when it was Fish day – until the time I left some of it on my plate after they had given me a hunk of cheese large enough to make a Ploughman’s lunch for a couple of hungry adults. As I approached the slop bucket, I was shamed in front of the whole dining room and told I was ungrateful and wasteful by the sour-faced dinner lady and cooks. The next day I arrived with a packed lunch.

Growing up brought more pressing worries than Fish and my fear subsided. As a young adult, spending more time in Portugal, Fish even became something I enjoyed. And I knew when my mother-in-law placed a grilled fish head on my plate one lunchtime that my fear had been overcome. “There’s plenty of good fish on that! Here’s another plate for the bones .”