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In honour of an inspiring cousin

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Memorabilia belonging to a very talented cousin of mine is being auctioned, I found out this weekend.

Carl Spencer was a world-renowned deep sea diver, widely acknowledged as one of the best in his field. He was one of two divers who have seen the wrecks of both the Titanic and the Carpathia. He worked with the film director James Cameron and on documentaries with National Geographic, Channel 4 and ITV.

He was one of the team who raised the body of Donald Campbell, the world water-speed record holder, from Lake Coniston and was a pall bearer at the burial service.

Carl also took part in a number of pioneering research projects into decompression modelling projects.

Not bad, he would say, for a plumber from Cannock.

He was a brilliant diver and helicopter pilot (I never did get a ride in his ‘copter, despite his promises!) and his death in May 2009 while he was leading an expedition in Greek waters to carry out research on the Britannic – Titanic’s sister ship – was too soon.

The retired Explorers Club flag, which hangs in the Explorers Club, New York

He was just 39.

When I went to New York last summer, I visited the Explorers Club in 46 E. 70th Street. There is a flag dedicated to Carl – a rare honour and a wonderful privilege. The Explorers club flag (Flag No 68), which was on the expedition, was officially retired out of circulation after Carl’s death.

The Explorers Club flag has been carried on hundreds of expeditions by club members since 1918. There are just over 202 numbered flags and they have flown at both poles, travelled to the moon and outer space, and accompanied explorers on expeditions to the depths of the oceans and the highest mountains.

According to the Explorers Club: “A flag expedition must further the cause of exploration and field science.”

The citation

It was a peculiar feeling to see a member of my family being honoured alongside such greats as Sir Edmund Hillary, Dian Fossey and Neil Armstrong. To say I was proud was an understatement; there were also prickles of tears in my eyes as I read the citation about Carl’s work.

The Explorers Club is a venerable institution. Housed in an imposing townhouse that is built in English Jacobean style, its surroundings are suitably grand for such an august body. It was an incredible honour to be given a tour of the building and to see the artefacts and photographs from hundreds of explorations undertaken by some of the bravest men and women in history.

I couldn’t attend Carl’s funeral, so visiting the Explorers Club was my way of respecting his memory and saying goodbye.

If you’re ever in NYC and the Explorers Club is holding one of its open days, I recommend a visit. It is awe-inspiring.

Life’s too short to weave lettuce

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Most parents understand how important it is to provide your child with a lunchbox that is full of lovely things they want to eat.

A small amount of protein? Check. A few carbs? Check. Fruit/vegetables? Check. A treat? Check. Shove them in a Tupperware container and a colourful lunchbag and Bob’s your uncle.

Packed lunch. Today *yawns*

Admittedly, I did use cutters to present the sandwiches in a variety of anthropomorphic shapes: a cat, pig, elephant, rabbit, when the children were at nursery so they had something “fun” to enjoy. After all, how many times have we been told we eat with our eyes before we even begin to take in what is on our plates?

But having seen an article in The Guardian today about the efforts that some people go to to make their children’s packed lunches AMAZING, I wonder if some people take this competitive parenting malarkey a bit too far.

I’ve seen cartoon Bento box art before. Have you seen what these people do? Have you seen the way these mothers chop up a boiled egg or arrange weaved pieces of lettuce? (Google it. It will make your jaw drop to the floor).

While I can see it’s a fun, ephemeral art form, isn’t it just a waste of time?

I’m not sure what happens at your children’s school, but most primary schools I have come across have a big box at the back of the classroom where the lunchboxes are chucked in unceremoniously and carted to the dining hall at noon.

I can’t imagine what the lovingly-prepared Mickey Mouse fruit pot would look like then.

Dear people – get a grip. It’s lunch. In a box.

It’s all about the motivation, innit?

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Motivation, motivation, motivation. It’s all about motivation, isn’t it?

As well as signing up for blog boost this week, to give myself a proverbial kick up the blogging backside, I also decided to indulge in a little weight loss (OK, maybe more than a little) and joined a Facebook group called NewYearNewBody via a Twitter friend.

The motivational postcard on my desk *ahem*

Five days into each and I’m already flagging.

I missed the blog post yesterday – I’m sure you’ll all gutted – and despite cutting out all snacks and relying on fruit to keep me feeling full, my jeans are tighter than ever.

I don’t want to go back to slimming clubs – too demoralising and expensive – even though I achieved my target weight when I attended them (different ones at different times, obviously, although the idea of attending two at the same time and mixing the regimes and doubling the calories is an inviting idea).

So, the Facebook group seemed like a good place to get motivation and keep me on track without having to go through the pain of weekly and public weigh-ins.
So, motivation is key here. I’m determined to keep myself on track and by not calling them New Year’s resolutions, I should manage it. At least for today.

But blog posts EVERY DAY? How on earth do I keep myself motivated?
In fact, how do you keep yourself motivated to write blog posts every day? I write for a living; words are my job. I run a hyperlocal blog, too – more of which another time – and write for pleasure.

I’ve read many of those “50 blog ideas” etc and rarely do they inspire; I jot down things that happen and decide I don’t want to write what is essentially a diary of “what I did today”; I read others’ blogs and comment when I can.

So, tell me. Inspire me again. How do you keep motivated to blog every single day?

My dad: what a scallywag

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Over at Tara Cain’s wonderful Sticky Fingers blog is a wonderful thing called The Gallery.

She chooses a topic and asks people to contribute photographic entries to it.

Most weeks I take a look and by the time I’ve realised what I could do, the week has gone and it’s a new topic – etc, ad nauseam.

This week, appropriately enough, the theme is dads.  Hurrah!

This is a photo that takes pride of place in my dining room. My dad must be about seven on this picture. He looks a complete scallywag. I’m not sure if that’s dirt on his cheeks, or if it’s the age of the photo. I suspect it’s the former.

Just look at him!

Those boots are amazing and those ill-fitting shorts, which I suspect were passed down from a cousin or two, have “scamp” written all over them (if you squint, they really do). No doubt that jumper was knitted by a kindly aunt (perhaps Harriet, who is there on the right in her best coat for the photo).

I love this photo, not least beause it’s one of only two I have of my nan, Elizabeth, who is wearing the apron, holding Doreen, dad’s sister. Elizabeth died about a year after this photograph was taken.

But this is about my dad.

We haven’t always got on – blame my teen hormones and his lack of patience (which I have inherited – as well as his chunky legs – thanks, dad) – but he is a a kind and thoughtful man who has always worked hard and provided for his family.

I always think he never reached his potential. He passed for grammar school at 11, but never went because his dad couldn’t afford the uniform. He went to a secondary modern and left at 15 and joined the Navy instead.

This is no sob story, though. He has lived a blessed life and continues to do so, even after a terrible stroke last year. He has mellowed  - and so have I.

It’s only as I’ve grown up that I realise I have his wicked sense of humour, his work ethic, his stubborn pride. So for those, dad, I thank you. As for those chunky legs, though , I could have done without them.

Thanks for everything, dad. Happy Father’s Day.

 

Three in ten children have no books at home

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This is a question for anyone who loves books and reading: how surprised were you by the findings from the National Literacy Trust survey that three in ten children do not own a single book?

Not only that, but boys were less likely to own a book than girls.

The online survey questioned more than 18,000 children from the ages of eight to 17 – the majority of whom were aged 11-13 – about their reading and book habits.

It found that four in every ten boys questioned did not own a book, compared with three in ten girls.

The results surprised even the National Literacy Trust director Jonathan Douglas, who told The Guardian: “To be brutally honest we weren’t expecting [the number of children without their own books] to be so high.”

The report says: “At a crude brushstroke, young people who have books of their own are more likely to be girls, in KS2 or KS3, socio-economically better off, from White or Mixed ethnic backgrounds and without a special educational need.”

It also concludes that: “When compared to peers who do have books of their own, children who don’t own books:

  • enjoy reading less
  • read fewer books
  • read less frequently
  • read for shorter lengths of time when they do read
  • have less (sic) books in the home
  • read less of every kind of material not just books
  • are less likely to have been bought a book as a present
  • are less likely to have ever visited a library or bookshop
  • have more negative attitudes to reading
  • find it harder to find books that interest them
  • are twice as likely to agree they only read when they have to
  • have lower attainment.”

Some of the conclusions are hardly surprising and the researchers themselves call some of them a “chicken and egg” scenario and asks if it is because children don’t have access to books that they say they do not enjoy reading.

The Literacy Trust says if a child has no access books, he or she is less likely to attain at school.

For me, I wonder if book ownership is the main problem. Encouraging reading at all levels and having access to good, well-stocked libraries that contain the kinds of books girls and boys want to read is surely key?

Libraries are doing a phenomenal job at shedding their image as a stuffy organisation. They are bright and colourful; it’s not *just* about books. It’s about engaging people of all ages in myriad activities.

So, shutting them down is hardly going to help, is it?

Of course, teachers do what they can to encourage reading for fun, but what examples should parents set? What should we be doing to encourage more reading – whether it’s a magazine, online or the back of a breakfast cereal packet? Is it leading by example and reading more? Is it taking the children to libraries? Is it about buying books or is it about enabling easier access to them?

Whatever your opinion, I’d love to know your thoughts.

 

 

Are you a hoarder or a minimalist?

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I crave tidiness; a dust-free home of Zen-like calm.

Trouble is, I like “stuff”; I hoard “stuff”; I find it difficult to throw “stuff” away.

That bookmark made in 2004 by son in nursery? Obviously a treasured possession. Certificate for 100 per cent attendance in spring 2006? Naturally, this is something the children will want to keep for when they are older?

CDs, vinyl, novels and text books from school and university – complete with annotations – are brimming with precious memories.

The thing with all the physical manifestation of these memories is that they take up a lot of room after a while.Clutter, mess, piles of "stuff" ready to avalanche

I interviewed Anthea Turner a few years ago – when she was in full Domestic Goddess mode – and she couldn’t understand my need to keep everything. “Keep a few key things; get rid of the rest,” she said. This is a woman whose airing cupboard elicited gasps because it was so tidy – every pristine white towel perfectly folded …

I could never live like that. I tried. I folded my towels a la Anthea for about two weeks and gave up. Life felt too short for getting the spirit level out to check the neatness of my airing cupboard contents.

I try hard to have sort-outs after a while, but I have to be in a particularly hard-nose frame of mind … do I really need that little drawing when I have dozens others? Do I really need to keep that gardening book that I’ve barely read?

This weekend has been my spring cleaning weekend – in my study/office at least.

The book cases are heaving (although, most of them are my OH’s books as he cannot stop buying them) – with the shelves backfilled with books. Other books are on the floor because there is no space for them. Board games are also on the floor. My filing – such as it is – is a chaotic mess.

Yesterday, I was in the mood to clear the clutter – and went to work.

Tidy-ish at last! (I'll give it a week)

Eight hours later and three boxes of books have gone. Actually, they haven’t gone, they’re going into the attic (but that’s OK, isn’t it?). I figured that as much as I am attached to my copy of Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War, the dog-eared Aristophanes’ Lysistrata and my three copies of Sense and Sensibility, I might not actually read them again…

Photographs have been sorted, boxes of cuttings have been filled (and the rest of the newspapers thrown away) and all my children’s books that are lined up for review are now almost tidy on the shelves.

It feels better already … now for the rest of the house!

I could still do with some tips, though: how do you keep your treasured possessions in control? Are you a minimalist or a hoarder?

 

thank heavens for little boys

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I’ve just noticed something very interesting about the differences between girls and boys.

 My daughter (9) and her friend wanted to tidy the kitchen – so I let them (of course!). They were hard at work for over half an hour, cleaning surfaces, putting things away neatly in the right places, washing up a few bits and pieces and generally made the place look nice.

 They asked for a slice of cake as a reward for their hard work. Naturally, that was fine.

My son (7) and his friend were not to be outdone. Could they tidy the lounge, they asked. Well, I’d be a fool to say no.

 Within five minutes, it was done. That is not necessarily a comment on the original state of my lounge. I was asked to go in and inspect: yes, indeed it was tidy. Cushions plumped on the sofa, remote controls by the TV and assorted newspapers nowhere to be seen.

 The obligatory praise was offered and the reward was half an hour on the Wii.

 It was only when I returned five minutes later that I realised the truth: all the bits and pieces that needed to be tidied away neatly in the lounge had been shoved behind a chair in the corner, away from prying eyes.

 Ah! Boys! They learn young….

egg donation

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This week a campaign begun to encourage more women to donate their eggs for those who cannot conceive.

 

There has long been a shortage of egg donors in this country and statistics have shown that it would take just 0.01% of the fertile population to satisfy demand.

 

This is a debate that has long interested me and simultaneously infuriated me.

 

Admittedly, it was a subject I didn’t know much about when I had my first child nine years ago. But when my second-born arrived in 2001, it was on my radar and my awareness increased.

 

As a mother, I understood the deep joy that came with having a baby. I was lucky: I had conceived easily and the pregnancies had run fairly smoothly.

 

To hold my own child brought so much joy: like every new parent, I felt as if my life was now complete. I was a mother and I couldn’t imagine not having them.

 

But there was a nagging at the back of my mind. What of the women who couldn’t fulfil their dream?

 

I wanted these women who were desperate for their own child to feel what I was lucky enough to have experienced. I wanted to donate my eggs.

 

The question of payment never entered my head. I recall being surprised that some countries did pay. This would be an altruistic act. Of course, there was an element of selfishness to it: I knew it would make me feel worthwhile. I wasn’t going to shout it from the rooftops or wear a t-shirt bearing the details of what I was doing, but perhaps there would be a small sense of smugness about my charitable act.

 

I began to research the procedure. I understood that there would be procedures to suppress the menstrual cycle, learned about the daily injections to increase egg production, the possible side effects of bleeding and infection, the scans, the internal examinations. I even knew there was a small risk of mortality if the ovaries were over stimulated.

 

But I was convinced this was the right thing to do. As far as I was concerned, it was the ultimate gift. I was keen to get started and, as the cut-off age for donating eggs is 35 I knew that I had limited time to get the process underway.

 

As I picked up the telephone to call a fertility clinic close to my home, I remember being simultaneously terrified and excited. Surely, knowing the shortage of donors, they would have me in the clinic for a consultation quickly?

 

I was amazed at the reaction. Initially, the woman with whom I had a conversation was pleased that there was a potential donor. She took basic details: name and age, whether or not I’d had children. She said someone would call me back.

 

No one did. A few weeks later, I made another call and explained again that I was interested in donating eggs. Again, there was a promise of a telephone call. It never came.

 

I was appalled. I made one more attempt: more promises. More broken promises: no phone call.

 

So much for third time lucky. It was the last call I made to the clinic. I’d two small children to look after and time ran out for me to do anything about donating eggs.

 

I was frustrated that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do. But, more than that, I was disappointed that I had let down a woman who wanted her own baby. I could have helped her