Uncle G...

What do you say when you lose someone? I’m terrible at knowing what to say out loud, but on paper I can ramble on and at least get out what I think I’m trying to say.

This week we had to say goodbye to my dear Uncle Graham. Just 58 years young and not at all ready to leave, but sadly he lost his battle with cancer. Bloody cancer! 

Now Uncle G (as me and my sis seem to have reverted to calling him over the years) was not a soppy or sentimental type, much like me. He’d probably be embarrassed that I’m even writing something about him and tell me to put my time to better use. I’m sorry Uncle G, this one you don’t get away with.

One thing I will always hold dear, is the time I used to spend with my Uncle Graham at his dog training school - it’s where I first met Sue in fact. I think as a really small child I was scared of dogs, I have vague recollections of climbing high up onto my Mum or Dad’s knees if we were in someone’s house with a dog. But the first dog I remember loving was Chaff. A beautiful, gentle border collie, who I know always had a huge place in my Uncle’s heart, even 25 years after he’d gone. 

Finally me, my sister (and I think probably my Mum too) pestered my Dad for long enough until he gave in to the reality that we were going to have a dog. Our Barney. We had him from a pup and loved him just as Uncle G had loved Chaff. However, unlike Uncle G, I had very little control over this crazy, big bouncy dog, and I wanted to learn. 

I’d seen the way dogs looked up to Uncle G, and pranced forward, walking to heel, like they were stuck to his shoe. I’d watched him at dog trials send one of his German Shepherds, Eddie, to pick up an egg and a sausage and not try to eat them, just delivering them back to him in exchange for a tickle of the ear and a “good lad”.

My first evening at the dog club, I remember handing Barney over to my Uncle G with the words, “he might pull you a bit”, after he’d just dragged me, like a reindeer tugging Santa’s sleigh, across the muddy field! I remember the knowing smile Uncle G gave me as he took Barney. He gave him a bit of a fuss, had a play with him, until Barney was bounding around like a tiny pup again. Then my Grandad, who was stood next to me at the time, said: “Watch this”. 

To my amazement - and utter dismay - Barney was given a sharp yank on the lead, walked around the back of my Uncle G, sat next to him, looked up and then walked to heel..like he was stuck to his foot. So annoying! But again, just brilliant. 

His relationship with his dogs, has always been enviable. A mutual love and respect, the sort of love people write about when they say a dog is ‘man’s best friend’. I suspect his current dog Billy will be a bit lost for a while, but he has Sue, and she has him, so I know they’ll be fine.

And then there’s Uncle G and Sue’s love for diving, which of course was related to animals. His final job, working with animals and teaching students about them at Brackenhurst, I know was a passion - particularly when it meant heading off to Mauritius to go and put the diving into real practise! 

And what a jammy git, getting a job that takes you to a beautiful island, seeing the most amazing things, meeting fantastic people - and all for a few lectures and a risk assessment! I know there was a huge amount more to it than that, but I did enjoy teasing him, as I was heading to St Ann’s for a photocall on a dreary day, knowing he was taking a flight to paradise!

He’d moan about work sometimes, we all do. But he loved it! He loved his students, his friends and colleagues, and the opportunities it gave him. I’m so pleased he worked so hard to get there.

I could go on and on, but I won’t - anyone who knows me well, understands the restraint this is taking. There’s little more to say, but that he was our Uncle G, we will love him always and miss him terribly. 

I know he didn’t believe in heaven, and I’m not sure where I stand on that front myself. But I like to have some faith that when you leave here, there’s something else, somewhere else and someone else to greet you when you get there. When Uncle G gets there, that’ll be Grandad, Chaff, Eddie, Zac 1 and Zac 2, and all those he’s lost and would love to see again. 

Graham Shelbourne 19.04.58 - 16.11.16 

The great dummy debate!

You’d think there were far more important things to worry about as the parent of a baby or toddler than the use of a dummy.

But it appears that the dreaded d.u.m.m.y (spelt out for our daughter Erin, to avoid using the actual word) seems to polarise opinion.

It was my sister who purchased Erin’s first dummy. It wasn’t given to us through necessity, or through any opinion she had formed herself, just as a gift as part of a huge pack of pink things for her new little niece. 

And we didn’t use it straight away. Having been surrounded by the anti-dummy brigade since pregnancy, I myself had formed my own opinion that I really shouldn’t use a dummy as they don’t look that nice - which seemed to be the reason for most people’s aversion.

It was one dreadful night when Erin was nearly three months old that brought the d.u.m.m.y (sorry force of habit) into our lives. She was struck down with her first, and as it turned out, only dose of colic. She screeched for at least two hours straight, and we were frantic as to what we could do. 

After attempting every other calming technique available to us, I remembered this little plastic gift that had been given to us by Auntie Katy. 

“Shall we just try it?” was the exasperated plea of a rather bedraggled, shattered looking father. 

Before I could respond with my emphatic “yes” I’d popped the dummy into Erin’s mouth - and there it was, silence.

Since realising the dramatic effect this small and seemingly insignificant contraption could deliver, both sets of grandparents now never take Erin anywhere without ensuring they have the dummy to hand. They may not like the way it looks, but at least they now appreciate its benefits.

I don’t have a strong enough opinion either way on dummies. I like Erin to go as long as she can in a day without relying on it for comfort. But if she’s tired and cranky and just needs something to settle her, I won’t hesitate to ‘plug her in’! 

Erin’s still not quite old enough to explain how Santa takes dummies away to help little girls grow up (not the greatest plan yet, but it’s a work in progress). At some point of course there will need to be an extraction process, but in the meantime I will certainly always have one to hand!

Day 108: ‘Maid Marian must be turning in her grave’

PRINCE Charles was apparently once heard to say that Nottingham’s Maid Marian Way is the ugliest road he’s ever seen in Britain.

Now I’m sure if you headed West and perhaps passed through some of the more industrial areas of Port Talbot or Bridgend, you’d find some rather compelling contenders. But I understand Charlie boy’s point, Maid Marian Way is an ugly road. 

Like many places where beauty appears to have passed by without a second glance, it’s name says different. Maid Marian, who’s beauty is stuff of legend, and managed to catch the eye of Nottingham’s greatest hero Robin Hood, is memorialised in a road that looks like a concrete jungle. 

There has been some sort of valiant attempt by the city council to create the ‘tree-lined’ appearance, planting a few saplings down the centre of the road to try and detract from the car park that looks like an episode of Blockbusters. 

It’s such a shame because Nottingham really is a beautiful city. The Nottinghamshire countryside, its villages and rolling fields are just as idyllic as areas like the Cotswolds, that so many hold up as our country’s only revered beauty spot. The city itself has some stunning buildings, both old and new, that are often best seen from an elevated position, to really appreciate their character and position.

So when you look at Maid Marian Way, you feel let down. Mainly by the sixties and seventies, when it wasn’t just free love being brandished about, it was free reigns to build whatever you wanted, as long as it looked like a box, had a flat roof and was created using that attractive, natural, sustainable material that is concrete. 

I thought that was all over though. I hoped that over the coming years, people would start to knock down the old craggy monstrosities, and perhaps put in their place something that would capture the eye, either for its modernity, quirky nature, or for it’s traditional structure.

But apparently not. Somehow in a day and age when you have to jump through so many hoops just to put a small extension on the side of your house, planning has been granted to build a truly hideous structure on the site of the old Odeon cinema, which was demolished last year.

The building, which will become student accommodation as I understand it, looks no better than its concrete partners. It’s modular pre-fabricated pods look about as soulless as a run-down cash and carry, and it’s exterior looks as miserable as the Lenton tower blocks, which are being demolished just a mile down the road. 

There’s a reason those blocks are coming down in Lenton and being replaced by much more attractive, sustainable properties - they aren’t good enough (there’s a lot more technical detail involved, but essentially that’s the gist!) So why on earth is someone else recreating something in their image on Maid Marian Way? 

I hope nobody drove Gary Barlow up there last night after his gig, I’d hate for him to be left with that lasting impression of our great city!

Day 105: ‘Being a toddler’

ERIN is just on the edge of hitting those terrible twos. I know this, cause when she’s tired and fed up, she will sometimes screech, or throw her dummy, and occasionally just sit and put her head on the floor in a despair that can only be articulated by an incoherent, high pitched whining babble.

I’m generally a very tolerant and patient person. I have mastered the art of closing my mouth, and breathing out slowly (as if in labour) and finding a reason to laugh at life, when even the most frustrating of situations arise. So when Erin has a tantrum, I’m pretty good at dealing with it quietly and calmly. But should I? Is she just testing me, and I should be far more firm?

I really don’t want to shout and scream back at her. I can’t see that achieving much, it would be misplaced effort in my mind. So how can I be firm, calmly? 

I think my reticence when it comes to being firm, is because I like to think I understand her. When I watch Erin, and her little friends at nursery and Puddleducks, I realise that as fun as life is, being a toddler is pretty hard. Here’s why:

Dear little one

I get it.

You’re starting to get pretty certain on your likes and dislikes - of course they change like the wind, but on any given day, you know what you want to do - but not everyone around you seems to understand.

You want to grab a handful of raisins every hour or so, but for some reason your Mummy denies you this pleasure - and of course you don’t want the raisins handed to you, you’d like to get them yourself.

You absolutely, categorically, under no circumstances want to lie still to have your nappy changed. I mean why can’t you wander round with a bare bum and wee or poo all over the carpet? Why does Mummy look so shocked and stressed at this?

What really is the problem with throwing things down the toilet? Daddy said it was ok to throw the ball in the garden, or even throw that bread for the ducks in that pond thing - what’s the difference?

Why does nobody understand when you’re in the middle of a shop that you just want to grab things, and have the free rein to treat it as a toy room? The only way you can tell them you don’t want to walk nicely and quietly, is to do the opposite, so you’re going to sit still and scream! And now they want to pick you up and cart you away? Well then you just make your body go limp to make their task just that little bit more difficult!

One day we’ll laugh about this, but for now, excuse me if I say “No” a lot and sound a bit more tough than normal - it’s for your own good, I promise.

Love your tired but understanding mother xx

It may be flippin hard work, but every smile, snuggle and laugh makes it totally worth it - and it’s a hard life being 20 months old, you can’t be cute and angelic the whole time!

Day 104: ‘Should Banksy be banned?’

I CAN’T stand to see graffiti. Much like littering, fly tipping, dog poo abandonment and even fly-posting, it’s one of those crimes that are often seen as small and insignificant, but they make such a dramatic difference to the places we live. 

So why do they do it?! Are they making a statement, marking their territory or do they genuinely think it’s art?

This week some clever images of three spies snooping on a telephone box have been graffitied onto a wall in Cheltenham, just down the road from GCHQ. 

I can see what someone was thinking, it’s a crummy looking wall, in what looks like a dodgy area, and the phone box itself leaves little to be desired. So the perpetrator has decided to make art out of it - and I say this while choking on my own words, as I don’t like to ever consider graffiti as art. 

Now I’m not someone who understands art, not unless it’s a nice picture that’s been painted or drawn, or at a push a sculpture that actually looks like something, and isn’t too abstract. 

I’m sure all art lovers are now spitting feathers at this awful heathen woman who is so ignorant to not get it. But I’m admitting it here and now - I’m an art simpleton.

Back to that telephone box in Cheltenham. The damn thing has made national news, with people questioning whether it was created by the ever-illusive Banksy. 

As highly valued as some of his work apparently is, surely it’s just actually something that should just be on the other end of a council worker’s industrial jet washer, and erased in exactly the same way as some local hooligan’s name tag? Is there some sort of artistic review carried out before graffiti is removed? 

Having worked in councils, I know there are normally strict deadlines on removing graffiti once it is reported. So why should one person’s ‘art’ be treated differently to another’s? 

If this Banksy chap just started drawing on paper, I’m sure he’d make a few quid.

Day 103: ‘A spoonful of sugar..’

I CAN recite far too many lines and sing every single song from Mary Poppins - a misspent youth!

So when I saw the film, Saving Mr Banks, appear in our Love Film list, I was rather excited about it being posted through the door! The film, for those who have missed it, is based on the author of Mary Poppins, P. L Travers, and documents Walt Disney’s battle to buy the rights to her book and create the film we all know and love.

And for those who don’t like musicals, please don’t discount it. Mark is equally averse, but he still thought this film was fantastic!

When something is starring Emma Thompson, I immediately show an interest. But knowing she was accompanied by Tom Hanks, Paul Giamati, BJ Novak and the wonderful Bradley Whitford, to name a few, I thought it had to be a winner.

Despite having watched Mary Poppins so many times I can almost say Supercalifradgilisticexpialidocious backwards, I had no idea of the book’s background or its author. And I only recently discovered that Mary Poppins wasn’t there to save the Banks children, but their father.

Some stories just ‘get’ you, and this one certainly does. It’s one of the most genuine, funny, sad, heart-warming and touching films I’ve ever seen. Despite her harsh and cutting (very British) stiff upper lip, it’s impossibly not to love the protagonist from start to finish - and not just because she’s played by Emma Thompson.

I have no idea how accurate to reality this film is, but I hope that it’s true enough to its characters that Walt Disney really was as charming and brilliantly fun as Tom Hanks played him, and Mrs Travers was just as much the battle-axe - with a secret heart of gold. 

I also hope to god that when all Disney’s script writers sit down to turn their words into motion pictures, that they are all served mountains of iced buns, cream cakes and jelly shaped into the face of Mickey Mouse. 

As Mary Poppins would say, it was “practically perfect in every way’. Now spit spot, it’s time for bed!

Day 102: ‘Power to the people’

A FEW blogs ago..and by a few, I mean over 50 blogs ago, I spoke about my confusion at the Kiddicare tills when presented with bags of Maltesers and Kit Kats.

I didn’t understand why a shop targeted specifically at parents of young children, felt the need to pack its tills with chocolate.

I tweeted my blog to the lovely folks at Kiddicare, who responded with a very polite, but rather standard response that this would be sent directly to their head office, and they would rethink their direct marketing policies.

Well. Today we ventured to Castle Marina and, low and behold, the tills no longer have chocolate, tempting our little toddler friends, or trying to play on the vulnerabilities of post-natal women who haven’t slept in weeks.

This I believe is feedback heard, understood and received. 

I felt a tinge of pride, and a great deal of respect for the marketing team at Kiddicare for listening and acting on my feedback. I just hope I haven’t disappointed too many chocoholics..if I have, there’s a Sainsburys down the road, who I believe cater adequately for all your cocoa-related needs.

If this has worked, I think I may speak to John Lewis next about the size and cost of their ‘large breakfasts’, and put forward my suggestion to Audi about monthly raffles on the Q5.