When I grow up...

Are you a grown up? I think I am, finally. I've had the accoutrements of being a grown up for many years: a husband, mortgage, career, child, stretch marks, a dislike of most of the Top 40 etc. But in my head I wasn't a grown up. I was always a bit frightened of what people thought about me and constantly sought approval. I often didn't dare do things.

This weekend I found out that I'm not like that any more. On Friday night I went to my high school reunion which involved meeting up with a whole load of people who I knew 20 years ago but who I was always a bit wary of because they were cool and popular and I wasn't. And do you know what? I was totally confident and able to talk to them. In fact, I have to say that I've weathered a lot better than all of the men and I'm looking pretty fit these days. I never felt hesitant or silly once all night. I never used to be like that. In fact, for many years towards the end of my marriage I used to get really uptight and tearful when meeting with close friends because I simply wasn't happy. Socialising with people I hadn't seen in two decades would have been inconceivable.

On Saturday I went to a family party and I spoke really easily to everyone there. Until recently I would have felt old and awkward talking to the under 20s and naive and awkward talking to the over 40s. Those in the middle? I'd just be awkward. But, I had a lovely evening and spoke to nearly everyone.

In the morning I read this article in The Times Style magazine where Emilia Fox was talking about after having a very difficult year she is now far more confident and the final words really chimed with me:

I’m wondering what the secret is — divorce? Therapy? Getting older? — when she hits it on the head. “Put simply, after all this, I care less about what people think of me these days. I think that’s the trick.”

And I think that's the trick I've learnt too. If people like me, good. If they don't, it's their loss.

Tonight I've been a true grown up: over the past week I stood my ground with my ex about not having a contentious divorce but instead taking the decent and non-corrosive option and having a consensual divorce. And do you know what? He not only agreed but we sat down and agreed every term of our separation agreement without any rancour or disagreement. In fact, it was a very good humoured process.

I think I'm going to steal the Times' words to sum up how I feel tonight: it’s odd how the shock of my marriage break down has made me much surer of myself. Maybe getting divorced, rather than getting married, is the ultimate in growing up.

Cosmic Ordering

Noel Edmonds cosmically ordered himself a career. 'Hello universe, I'm a rebarbative twat. Please can I have a box-orientated gameshow where I hang out with a total banker'. And lo....

There are websites that offer cosmic ordering but I reckon imiss1985 is just as valid a part of the cosmos as them and therefore for this post only I'm opening the blog as a cosmic ordering conduit. Feel free to order what you desire.

Rio's cosmic order for a boyfriend:

• age unimportant (as long as it falls within the 26-and-a-half to 28 years range)
• height unimportant (as long as over 6)
• education unimportant (as long as he's a post-grad, preferably with a degree in Physics - particularly quantum mechanics. Dig those clever science boys)
• music taste unimportant (as long as he's an indie boy who hates Westlife and Queen and understands that Coldplay are NOT indie and neither are Kaiser Chiefs - but must recognise that Duran Duran are gods)
• appearance unimportant (as long as he's fit, cute and has hair that falls in his eyes and requires flicking out a lot)
• Humour unimportant (as long as he understands the importance of punning at every available opportunity and laughs at this joke uproariously: 'what's brown and sticky?' a stick)
• Other: Must be willing to never live with me or take up too much of my actual time and be happy to take third place after my friends and gin.

Ok, phew. That's done. Just have to sit back and wait for him to be cosmically delivered.

Whilst I'm waiting why don't you pop your cosmic orders on the end and we'll cut down on delivery charges?

The Angel in the House

Throughout my late teens and twenties I would have fulminated against Coventry Patmore's poem 'The Angel in the House' as patriarchal sexist gobshite, particularly nonsense such as: Man must be pleased; but him to please/ Is woman's pleasure' My feminism was fairly scattergun, I used to copy huge tracts out of The Female Eunuch and Sexual Personae onto my school file. I was Millie Tant and I was proud.

However, these days I'm not an angry young woman any more. I'd still class myself as a feminist and I get a bit depressed about young women who totally reject the term feminism. I do hope that they know that they deserve equal pay for equal work and that it is more important to be valued for who you are than what you look like.

This weekend I might not have been an Angel in the House, but I have tried to be a good mother. And it's been immensely rewarding. On Saturday I took my son on the train to York and I gave him new experiences: we ate tapas in La Tasca and then went to the Jorvik Viking centre. I do advise my readers that the viking centre smells like a viking city - open latrines and leather tanning and all, and that eating a mound of patatas bravas and tortilla before visiting is somewhat foolhardy. On Sunday I cooked us a traditional Sunday lunch and then we went for a long walk around a lake. This weekend has been very different to recent activities as it didn't involve booze, dancing or bringing the wrong coat home. But it was really rewarding and I enjoyed it. Especially as my son said 'Mummy, I love spending time with you'.

I do believe that women are valuable people who deserve to be judged on far more than their housekeeping and parenting skills. But, sometimes, being a good Mum is its own reward.

Why Don't You Just Switch Off Your Television Set and Go and Do Something Less Boring Instead?

I'm sure some of you remember the irony of the BBC's summer holiday staple: 'Why don't you?' where the kids were told to switch off the TV and go out and try doing something less boring instead. Nowadays the corporation would be unable to broadcast that programme as between 6am and 7pm kids can watch wall-to-wall Cbeebies (with novelty disabled presenter) and CBBC. And, if I let him, my son would.

On Saturday I was awoken at 6am by my son yowling 'Mummy, I'm SICK' and proving his innate maleness by avoiding puking on the wipe-clean floorboards and instead covering my woven sea grass mat. Nice. I let him watch TV for a few hours whilst I checked his temperature (bucket ever to hand) and then decided he was fine. Therefore, I took him to the local museum where we had a great afternoon looking at fossils and doing interactive computer quizzes on the Romans.

In the evening he went to his Dad's and I met up with some Mums from his school. They had all generally been dealing with puke for the past 24 hours (and the one who hadn't yet switched her mobile to 'silent' so when her kid started chundering her partner couldn't call her home. Nice work). We had a great evening and then at eleven pm they returned to their families and I disappeared off into town with my pals. It was a bit of a random night in which we appeared to gatecrash someone else's birthday and then bumped into some blokes dressed as sheep. When one sheep gave me his fleece I thought it was time to get my coat and leave. So I did. (Without the sheep. In case you were wondering.).

In the morning when I awoke I was a little confused as to how my coat had changed fabric and colour overnight. Then I worked out (those 7 years of higher education were well worth it) that I had picked up someone else's coat and come home with it. I drove to town and tried to revisit the bar from the night before but it was totally locked up. I hung the impostor coat on the door and left.

On the way back to my car I wandered past 'Richer Sounds' and noticed a bit of a deal in the window - a TV which had been knocked down to a third of its original price. Now, my current TV is legendary amongst my friends. It was my baby sister's 18th birthday present in 1993, it has a tiny screen and you can't see what's happening on it when sitting on the sofa. 'Louise' once asked me whether it actually requires a TV licence. I've always liked it as it isn't imposing and takes up 0.5% of my house space compared to my books. But it is a little old. And it has a big dent in the side where my sister let a candle burn down on it. So, in 'Richer Sounds' I let a nice sales assistant talk me into buying a 32" flat screen LG LCD TV. And I even know what some of those initials mean. My old TV was not visible from across the room, this monster is visible from space.

Back home, I'm aware that now my son has even more impetus to watch more telly than is good for him. But I'm going to try to help him resist the urge. I've given up going online between the hours of 3pm and 7pm for Lent to spend more time with him. And it's lovely to spend time with a real person not just Facebook. So maybe I won't be able to get him to switch off the TV and go out and do something less boring instead, but I've banned myself from the internet during his time and it's lovely.

I just wish I could get my coat back.

Hair today

I am currently in the Algarve reading lots of books (in four days I've finished that Lionel Shriver book, read 'The Suspicions of Mr Whicher' by Kate Summerscale, 'Saturday' by Ian McEwan and now am revelling in a guilty pleasure: 'Child of the Phoenix' by Barbara Erskine). Holidays are about letting go the hurly-burly of life and living at a more enjoyable pace. However, I found myself thoroughly frustrated this morning by having to follow a pointless and time-consuming noughtie ritual. To set the scene: the Algarve is a pleasant 17 degrees but it is humid. I have naturally curly hair. These two facts of nature result in my hair going frizzy the second I set down at Faro airport. If I had any sense I would tie my hair up in a bobble and leave it festering in its own juices until I get back to the UK. But do I do that? Heck, no. I spend about 40 minutes cack-handedly clawing at my hair with my straighteners to try to achieve a straight look. It's ridiculous.

To horrifically misquote 'Twelfth Night': 'some are born straight, some achieve straightness and some have straightness thrust upon them'. I am firmly one of those whose straightness was thrust upon them. Until October last year I resolutely wore my curls with pride and refused to give into the Cult of the Ghd. Then, in Portugal, my hair was 'restyled' (savaged) by a hairdresser and the resulting mess of layers and fringe had to be straightened (unless I wanted to look like a Norman page). I've got used to having straight(ish) hair. My friends take pity on my hopelessness with straighteners on nights out and sort out the back - as I belong to a select group of women who believe that it only matters what the front of your hair looks like, as I can't see the back I believe that neither can anyone else. There are usually some disparaging comments about my Remington irons as I ought to have Ghds. But I just can't bring myself to pay £100 for something that effectively just burns my hair.

Looking back at 1985, the year this blog harks back to but rarely mentions, everyone had huge frizzy perms. Except me. Back then I had sleek, straight hair naturally. I was out of the times then as I am now. Part of me keeps wanting to give up and return to my curly mop. But now I'm one of the straightened crew I don't think I dare.

Practical Parenting

Recently I've been wondering whether I'm actually a bit of a crap mother. I'd like to think I'm a good Mum and when I asked my son today what he liked about me I was rewarded with an honest appraisal of my parental fitness: 'you let me have Quality Streets'. Well, that's me mother of the year then. Ironically, the said Quality Streets were given to me by a student as a Christmas present and are in one of those paper cartons. Well, we've had them for virtually two months now and they are still only half eaten so clearly I don't even let my son have many Quality Streets.

This blog stems from me trying to work out this morning how many units of alcohol I consumed on a night out on Friday. The honest answer? I honestly don't know. I guessed the total numbers of glasses of wine, gin, cocktails, sambucca and tequila shots and, using the Drinkaware website, got to the staggering (pun completely intentional) total of 13.5 units and 795 calories. Ouch. Thankfully for me I don't get hangovers but I knew I wasn't fit to drive all day so I couldn't take my son out in the car. I did take him to the cinema to watch a Disney film but I kept nodding off.

Now, I'm aware that the perfect 1950s housewife was a mirage. Hand on heart I never planned to be a single mum: I was certain when I got pregnant that I was going to be with my husband forever. I also didn't plan to work fulltime when I had him, but circumstances pushed me into having a fulltime job. If you search the net for statistics on single parents you will find that a quarter of all children of lone parents live in poverty, that they are three times more likely to suffer emotional problems than children who have two parents living with them and every other statistic is bleak: likelihood to end up committing crime or suicide. It makes me feel really guilty that my son's potential has been damaged by my ex's choice to leave. But, on the other hand, I enjoy my freedom and am far happier. So, do I enjoy myself at my son's expense? Sometimes, yes. Usually, no. I'm not a perfect Mum, if such a person even exists, but I found these words on the BBC website to be very reassuring:

Jane Ahrends, from One Parent Families, said while single parents might face poverty, the image of them as "young, feckless women who deliberately get pregnant" was wrong.
"The vast majority of lone parents are ordinary working mums and dads in their 30s and 40s, who are just trying to do their best in circumstances they didn't choose," she said.

Sometimes I do get the balance wrong: but tonight my son and I had Dominos pizza in front of 'You've been Framed' and laughed our socks off. Ok, so it wasn't mung beans and dolphin friendly tuna steaks followed by an improving game of charades but we had a great time.

I need to remember that I'm a single Mum, not single.

Deconstructing texts

For much of my life I have deconstructed texts: as an English student, then a History student, then a Law student, then an English teacher I have spent much of my adult life trying to glean the significance of texts or discussing the implicit meaning in a text. For many of those years texts were limited to novels and plays and poems and happy hours were spent deciding whether a post-feminist slant could be applied to the works of Emily Dickinson. Or not. On one drunken occasion in about 1990 we analysed the tundric nature of the metaphors in 'Ice Ice Baby' by Vanilla Ice (largely due to this line: 'Take heed, cause I'm a lyrical poet'). We were being consciously arch and clever. Course we were. But isn't that what the study of English literature is about?

However, little did I realise in the post-University world that the implicit meaning of texts would gain a whole new and totally absorbing significance. The texts which take me so much time to analyse are not canonical works of literature. No longer do I worry whether I am getting Shakespeare or Byron or Hardy. No, now the texts I worry about are the SMS version that I receive on my mobile phone. Or more to the point, the ones I don't receive on my mobile phone. Many of the single women I know live under the absolute tyranny of their mobile phone and conscious minute counting as to when the bloke that they fancy is going to return their message. I know I do. Your mobile is fished out of your bag every 20 minutes to check for a little yellow envelope on the screen. Your heart actually thuds at that beep-beep noise. If he doesn't text you back the same day you get all paranoid. You question how soon you should text him back and whether responding immediately makes you look too eager or desperate or slutty or needy. And then when it is sent you've set off that whole rota fortunae of waiting for him to respond again. It is wearisome. It is truly tyranny.

So when did he last text? 23:14 on 04/02/2009. It's not looking good is it?

How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world/That has such people in't!