So the big truck came and took nearly all of his stuff away. I don't know if that means he's more officially left, but this was exciting and not sad. There's a certain romance in the acquisition of this little flat at the top of a house in Amsterdam, I'm feeling rather proud of what he's done. Now we will organise and rework our house, and have to think of what it will be in the future and not what it has been. What a good little room that back bedroom has been. It was once the place where the two of my boys slept together in a double bed, then it swapped backwards and forward between them, always the prime territory as it had the second set top box. Now it's empty of nearly everything, but Joel is squatting there on a futon, announcing,

" I love this room, can I move my socks and pants in, then ill have everything I need."

Fat chance it'll get decorated now.

Every picture tells a story, I'm not sure I can tell this one in words but it's all good exercise.
E17 Art Trail, a list of contributors as long as your arm and then...
Number 66
Abandoned Umbrellas of Walthamstow
and with a sinking feeling I think I recognise the umbrella.
Now for some reason Michael is very partial to " free stuff " particularly the sort given away on Liverpool Street Station on a Friday by bright young things with straightened hair and lots of makeup. Usually it's cereal bars or the odd mini-carrier bag but once it was the Evening Standard giving away umbrellas. In our household, umbrellas need to be handbag sized, as Michael is incapable of looking after an umbrella of his own. I once brought him one for Christmas knowing he was off to Rome with friends in the spring. I even wrote a warning on his gift tag. I think they parted company about mid January.
So although this rather large, red almost golf sized fellow was not really our style, but there was some discussion about it living in the boot of the car which at the time made sense. I don't know how things had sunk to such a low ebb, but somehow the Big Umbrella appeared under the stairs, so one can only assume that every other single umbrella must have left home, including the one in my handbag, and the Evening Standard freebie had to be released from the boot.
I remember that unfortunate Wednesday when Michael arrived home, soaking wet, after his traditional Wednesday outing involving two pints and a crossword in the Nag's Head. It seems that this time he had taken the umbrella but there had been some sort of incident with it on the way home and it had been ditched. It seemed wise not to enquire further.
The next morning, as I walked down to the station I spotted what I took to be our umbrella looking very sorry for itself propped against the litter bin at the top of the hill, by the girls' school. I considered trying to squeeze it into the bin, but in the end discretion prevailed and I scurried by.
I have to confess that there was a sharp pang of guilt when I spotted the picture in the Art Trail booklet. Of course, E17 is a fair sized area, and the Evening standard must have given away loads of red umbrellas, many of whom may well have deserved to be abandoned if Michael's encounter was anything to go by. But it did make a sorry sight, and I'm gutted that I'll be away on holiday and unable to see the other pictures taken "over two wet,windy days in E17" because perhaps that would to something to salve my conscience.

Went to the cricket today, what a treat. Somehow I've been repaid for all those hours driving boys to matches by getting complimentary tickets for the ODI. Thank you Tom.
Made me giggle, going there on the tube, just watching it live. What a lucky girl.

Today is the day to de-clutter, or at least to start. Going into the loft is always fraught with dangers, I'm not so nippy on the old pins for a start, but that's not it. I have to ask myself questions like,
" Why am I keeping all these old school books?"
It doesn't bring back the kids' childhoods, but they do trigger memories of little boys I once knew. Sometimes, horror of horrors, I come across a little girl up there. I opened an old Bible and found that round primary school writing that whisked me back to the 1950's when I wrote in pencil and probably had bows in my hair. She and I confront each other with the same questioning stare, in her case I base this imagery on a picture taken to commemorate the Coronation, I don't like to think about what she sees. I know her so well in my head, but she's another person. I have fallen into a habit I had back then of thinking in the third person. Suddenly I'm in the back of the old Standard 9, and I know that if I superimpose that pronoun into my thoughts I can go somewhere in my head and I will find pleasure and excitement. Or rather she will. I choose not to try to repeat this party trick, it's too painful to find you've outgrown that sort of simple enjoyment. I'd rather not be such a know all.
Back down the ladder and onto the landing, where I find box after box of Nathan's stuff all taped up and ready for collection. All that flying the nest stuff comes to mind, but at least he's taking his stuff and going. Joel is more like some ungainly stork, piling up heaps of nesting materials, shedding armloads along the way and trying to find a suitable roosting spot for the night. But for today all is well. Some of the stuff is out of the loft, not much, but some. Joel shows some sign of appreciating that he cannot keep accumulating enough spare clothes to relieve a small Eastern European settlement of displaced people and I am finding the confidence to believe that I'm the sort of person who can make swift and practical decisions about what to keep and what to throw away. Let's hope that when I wake up tomorrow I'm still that person.

I don't know where we get that strange superstition that causes us to think that if we empathise with someone at the right time, on the right day, it will somehow cause good things to happen. At two o'clock this afternoon, my second born was due to take possession of the keys to his flat. This notable achievement has not been without its difficulties, not least of which is that he's buying it in the Netherlands. A dyslexic by trade if not by choice, he would have struggled with this transaction in English, but hopefully he will have got there in the end. I was a little uneasy about the extra hour, should I be thinking hard at his 2 o'clock or mine ? As if.
I remember standing in front of my old Drama School on the day he went for his interview at London College of Fashion. Not that I travelled there on purpose, I hasten to add, not even I would seek to give my child an unfair advantage but such an extreme act of white witchiness. It was pure coincidence, but one I thought would be very lucky, and so, eventually, it turned out to be. On the down side, I remember making a conscious attempt to avoid knowing the date on which my mother quite suddenly and with absolutely no preparation for the rest of us, died. I had a vague recollection that people would refer to the anniversary of someones death as a difficult day to get through in subsequent years, so I thought I'd have a go at avoiding it if I could. Consequently I'd be in a foul mood for the first half of December, by the time Christmas actually arrived I'd be thinking,
" Thank God for that, she must be dead by now."
It was only after Dad died, this time after Christmas and with plenty of time for all of us to prepare, much good that did us, that the spell was broken.
"Oh well," said my sister, " Dad the 17th of January and Mum the 17th of December."
Poor old Jen, her birthday is September 17th, so she'd been saddled with it for the last twenty years.

Let's get it started....
As some voice was always urging me in the gym, don't know who, didn't care much.

Keep thinking about writing but not actually doing it. Reminding myself of the kids in drama lesson, endlessly discussing and never getting round to producing anything.
" Just get up!" I used to say, "knock on the door, go in, start talking."

So this is it,fist clenched, arm up in line with my shoulder, bang bang with my foot and...

Maybe I'm looking for my voice, that seems to be what people on the radio say when they talk about writing. Now voices I'm alright with, in fact I'm perilously close to vain about my voice. I find myself thinking very middle aged stuff about voices. Like,
" How on earth do they allow a voice as bad as that on the BBC?"
and that sort of stuff. I'm particularly affronted by the tide of Scottish accents which threaten to engulf me. It started with that wretched Kirsty creature on News Night and the grating way she used to refer to " George Boosh" who was quite grating enough in his own right without her annoying accent. Just when I stopped shouting at Kirsty, along came the even more annoying Laura Kuennsberg who only seems to talk with half of her mouth and has the most unfortunate nasal twang to add to her oppressive Scottishness. In the old days I might have sent her a letter, offering to give her a few voice lessons to do the nations ears a favour, but what's the point ? Now days it seem that a Scottish accent is a prerequisite for running the country and presenting political comment. What would I know ? I only studied voice at the establishment that finely tuned the larynxes of Sir LaurenceOlivier and Dames Dench and Redgrave. Bursting with finely tuned larynxes the BBC is not, with the possible exception of that nice black guy with the very deep voice who make all too few announcements.
Blimey! Looks like I've found my voice.

Of off we go to Les Marolles, where Sue is hoping to find the flea market in place du Jeu-de-Balle. Well, that was the plan, but despite the superior navigator holding the map, we none the less found ourselves heading off to the suburbs again, in the opposite direction to our destination. Hey Ho! Looks like orienteering won't be the next sport of choice for us.

Unperturbed be retrace our steps and eventually end up in said market and pause for a beer. It was a real wonderplace, full of the most amazing people. The lady in hijab obscures the wonderful black gentleman who sat stock still for about 25 minutes waiting for someone. He was eventually joined by a large lady in traditional African dress who was as animated as he was calm. We also saw a very striking fellow in a fez, carrying the sort of whip jockeys use. I can only think he'd parked his camel somewhere close by. Just about managed not to buy anything.