LIFE WITH NO INTERNET

I am on a volcanic island off Senegal. Barring an airport, a couple of small towns and our hotel there's not much here. There are no native mammals except the bat which presumably got here under its own steam. It's pretty quiet.

So I am going without my daily internet fix for two weeks. The hotel does offer wifi but we have decided not to subscribe as an interesting experiment and to keep the children off it. Usually I would check Facebook and emails as my early morning coffee brews and then be on and off the internet throughout the day. I am curious to discover how I fare without it.

Day 1. 

I turn my phone off on the plane knowing that my check in at Manchester Airport will be the last for a fortnight. Seven hours later I arrive at our hotel. It is beautiful - a cross between an Arabian palace and an elaborate sandcastle raising majestically from the dunes. I can see and hear the Atlantic from my veranda but I have to keep that to myself. I think of the photos that I can post on my return. I wonder how 'A' level results day is going and hope that everyone has what they need. I cannot check. I miss my Dragonvale dragons.

Day 2.

As I walk through the hotel reception I see a girl sitting in the wifi zone tapping on her laptop. I could just subscribe and log on for a few minutes. I don't. In the evening the sky is clear and dark. The stars are bright, far more numerous than at home and I see constellations that I don't recognise. I could look them up but I need a wifi connection to pinpoint my location on Star Walk. I decide to draw the patterns instead and check when I get home. I miss my dragons.

Day 5.

Today, somewhat inexplicably, I begin to sing 'My Brother' by Terry Scott, a song that has not crossed my consciousness for at least three decades. Had I been at home, I would have found it on You Tube and shown the kids who would have feigned interest and then scoffed at it behind my back. Perhaps the internet is not as life enhancing as I'd thought! I do miss my dragons though.  

Day 6.

Today I wonder about tides. What is vital on the shores of England seems not to matter anywhere else. I remember childhood holidays at home spent poring over tide tables to make sure that trips were properly timed. Such things seem to have no relevance anywhere but Britain. If your towel is dry at the beginning of the day so will it be at the end. Why is that? Had I been within striking distance of the internet, I would have plugged the gaps in my meagre knowledge with a quick google search. As it is, the world's tidal systems remain as mysterious to me as they were to those who wrote 'There be dragons' on maps to signify places not yet discovered. Talking of dragons I hardly missed them at all today.

Day 7.

What is the average number of children per family? It certainly isn't 2.4 any more. On this international little outcrop of rock the Clarks seem to up the average considerably. The only large groups contain more adults than children and there are a surprisingly high number of families with just one child who tags along after its parents looking bored. Is this breeding pattern common in the rest of the holidaying world then? Whilst no one bats an eyelid at four children in Ilkley, here we seem to be not just bucking the trend but kicking it firmly in the teeth. But I can't look the figures up. No internet you see. 

Day 8. 

Today I have a penchant for a cup of tea made properly with freshly boiled water and served in a bone china cup with a saucer. The bone china bit is, I suspect, an affectation brought on by a combination of the heat and my reading material. I seem to think I am in the Raj and should be floating about in white linen and taking tea on the lawn. I don't even have a bone china tea cup and saucer at home (although I could probably muster a decent coffee cup.) Had this thought occurred to me when not  internetless, I  would have found my way on to the John Lewis website and wasted 15 minutes choosing myself a new tea service after which I would have promptly forgotten the whole idea and made myself a decent cuppa in a mug. I have no internet so such pretensions will have to see if they survive my unreliable memory and wait until my return.

Day 11.

There are hardly any birds here which is strange. There are lots of noisy little sparrow types which chirrup loudly and stage daring raids on my breakfast table but other than those I've seen three crows, a single gull and a large and intriguingly brindled feather. I am used to tropical climes bringing exotic species into my world but here the skies are empty. I am certain that this island is not that remote but we don't seem to be on their flightpath. Perhaps they don't come because there's nothing for them here but toast crumbs? I will look it up - when I get home.

Day 14.

Home tomorrow. As usual, I am not quite ready to return to real life and could happily stay for another few days but I am looking forward to having my computer back. It has been wonderful spending a fortnight with my family and no on else, having all my household tasks undertaken for me and spending most of my time reading but it can't last forever. It's not so much that I haven't missed the internet. It's more that it has no place for me here. Apart from the odd question that has had to go unanswered, I have not felt the need to log on whilst here in paradise but at home things are different. Life is busy and hectic and at times quite dull and the internet makes things simpler, quicker and sometimes just more fun.

So my conclusion? Pleasingly, I do seem to be able to function without updating my status three times a day and my dragons won't have died without me but as soon as I get home you can expect to see my internet presence renewed because these days it is just part of who I am.

DREAMS AND DEDICATION

The country is buzzing with a positive post-Olympics glow and the message is loud and clear. If you really want to do it then you can. All it takes to achieve your dreams is hard work and dedication and then anyone can do anything. I had a long chat with my children on similar lines yesterday. Through the inevitable tears that always flow when I talk about people succeeding, I explained that real achievement comes with determination and focus and that there is no alternative to putting in the hours to get where you want to go.

This message is made all the more poignant by the distinct dearth of appropriate role models that society has in this age of instant stardom. For a while a  martian visiting planet earth may well have thought that to achieve success all that was required was to spend a disproportionate amount of time grooming oneself, then to be loud and brash on a reality television show and Bob's your uncle. Sit back and watch the money role in.

Of course, despite what the media might make the martian and the young people of today believe, life's not like that. The real winners, I told my children over the cornflakes, are the people who are happy in their life because they work hard and get to where they want to go through dedication and maybe a tiny bit of luck. They are the ones to be applauded. The Olympians fall very neatly into this category but sport is not the only aspect of life that is improved by a bit of dedication. Almost anything you can name is caught by the mantra.

But is is true? As I have mentioned before, I have had two real dreams in my forty odd years. (I don't count my family as a dream because somehow I always just assumed that that would work out like it does in the fairytales.) The first is achieved and that box is ticked. The second is a work in progress. But no matter how hard I dedicate myself to my writing ambitions, will I ever actually achieve my dream and have a novel published? I do have to say that it is remarkably unlikely but that realisation doesn't dull the dream. I am still as determined to try. I do wonder though whether my natural pragmatism might colour my efforts. I push that thought to the back of my mind.

And which came first? The dream or the natural leaning towards the use of language? Do I want to write because I think I can do it a bit and might improve or because I want to write and am teaching myself how? I don't know the answer to that. What if I had decided that I wanted to run the fastest 100 metres in school, the country, the continent, the world? Would hard work and dedication have allowed me to achieve that without any obvious talent in that area? The post-Olympic message seems to be yes. I'm not so sure.

One thing I do know - if you don't try you are very unlikely to achieve anything. If you want to be good on your roller skates you can't just strap them on and go for it. It takes hours of patient practise. True instant gratification is as rare as hen's teeth.

So the message stands proud over the world, the country and my breakfast table. If you want to realise your dream then you have to focus and work and if you do that then who knows? Your dream may turn out to be even bigger than you dared to imagine.

STRESSED? MOI?!

‘Why do you always get so stressed just before we go on holiday Mum?’ asks teenage daughter. ‘It makes everyone else stressed you know?’

‘I don’t really know darling,’ I reply through gritted teeth.

‘I mean, all we have to do is pack and then we’re off.’

‘Hmmm’ I reply and bite my tongue. Hard.

She’s right though. I do always get myself in a proper pickle before we leave the house and there is generally some kind of meltdown at departure minus one day that results in me losing my cool spectacularly. It happens every time.

It starts with the laundry. With a week to go I begin the pre-holiday warnings and pray for bad weather so that the holiday clothes can be spirited away without being missed. I ask and ask and when I am convinced that I have anything I wash, iron and congratulate myself on being ahead of schedule.

However my confidence is always misplaced. When the task of placing items into bags comes round, a major flaw in the plan is revealed. My idea of clean and my teenagers’ idea of clean do not coincide. As item after item comes out of the wardrobe pre-worn I get close to screaming pitch. After all, had I not asked for all this stuff so that I could get it all ready at my leisure?

Of course my children can’t see what I’m getting so aerated about. The clothes aren’t dirty as such. They are just worn. They can pack them and then wear them when we get there. This absolutely does not accord with my idea of how packing is done. I throw all offending items into a pile as big as a funeral pyre and shout a lot. More laundry undertaken with very bad grace and lots of stomping.

After the laundry comes the house. I want it to be tidy before we go and preferably clean so that on our return it feels good to be home. However as fast as I tidy at one end, the children are getting things out at the other. My suggestion that they sit in the garden with a book falls on deaf ears. Today they want to do painting, or Hama beads or dressing up and promise faithfully that they’ll put it all away afterwards. Is it any wonder I get myself so stressed?

My pre-holiday requirements are very simple. I just need an empty house for three days and all would be well. A pre-holiday holiday if you like. I need quiet so I can think through every possible scenario and then pack for it. I need to make lists of what will be happening in our absence and make sure its covered before we go. And most of all I need to clean the bathroom and not have anyone else use it!

Of course, I’m existing in cloud cuckoo land if I think I’ll get anywhere near my perfect packing environment. I have to work with what I’ve got - a houseful of excited children and a busy husband. So this year I’m going to beat them at their own game. I shall extract what needs washing myself. I shall take myself off to quiet corners and make lists in peace and I shall lighten up on the cleaning front because let’s face it, a lot of dust can settle in a fortnight.

Hopefully the net result will be that we will get to the airport without my relationship with the children being in tatters and I will be ready to start the challenging task of relaxing all the sooner.

(By the way oh loyal readers. My blog has its own Facebook page. Please ‘like’ it if you do. It's at Imogen Clark at Home. Thank you.)

OLYMPIC LEGACIES?

I've been to the Olympics! Can you believe that? Well, if you know me you may find it slightly surprising. Sport really isn't something that occupies my mind in any meaningful manner. At school I wasn't bad at PE. I never had to suffer the humiliation of being the last to be picked for a team although I was certainly never the first. Sport just never captured my attention but then none of my family was interested either and so it's hardly surprising.

When we learned that the Olympics would be coming to London however I was instantly determined that I would go to see the gymnastics and that I would take whichever of the children wanted to come too. Of course that all changed when the tickets were released and I discovered just how difficult it was to actually get tickets for the sport that you were interested in - and just how expensive. With regret I abandoned the plan.

Fast forward several months, more ticket releases and a considerably lighter purse later and my Third-born and I were London bound in a wave of excitement. I don't think I, or many others, had appreciated just how gripped by the Olympics the nation would become. Wall to wall tv coverage combined with the school holidays and an unprecedented level of success in the medals table have meant that the country has a buzz about it that I'm not sure I've seen before. Well, if the likes of me, who would never watch televised sport unless there was a gun to my head, is enthralled then the rest of the country who is actually interested is bound to buy in to it.

We had a great time. The trampolining was fascinating to watch and very exciting even though the British competitor just failed to make the cut into the Final. We went on the cable car, we watched the big screens in Hyde Park and were amazed at just how well our capital city had managed to scrub itself up for its big day. I have never seen London as clean or as friendly. Nothing was too much trouble and everyone was wearing a smile. It was almost uncanny.

I have to say that I did have the feeling, having been unable to get tickets to go into the Olympic Park itself, that it was all happening somewhere that I wasn't and my Olympic experience was not quite complete but such is life.

The feeling that I am left with now that I am home with my BBC coverage is one of relief. For so long my home nation has been down at heel. We have moaned about the weather, the bankers, the economic disaster, the government ( whatever its hue), the NHS, fat people, drunk people, lazy people. I could go on and on. I'm not saying that hosting a successful Olympic Games is going to change any of that and, whilst I will be delighted to be proved wrong, I fear Legacy will be a one year wonder. However, we have proved by the way in which the country has transformed itself that we still have the ability to think positively and focus on things that I see as important - hard work and payback, dedication, working as a team, pride in achievement.  I was worried that we had spent so long blaming someone else for all that is not great about Great Britain that we had lost the gumption to do anything about it.

The buzz from the Olympics will die down after a while, the nights will draw in and Christmas will be upon us before we know it but I will be able to lie slightly easier in my bed knowing that deep down we are still a nation that can do more than sit and lick its wounds.

FORBIDDING FIFTY SHADES

What do we think about controlling what our children read?

I know that many people would be grateful if their children just picked up a book. My brood contains both voracious readers and those for whom it's a pleasant enough activity but far from a passion. At least they all read to some degree. But what do they pick?

I was at a tutorial earlier in the year and we were discussing which literary works should make it into the canon of English Literature. My tutor gave the example of Enid Blyton.  She had never read any as a child and dismissed the books in damning terms. I challenged this attitude. Having never read any how could she be in a position to have a view as to their merits? Also, if you judged which books made it into the canon based on the pleasure that they had given millions of children over nearly a hundred years then surely Enid Blyton should be there.

It turned out that my tutor had never read any Blyton not because she had made that decision for herself but because her father had banned it and refused to have it in the house. This made me cross. I spent hours lost in Enid Blyton's imagination without judging the quality of the writing. I suspect I have emerged unscathed.

The idea of controlling a child's reading material has arisen again recently as my 15 year old daughter asked to borrow my copy of "Fifty Shades of Grey." Now my principles were really on the line. In my view the book is not the ideal bedtime reading for a teenager. Whilst I, as a mature and experienced woman, can pick and choose the messages that I wish to take from it, I can hardly expect my child to be as discerning.

"You can read it," I said, "But you must remember that men like that are to be avoided and that you should never allow a man to do anything to you that makes you feel uncomfortable."

Even to me I sounded ludicrous. She stared at me for a moment and then said, "I have no idea what you're talking about. So can I borrow it or not?"!

She read for a morning. Then she forgot about it and moved on to something else before she got anywhere near the Red Room of Pain. Thank goodness I didn't ban it I thought.

The only time I have not allowed a book was when my eldest was about 9 and wanted to read Jacqueline Wilson. I thought then that I should protect her from the stark world that Wilson paints in her novels, being, as it is, so far from the one she was growing up in. With hindsight, I suspect that decision was flawed and I'm not sure I would make the same one again. I have certainly allowed the others to read Wilson's work.

In fact, I have found that my children are self regulating. In much the same way as 'Fifty Shades" lies unfinished, they have also abandoned books that they consider too sad, too scary or which make them feel uncomfortable in some other way. Reading for leisure should be a pleasurable experience and my children have very clear ideas about what kind of story fits the bill. Perhaps they will come back to the ditched ones when they are more emotionally equipped to deal with them?

My opinion seems to have developed into allowing my children to read anything and everything that they choose (although I did hide the Louise Rennisons for a while when nothing else was being opened). After all, surely the more they learn from what they read the better they will be able to deal with life's twists and turns? That said, I am currently reading A Beginner's Guide to Satanism (it's research) under the covers with a torch!

FIFTY SHADES OF CONTROVERSY

It's months since I first heard about "Fifty Shades of Grey", the recent publishing phenomenon. As you might expect, anyone who gets a result with self-publication tends to catch my attention. So it was the story of the book's success rather than the story itself that I was interested in. Of course it would be hard to ignore the subject matter entirely. Whilst books about sex aimed at women are nothing new, it's been a while since they have been in the public eye and the soaring sales of hard-wear and sex toys have been headline news.

So the publicity grew and the book went from something you might download surreptitiously onto your kindle to being stockpiled in WHSmith's for Ilkley's gentile ladies to snap up with their newspaper. Lots of people told me that it was rubbish and that they would never read it without ever having opened its cover. That alone was enough to spur me into action and so I acquired a copy and began.

The first five pages are awful. There's no getting away from it. I read them and my heart sank as I thought of the injustice of such massive success with such meagre material. But then we meet Mr Grey and suddenly something changed. Despite the quite dreadful cliches and his preposterous good looks, my interest was piqued. I have looked back over the text to see what it was that made me sit up and take notice but I can't identify it. I was just curious to know about him and her and what would become of them.

And so it went on for 500 pages. Notwithstanding the limitations of the language, the lack of any kind of plot and the narrator's irritating vocal habits I read on. I wanted to read on. I enjoyed it.

So me being me, I decided to work out what I and perhaps the millions of others that have read and enjoyed the book took from it. I could then set that against the objections that I've heard about it to see which rang the most true for me.

The most common attitude that I've come across is the book being dismissed as rubbish. I can't accept that. It is impossible to achieve those incredible sales figures with a product that stinks. I can immediately disregard all those who say that they won't read it for whatever reason. That is up to them of course but what can they possibly add to the debate? Those who read it and dismissed it seem to fall into three camps - those that genuinely were not interested in the story, those that objected to the story and those who may be indulging in a soupçon of intellectual snobbery. The former is fine. The latter is a sad reflection of our society but isn't something I can do anything about. The middle group deserve more consideration.

From what I gather, the main concern seems to be the idea of a young, idealistic and innocent girl being abused by a dominant and manipulative sadist. That concept, I can see, contains plenty to object to. However, that is not how I read the story. Rather than an abusive man preying on a young innocent, I saw an intelligent and sassy young woman in control (in the main) of her own destiny. Call me a traitor to my sex (and you wouldn't be the first) but as far I could see this was a two way street.

It's the sex that seems to have caused the biggest stir and puts people off. I may be a prude but I don't remember reading anything as explicit before. But it's like everything - once the initial surprise has worn off it's just sex and it quickly stopped being significant.

What appealed to me and I suspect is behind the success of books two and three is plain old romance. I would love to be swept off my feet by a handsome stranger who makes me feel like I am the most important thing in the world in a way that no one else has ever come close to doing. If I can't live like that myself, and let's face it who can, then I'm happy to read about it or watch it. It's a straight forward feel good factor. Of course, I don't really want a jealous lover who wants to control my every move and refuses to share me but it might be nice to think that I could provoke that kind of reaction in someone.  The world is full of women reading love stories and indulging in day dreams and if you've never done it then you probably hated this book. If you want to tie yourself up in knots objecting to the concepts then that's up to you but I'm a simple soul and frankly I have bigger things to fret about.

So. As a piece of literature? It's not going to win the Man Booker. As a piece of entertainment? It worked a treat. I was entertained. There is a place in this world for all manner of things. Not everything will suit everyone but then isn't that part of the joy of being alive?

THE ANATOMY OF A SHOW - A MOTHER'S PERSPECTIVE

Show minus six months - the Upstagers' panto, a nine show run involving all six of us, finishes and the Clarks are buzzing. The next one is for seniors only so I heave a small sigh of relief. We have six months off. (As it turned out, one of mine ended up in it but such is life with the Upstagers.) Next it's Les Miserables. Potential parts for everyone? I buy the DVD.

Show minus five months - all change! Upstagers have been offered the opportunity to stage one of the very first productions of the schools' edition of Miss Saigon. Huge excitement. I know nothing about the show except that it's a bit like Madame Butterfly. The audition date goes in the diary and various other things have to come out.

Show minus four months - auditions. The buzz starts early. BBM messages flash around my kitchen table. "There's no dancing! It's all singing!" What to do? We have exams. We are busy. It will be the fifth show of the year. I listen to their deliberations and a part of me thinks - phew! They decide not to audition, worried by the unfamiliar territory. I nearly scratch show week from my diary but something makes me leave it in.

Show minus three months - after a couple of conversations we're back in. No there's not much dancing but there are a few big ensemble pieces which will be fun. I gird my loins. Rehearsals begin and my weekends disappear. I cancel plans, decline invitations and try to manage busy diaries, apologising to those existing commitments that get let down. We juggle GCSEs, my uni exam, music exams, ballet exams, gym competitions and school. Life is hectic.

Show minus one month. A trip to Primark to source bits of costume. We buy tickets - the matinee as the evening show is a bit late for the Little Ones. (Little did I know...)  Rehearsals heat up. Diary clashes become worse and worse. Commitments were made after they had decided not to audition. I try to keep my cool. I wonder why on earth I get caught up in all these shows.

Show minus two weeks. A family meal in Pizza Express  A phone call. "How tall is your little boy? Can you bring him to rehearsals at 7 on Tuesday?" He goes to bed at 7. "Yes."

Show minus one week. A rare trip to the doctor's with my daughter. "It's vertigo. Try not to move your head too quickly." Perfect. 

Show minus three days. My husband leaves the house early to build the set and returns much later raving about the number of lights and the sound effects. I'm starting to feel excited.

Show minus two days - I wander around Sainsbury's looking for wholesome yet fast food that can be produced at the drop of a hat. I buy plasters to stop tap shoes tapping. I make sure that our supplies of grips and hairspray are topped up. My children look tired already.

Show minus one day - I catch the last ten minutes of the performance as I wait to pick them up. I weep.

Showtime - I chaperone. No child may be left unaccompanied. I scamper around backstage trying to keep track of my charges. I make lots of shushing noises and tell teenagers to pipe down whilst directing all complaints at my own children because it's easier than shouting at someone else's. Opening night is a huge success. Everything runs like clockwork. The audience cheer. Ticket sales soar.

The run continues. I dress in black - so not my colour - I wait for cues, I follow children, I hang up clothes, I sort out disputes, I take children to the loo but most of all I enjoy the buzz. The show is going well. The theatre is packed and everyone is working hard together. The atmosphere is intoxicating.

And that's why we do it. I moan and I complain and I chunter about my lost weekends and my tired children but then when the run starts it is all forgotten. Every time they are involved in a show they grow a little in confidence. The learn how to work with others and what it is to be part of a team. They see the seniors and they are inspired to try harder. They are so proud of their involvement in the production and so am I  but I'm not just proud of my own children. Somehow I am proud of every one of those young people who give their hearts and souls to every single moment of the performance. I am always an emotional wreck by the end. The songs go around my head in a never-ending cycle and I burst into tears when I remember particular moments. The children look on, bemused.

But most of all I am so very grateful that we get the chance to be a part of something so special and I know that the precious memories of these happy days will never leave us.