The role of grandparent comes with many privileges and high expectations. No one takes their role in this capacity more seriously than Max’s grandmother, Estelle. She has risen to the challenge in a charming way, sharing with Max her patience, humour and wisdom. The attention and understanding she gives so generously has deep importance far beyond the blood bond. M
ax is a fourteen-year-old, hormonal teenager; he also has Down’s syndrome. The two of them cut a cute, endearing picture, appearing like an old married couple, rather than grandmother and grandson with sixty years between them.
Their similar height is not the only characteristic they share. Both personalities are drawn to theatre, be it singing, dancing, high dramas on or off the stage. They embark on their regular outings together with almost identical exuberance and delight. Grandma Estelle invariably picks up Max from home, arriving in her immaculate burgundy Nissan Micra. Max will be fluttering up and down the depth and breadth of the lounge window, eagerly awaiting her arrival and his cheers of excitement,
“Grandma Estelle’s here, she’s here!”
Can be heard a good five minutes before the door bell goes. It takes her that long to park.
Grandma Estelle is a neat, trim lady who arrives equipped for all uncertainties of weather. Their mutual adoration is self-evident and Max suffers no dilly-dallying as he loads his carefully packed baskets full of “show stuff” into her car, now neatly resting in our driveway. He attempts to take everything but the kitchen sink.
“Oh Max! There’ll be no room for us”, giggles his grandma.
Videos of himself at his own precious birthday parties, costume outfits and props for his “shows”, large pool cue, substituting for Caracticus Potts’s stick in “Old Bamboo” from that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang favourite, biker leather jacket, and Danny Zuko sunglasses. Once the car has been loaded Max is keen to get going, ordering us out of the way.
Their first stop is usually the cinema, preceded by a visit to a Pizza restaurant nearby where Max shamelessly fleeces his Grandmother for as much ice cream as he can manage. But before they set off there is the delicate matter of manoeuvring out of the driveway. This is a joy to watch. Appearing like Mr and Mrs “We expect the world to stop still, before we attempt to cross the road”. They both take time to settle in, double checking and rechecking each other is locked and loaded. Once the engine ignites things really start to kick off as the car slowly inches forward out from the driveway and stops. Repeated nervous glances from them both examine the passing traffic on the perilous road before them. Doubt is in the air.
They pause, reflecting on the danger, and exchange a moment of disbelief and hesitancy. Steeling courage the Nissan Micra edges forward once again only to be rocked in a gale of turbulence as a car speeds past. Momentarily aghast, the pair are thwarted and paralyzed with panic. Time is a great healer and soon, once again they bravely attempt to swing out from the driveway. With a little prayer and perhaps a small shove from on high, they finally make it. We wave goodbye, relief on our faces as we peek out from behind the open front door where we have all been hidden. The car slowly chugs off down the road, and a considerable time later manages to disappear from sight.
After their lunch and a film it’s back to Grandma Estelle’s house for the big “show” and egg mayonnaise sandwiches. The drive will be so slow it’s a wonder they arrive before nightfall. Both would prefer to be the only vehicle on the road, but they bravely make the best of it, suffering the North London traffic. Max loves routine, Grandma Estelle loves routine, their love is a match made in heaven.
Max is never amused when I arrive to pick him up, often throwing himself headfirst onto the sofa, bottom protruding high into the air, heeding no suggestion that he might be behaving like an utter plonker. He delays departure expertly, putting socks and shoes on at a snail’s pace, as well as blatantly refusing to budge. They both look exhausted, Max, because he will have put his life and soul into each and every one of his performances he’s gleefully perfected just for Grandma Estelle. And Grandma Estelle, because she will have watched and listened to every performance with daisy-fresh enthusiasm.
Max will have dragged her from the cinema, chatted incessantly throughout the drive home, forced her to watch his “shows”, bossed her into providing his favourite tea, and Grandma Estelle, loving and cherishing him, will have willingly suffered in good grace, with the delicious incentive of a small dry sherry with her name on it.
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
What a treat
Max and I have been invited to Lloyds of Kew’s summer party - me as a guest author! We’re thrilled. They’ve asked me to do a reading from my book, Living with Max . We are all going en famille, and everyone is most welcome to join us, particularly those who fancy a pleasant afternoon on the Bank Holiday (August 31st) sniffing out curious and exotic second-handbooks – and meeting me and Max!
LOVE to see you there! (Best to aim for 3.30-4.30pm to catch us)
http://www.lloydsofkew.co.uk/
Lloyds of Kew
9 Mortlake Terrace
Kew Green
Richmond
TW9 3DT
LOVE to see you there! (Best to aim for 3.30-4.30pm to catch us)
http://www.lloydsofkew.co.uk/
Lloyds of Kew
9 Mortlake Terrace
Kew Green
Richmond
TW9 3DT
Sunday, 16 August 2009
A mother's love
The role of motherhood is plagued with such unfairness, and you just have to get in the real world and toughen up; nevertheless unexpected blows can hit you hard when they strike.
I’m sure I shall look back on the many moments of acute embarrassment, my son Max mercilessly inflicts on me, with nostalgia and affection. But last night as we were driving through Muswell Hill Broadway on the way to Dance, such positive emotions could not have been further from my mind.
We had cause to stop at the lights on a pedestrian crossing and as the beeping subsided and the little green man turned to red, an alarming number of pedestrians glanced our way. They were drawn to the rhythmic boom boom and pulsating sound waves blasting out from the car. The stereo as always, was cranked up to maximum and Take That were in full throttle with ‘Shine’. This is one of Max’s favourite pop songs, and although it might not be to the taste of all Londoners, they were sure to hear it loud and clear throughout Muswell Hill Broadway and beyond. If they were surprised that the car wasn’t a small red or black Ford Fiesta with tinted dark windows, or that I was not a young man in his early twenties, they didn’t show it. I found huge interest in the road ahead and forged my way through the stares with mock indifference. Max was too busy belting out the melody at the top of his lungs to spot or bother about anybody staring at us, and I loved him for it.
Max was not amused when I picked him up from School today. I was to drive him to his literacy teacher Julia, just around the corner from the school. I explained to him that the car battery was on the blink (very nervous times for me as I become highly stressed in an unreliable car). In all honesty, I’m not too fussed at what type of car I drive and I could settle for any colour given time, but my car must be able to get me from A to B without conking out. It’s up there with some of life’s essentials, along with daily clean underwear and drawing the line at eating left over curry take away for breakfast.
Because of the low battery and odd whirring sound on ignition, all electrical appliances in the car were off limits and that included the CD player. I carefully explained to Max that the CD player would have to remain silent on our short journey to Julia’s. I attempted to compare it to the life and habits of his ipod battery, which he is familiar with and very good at remembering to re-charge. However he couldn’t quite grasp the concept, although I fear it was more through blind irritation that we were unable to have his favourite songs pumping out at full volume, rather than any intellectual gap. He was quite furious with me, (not an irregular occurrence) which I always feel is unjustly cruel. However he did have a point when he grumpily suggested,
“You could have gone to Kwick Fit and got a new battery before you picked me up Mum.”
But very occasionally in life, a daisy will pop up in a barren field and surprise you. A box of Author copies of Living with Max were delivered this week. Such an incredible experience, mildly surreal, to look at a book and realise I’ve actually written it; it feels like it’s happening to somebody else. The very top of all the delights this book has given, has to be the significant elevation of my street cred’ in my children’s eyes. I’m basking in the glow of an accolade never before received. They’ve both looked past the Mum who delivers clean laundry and an interesting supper every day and seen a real person. It’s wonderful. I’m thrilled and a little shaken to see them both trot off to school armed with their own dedicated copy, happy to gush with pride about their Mum. They must be having a good time of it because both copies have made repeated trips.
Max has asked me to read Living with Max to him. He’s poured over every inch of the cover, running his fingers over the gold lettering, and tried his best to read all the words. He’s thumbed through all the pages, but I know to him the neat endless print looks like a misty sea. He hides his frustration well. I say I know, when in fact I don’t. I have no real idea how he must feel. To look at a book, desperate to be able to access its pages and join in all the fuss and commotion they’ve caused. But he remains trapped on the periphery. He pretends well, holds it together and ‘wings’ it when we all talk about it, but I’ll never really know how he genuinely feels. As his mother, that breaks my heart. I shall gladly read him every page, but I suspect it is going to be hard, in more ways than one.
When I met for the first time with everyone at Vermilion (Random House) a perceptive Editor asked me how I felt about writing such personal details regarding my son. At the time I brushed the question off with ease; I genuinely had no concerns about my work. I was predominantly writing about a baby and toddler. I may be wrong, but I didn’t see my work as a betrayal of Max. Times have changed. Max is now a teenager and I’ve found I can no longer write about him with quite the same freedom. It was fine to reveal such intimacies about a young child, but it’s become quite another matter as a young teenager, flirting with adulthood. The line will always be fine and grey, and although Max is the first to rejoice when I write about him, some moments should remain private. In hindsight, it makes Living with Max even more of a treasure.
I’m sure I shall look back on the many moments of acute embarrassment, my son Max mercilessly inflicts on me, with nostalgia and affection. But last night as we were driving through Muswell Hill Broadway on the way to Dance, such positive emotions could not have been further from my mind.
We had cause to stop at the lights on a pedestrian crossing and as the beeping subsided and the little green man turned to red, an alarming number of pedestrians glanced our way. They were drawn to the rhythmic boom boom and pulsating sound waves blasting out from the car. The stereo as always, was cranked up to maximum and Take That were in full throttle with ‘Shine’. This is one of Max’s favourite pop songs, and although it might not be to the taste of all Londoners, they were sure to hear it loud and clear throughout Muswell Hill Broadway and beyond. If they were surprised that the car wasn’t a small red or black Ford Fiesta with tinted dark windows, or that I was not a young man in his early twenties, they didn’t show it. I found huge interest in the road ahead and forged my way through the stares with mock indifference. Max was too busy belting out the melody at the top of his lungs to spot or bother about anybody staring at us, and I loved him for it.
Max was not amused when I picked him up from School today. I was to drive him to his literacy teacher Julia, just around the corner from the school. I explained to him that the car battery was on the blink (very nervous times for me as I become highly stressed in an unreliable car). In all honesty, I’m not too fussed at what type of car I drive and I could settle for any colour given time, but my car must be able to get me from A to B without conking out. It’s up there with some of life’s essentials, along with daily clean underwear and drawing the line at eating left over curry take away for breakfast.
Because of the low battery and odd whirring sound on ignition, all electrical appliances in the car were off limits and that included the CD player. I carefully explained to Max that the CD player would have to remain silent on our short journey to Julia’s. I attempted to compare it to the life and habits of his ipod battery, which he is familiar with and very good at remembering to re-charge. However he couldn’t quite grasp the concept, although I fear it was more through blind irritation that we were unable to have his favourite songs pumping out at full volume, rather than any intellectual gap. He was quite furious with me, (not an irregular occurrence) which I always feel is unjustly cruel. However he did have a point when he grumpily suggested,
“You could have gone to Kwick Fit and got a new battery before you picked me up Mum.”
But very occasionally in life, a daisy will pop up in a barren field and surprise you. A box of Author copies of Living with Max were delivered this week. Such an incredible experience, mildly surreal, to look at a book and realise I’ve actually written it; it feels like it’s happening to somebody else. The very top of all the delights this book has given, has to be the significant elevation of my street cred’ in my children’s eyes. I’m basking in the glow of an accolade never before received. They’ve both looked past the Mum who delivers clean laundry and an interesting supper every day and seen a real person. It’s wonderful. I’m thrilled and a little shaken to see them both trot off to school armed with their own dedicated copy, happy to gush with pride about their Mum. They must be having a good time of it because both copies have made repeated trips.
Max has asked me to read Living with Max to him. He’s poured over every inch of the cover, running his fingers over the gold lettering, and tried his best to read all the words. He’s thumbed through all the pages, but I know to him the neat endless print looks like a misty sea. He hides his frustration well. I say I know, when in fact I don’t. I have no real idea how he must feel. To look at a book, desperate to be able to access its pages and join in all the fuss and commotion they’ve caused. But he remains trapped on the periphery. He pretends well, holds it together and ‘wings’ it when we all talk about it, but I’ll never really know how he genuinely feels. As his mother, that breaks my heart. I shall gladly read him every page, but I suspect it is going to be hard, in more ways than one.
When I met for the first time with everyone at Vermilion (Random House) a perceptive Editor asked me how I felt about writing such personal details regarding my son. At the time I brushed the question off with ease; I genuinely had no concerns about my work. I was predominantly writing about a baby and toddler. I may be wrong, but I didn’t see my work as a betrayal of Max. Times have changed. Max is now a teenager and I’ve found I can no longer write about him with quite the same freedom. It was fine to reveal such intimacies about a young child, but it’s become quite another matter as a young teenager, flirting with adulthood. The line will always be fine and grey, and although Max is the first to rejoice when I write about him, some moments should remain private. In hindsight, it makes Living with Max even more of a treasure.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Lycra pants at the local church hall
It’s not every day you attend church in order to see a wrestling match. But on Saturday night Paul, Max and I headed up to All Saints Church in Whetstone for exactly that. We met up with our friends Brett, Rebecca, their sons Robbie (Max’s mate) and Sam, and another little boy called Thomas. Quite a party. The queue was around the block when we arrived and there was a slight skirmish in order to get the best pew, but all in a good spirit.
Father William was on the door, in charge of admissions and standby referee. I fancy I caught a quick peek of Lycra under his cassock, perhaps we were in for some vicar-on-vicar wrestling, but I couldn’t be sure. All rather thrilling. We settled down with our bottles of beer and diet coke, preparing to ‘boo’ and ‘hiss’ in unison, momentarily regretting our failure to invest in the giant foam finger hands, everyone else seemed to be brandishing about with vigour. Frankly, we felt left out. The atmosphere was set, the room dim and moody, if a little smelly. Suddenly they cranked up the music, and you just knew the evening had begun.
First up was Elvis himself. (I say that in the broadest sense.) His off white all-in-one crimpelene suit with matching gold cape could have done with an iron; it was a bit on the baggy side too if I have to be picky. But he excelled himself with the hair gel and sunglasses and hammed it up beautifully as the baddie, presenting a dynamic personality and proving to be a nifty little mover. Max and Robbie were up out of their seats like a shot, hurling retorts to his pretend mischief making.
Then along came nice bottomed B-ray, I know this because his name was blazoned across his pert behind, neatly tucked into some apple green Lycra shorts. He had a generous glug of baby oil in his hair and a good deal more smeared on his chest which I have to suspect had recently gone through a waxing routine, if not a hasty Immac. Still, I did like his boots. These two gladiators messed about in the ring for quarter of an hour or so and performed some wonderful hamming up of punches, locks and holds. A few flips and a good deal of groaning. The boys loved it. So did lots of us mums.
We went through a fair few similar acts, with lots of big muscular bottoms and Lycra pants. Waxing seemed a precursor and the odd belt or hat as a prop also added to the show. Pretend violence like you wouldn’t believe and a good deal of fake injury. Almost like the football! It was bizarre, not your average Saturday night, but brilliant family entertainment. The place was packed with mums and dads and their wild and unruly children. A perfect venue for the kids to exorcise all that excess energy and have a great time screaming blue murder at the bad guys while their parents sipped on a beer or two.
Talking of beer, by the end of the brief intermission Rebecca had put away a few bottles and was enjoying herself. Not a woman to mince her words or fear the slightest retribution, she gleefully let rip at our pantomime wrestlers much to all our delight.
‘In your own time then, preferably this evening!’ she hollered.
They gave it back in equal measures.
‘Shut up you old cow!’
‘Yeah, come over here and say that, call yourself fit.’ The tussle of words got slightly riper, but I couldn’t possibly elaborate here.
Robbie and Max required little encouragement and were cheerfully belting out insults to echo Rebecca, which I have to admit made me ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. We were beginning to be ‘the trouble corner’ and I feared significant retribution. I had nothing to fear though, as Robbie and Max were now out of their seats and down the front itching to get in the ring and have a go themselves. It was funny, dreadful, cringing, and delightful stuff, made all the more entertaining by our gobby Rebecca and accompanying boys.
I’m so British, quiet and timid, where my boy Max came from I’ll never know, but I envied him his vigour. Eyes sparkling as he goaded the baddies. I was forced to redress his language a couple of times, but it was just because he got carried away with the whole panto production. I can’t say it was my natural environment, but it was a good giggle and all the wrestlers seemed genuinely lovely blokes, making sure they involved all the children, knowing where to be careful and not to cross a line.
My only complaint was the smell. The farting at yoga is bad enough; here with half a dozen wrestlers it was just awful. That, and good old fashioned sweat. By the time we piled out at ten o’clock we were gasping. Fresh air had never been so welcome. We said out goodbyes to Father William and promised to attend the next event. Gosh, I must remember my giant foam finger hand.
Father William was on the door, in charge of admissions and standby referee. I fancy I caught a quick peek of Lycra under his cassock, perhaps we were in for some vicar-on-vicar wrestling, but I couldn’t be sure. All rather thrilling. We settled down with our bottles of beer and diet coke, preparing to ‘boo’ and ‘hiss’ in unison, momentarily regretting our failure to invest in the giant foam finger hands, everyone else seemed to be brandishing about with vigour. Frankly, we felt left out. The atmosphere was set, the room dim and moody, if a little smelly. Suddenly they cranked up the music, and you just knew the evening had begun.
First up was Elvis himself. (I say that in the broadest sense.) His off white all-in-one crimpelene suit with matching gold cape could have done with an iron; it was a bit on the baggy side too if I have to be picky. But he excelled himself with the hair gel and sunglasses and hammed it up beautifully as the baddie, presenting a dynamic personality and proving to be a nifty little mover. Max and Robbie were up out of their seats like a shot, hurling retorts to his pretend mischief making.
Then along came nice bottomed B-ray, I know this because his name was blazoned across his pert behind, neatly tucked into some apple green Lycra shorts. He had a generous glug of baby oil in his hair and a good deal more smeared on his chest which I have to suspect had recently gone through a waxing routine, if not a hasty Immac. Still, I did like his boots. These two gladiators messed about in the ring for quarter of an hour or so and performed some wonderful hamming up of punches, locks and holds. A few flips and a good deal of groaning. The boys loved it. So did lots of us mums.
We went through a fair few similar acts, with lots of big muscular bottoms and Lycra pants. Waxing seemed a precursor and the odd belt or hat as a prop also added to the show. Pretend violence like you wouldn’t believe and a good deal of fake injury. Almost like the football! It was bizarre, not your average Saturday night, but brilliant family entertainment. The place was packed with mums and dads and their wild and unruly children. A perfect venue for the kids to exorcise all that excess energy and have a great time screaming blue murder at the bad guys while their parents sipped on a beer or two.
Talking of beer, by the end of the brief intermission Rebecca had put away a few bottles and was enjoying herself. Not a woman to mince her words or fear the slightest retribution, she gleefully let rip at our pantomime wrestlers much to all our delight.
‘In your own time then, preferably this evening!’ she hollered.
They gave it back in equal measures.
‘Shut up you old cow!’
‘Yeah, come over here and say that, call yourself fit.’ The tussle of words got slightly riper, but I couldn’t possibly elaborate here.
Robbie and Max required little encouragement and were cheerfully belting out insults to echo Rebecca, which I have to admit made me ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. We were beginning to be ‘the trouble corner’ and I feared significant retribution. I had nothing to fear though, as Robbie and Max were now out of their seats and down the front itching to get in the ring and have a go themselves. It was funny, dreadful, cringing, and delightful stuff, made all the more entertaining by our gobby Rebecca and accompanying boys.
I’m so British, quiet and timid, where my boy Max came from I’ll never know, but I envied him his vigour. Eyes sparkling as he goaded the baddies. I was forced to redress his language a couple of times, but it was just because he got carried away with the whole panto production. I can’t say it was my natural environment, but it was a good giggle and all the wrestlers seemed genuinely lovely blokes, making sure they involved all the children, knowing where to be careful and not to cross a line.
My only complaint was the smell. The farting at yoga is bad enough; here with half a dozen wrestlers it was just awful. That, and good old fashioned sweat. By the time we piled out at ten o’clock we were gasping. Fresh air had never been so welcome. We said out goodbyes to Father William and promised to attend the next event. Gosh, I must remember my giant foam finger hand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
