Gifts from the motherland

Child #3 arrived last night, boyfriend in tow. She is the only other girl in this testosterone-heavy family (not counting me, as sadly the term ‘girl’ no longer seems appropriate), so she was welcomed with huge hugs from one and all, even more fiercely when she produced decent chocolate from the motherland.

Despite being a world-renowned chocoholic (and also, you might be thinking, a world-class exaggerator), I have somehow managed to avoid the evil stuff for all of 2017 so far. A round of applause here wouldn’t go amiss. No one knows how I have accomplished this, least of all me. But it is some kind of miracle in my little world, and so I am persevering. My mouth watered, and I felt giddy from the aroma, and my willpower wobbled around all over the place, but I stood fast and strong. Pious, even.

I distracted myself by joining the ‘motherland versus American chocolate’ debate with great energy. We were all convinced: there is no comparison. The Brits may no longer rule the waves, or much of anything else, but when it comes to the cocoa delight, we win every time. Of course, the Swiss and the Belgians would probably throw up their hands in horror and wade into this debate with gusto, but then there would be no contest, so let’s rule them out straight away. Pit British chocolate against the stars and stripes version, and I believe we come out on top. Every time.

Of course, it’s all a matter of taste. It always is. Unfortunately, in a family that loves vociferous debate, this is one point on which all are agreed, and so it was that everyone roared into the various packets and bars with their own gusto. There was much chewing and slurping, and pretty soon there were empty wrappers scattered across the coffee table, followed by a significant lull in the conversation as everyone dozed in a sugary haze.

Except me. Being the only one without the jitters, I was left to clear up the mess and ponder over the fact that #3 and the lovely boyfriend had managed to scoff a good half of the treats they had ostensibly brought for us.

While I was contemplating this turn of events – and remembering that a similar thing had occurred the previous summer when #4 had arrived bearing the remnants of Iced Gems packets and a guilty grin – I looked up to see that #3 had found a second wind and started on the duty-free rum she had also declared to be ‘a gift’. As soon as she stuck her head into the fridge to root around for Coke, lemon and ice, I took the opportunity to tiptoe to my bedroom and hide all the gifts she has given me over the years. Just to be safe.

Inspiration struck today at ... Tea & Sympathy, Greenwich Avenue, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues

First of all, hands up, this place belongs to my cousin, who more than twenty years ago hatched the genius idea of a shop and restaurant full of all things English.

Pros: English chocolate! And tea! And scones with jam and cream! And …

Cons: You can’t sit to sup unless all your party are present, so be prepared. However, it’s great to sit on the bench outside and people watch. With a cup of tea in hand, of course.

The joke’s on you

I have had my first encounter with a pick pocket in my beloved New York. He came off worse. Not because I leapt on him and beat him to the ground to reclaim my belongings, but because the only thing I had in my coat pocket was a used tissue. A very used tissue.

I didn’t realise what had happened until Child #6 told me she had seen the whole incident. She had noticed the guy because he was dressed up as The Joker from Batman. Hiding in plain sight then. We were passing near Times Square, where no one takes any notice of what anyone is caring to wear, apart, perhaps, from the Naked Cowboy who remains almost true to his name even in sub-zero temperatures. He deserves all the tips he gets in the winter, to be honest.

Anyway, it was crowded and I was clinging to my handbag in the way that you find with people who grew up in London in the Seventies. Then someone knocked against me so that I fell into He Who Knows Best. I didn’t think anything of it until #6 related her tale and I realised that someone had indeed slipped their hand into my coat pocket. I felt it on some subconscious level at the time but only afterwards did I connect it with the not so amusing Joker.

I lived in Paris in my twenties, paying my way by waitressing. (I was a terrible waitress, but thankfully my British accent saved me from almost certain dismissal.) In the evenings my friends and I would wander the streets of the city, pretending to absorb the culture, smoking menthol cigarettes and believing we were oh so cool. And we saw pick pockets galore. I’m not entirely sure there were enough careless tourists to go round, in fact. Night after night we would see these sneaky little artists at work, moving among the crowds like characters from ‘Oliver’. They would dip their hands into a handbag in seconds and then disappear as though they were never there in the first place. Their poor victims never saw it coming. It was most impressive.

I have always been convinced that I’m too streetwise to fall foul of these chancers. But you can become complacent when you live in a city for a while. You aren’t a tourist any more, this is your home, so you wander around with the carefree attitude of people who are comfortable in their surroundings. And then you get careless.

I think back to the times I have stuffed my cell phone into my pocket so that it is easily accessible when I am expecting a call. I have been lucky up to now. So I have had a wake-up call and henceforth my phone will remain zipped up in my bag and my bag will be across my body and my hands will be on top of my bag. There may even be a padlock involved. And all that will be in my pocket is a crumpled-up old tissue. You’re welcome, Mr Pick Pocket.

Inspiration struck today at ... Times Square

You have to visit this iconic New York tourist hell at least once, and there is undoubtedly an energy to the place, but for people like me who hyperventilate in a crowd, this might not be the best idea.

Pros: Reminds you that the quiet life really is the way to go.

Cons: Bad for epileptics, what with all the flashing lights everywhere you turn.

Eh? What was that?

Why is it that when you ask your offspring to hang up their freshly laundered clothes, or put away their shoes before you break your neck tripping over them, or clear the dinner table before cultures start to fester, they don’t hear you the first time? Or the second? Or the fifth? And yet when you mutter the words ‘food’ or ‘money’, they’re all over you like a rash.

I was beginning to think Child #6 was experiencing some hearing loss. She had just got over a cold, which had involved oceans of mucus, judging by the number of tissues consumed in just a few short days. But on reflection, that didn’t account for the previous months of deafness. And then it hit me – I am getting slow in my old age, obviously, because this was a clear case of selective hearing.

Ah yes, that old trick. Years ago that realisation would have struck me after seconds, not weeks/months, so I took a moment to lament my advancing years and declining faculties. But then I set out to do what I do best: catch one of my children out.

The first step was to test my theory. Using my regular voice, which is neither loud nor shrill (He Who Knows Best might be inclined to start debating this point, but I will turn a deaf ear), I asked #6 to take the recycling downstairs. By some miracle, her cell phone was nowhere to be seen, so she did not have that distraction. But still she seemed not to hear me, or to understand that the request was fired in her direction, even though I have not started addressing myself out loud, yet.

So next I declared that I would dish the ice cream while she dealt with the recycling. There was a blur of plastics and puff of cardboard and clinking of glass, and off she went. She was fairly drooling by the time she returned to claim her prize. It’s a bit like training a puppy, only not so rewarding.

Satisfied with my results, I decided to confront the issue head on, in a mature and good-parenting kind of fashion, rather than playing her at her own game and ignoring her in favour of lying on the sofa and binge watching something on Netflix. (I will be honest with you, I can’t say I wasn’t tempted by this option.) I laid out my findings calmly and shook my head sadly as I suggested that she might like to do as I ask the first time, or even, dare I imagine, before I have had to ask. I then repeated my words, as her hearing loss seemed to have set in again. Seeing my face and realising her error – because she is pretend-deaf, not stupid – she rushed to assure me that she would take my advice to heart and act on it with immediate effect. She then took off to her room – leaving her dirty ice cream bowl on the table.

All I can say is that it’s a good job I will have forgotten about all this by tomorrow …

Inspiration struck today at ... MatchaBar, West 15th Street

The tiny, unassuming entrance belies a surprisingly spacious interior.

Pros: Chilled and charming, with great décor and window spot worth waiting for.

Cons: Be prepared to wiggle around a fair bit as you will be sitting on a wooden bench or a backless chair.

In the name of art

It all started with a square of no more than twelve inches, marked out on the sidewalk with white tape. The delivery boy turned artist then gulped down his bottle of water, scrunched up the plastic, and chucked it into the equal-sided rectangle. It landed neatly off centre, right next to a piece of filthy chewed gum, carelessly lobbed by some litter lout days previously.

Over the next few hours people stopped and took notice. The sun was shining after a week of grey skies, so the city folk were out for a gentle stroll, and they had time to take in their surroundings now that they weren’t huddled beneath umbrellas, noses to the ground. It was a good day for appreciation. And so they stopped to admire this new work of art that had sprung up so unexpectedly. Fingers were pointed, cell phones were whipped out, opinions were swapped. One and all agreed it was indeed a fine piece.

And then along came some buffoon who certainly had no appreciation of the finer things in life. There were gasps as he swung back his bare leg, which had blatantly not seen much sun over the winter, and then more gasps as he brought it forward and his Nike Airs made contact with the plastic. The crunch echoed in the silence that had fallen over the crowd. They gaped, aghast, as the bottle launched in a perfect arc before landing in the middle of the road, where its fate was sealed by a yellow taxi and its deadly black tyres.

In the furore that followed, the delivery boy turned artist stood to one side, watching in amusement. This had all provided a pleasant diversion on a rather slow Sunday, but now families were getting peckish and there were meals to be escorted to their rightful owners. And it was at that moment, when the delivery boy turned artist made a move to do his real job, that his phone rang.

Art can make us all see the world in a whole new light. And, it seems, never more so than when an art gallery uptown declares that they have just seen your work with plastics on Instagram and they are intrigued to see some more, and could you perhaps drop by, at your convenience of course. The artist formerly known as delivery boy was last seen glugging gallons of Evian and trampling the empty bottles for all he was worth.

I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry at such absurdity. My mind is full of thoughts of the emperor and his new clothes, an image I am trying desperately to banish. But I don’t really have time for much pondering just at this moment – armed with a roll of packing tape, I am off to find myself a prominent little sidewalk spot and think of something creative to do with my empty candy wrappers. I have plenty of them.

Inspiration struck today at ... Bonsignour Café, Jane Street

I have loved this spot since the last soccer World Cup when the owners mounted a huge TV screen outside the café and each day draped the flags of the nations battling it out that day on the pitch. Drew quite a crowd.

Pros: Benches outside are ideal for sipping coffee and people watching.
Cons: Overwhelming smell of cleaning fluid first thing in the morning. Very happy they are keeping up standards, but seriously, air the place once you’re done.

Mummy wars

It turns out that if you want to be a successful mummy blogger in these turbulent times, you have to confess a few things to your adoring public: you don’t actually like your offspring terribly much, your life is so tiresome since you spawned the little darlings, and your only solace comes in the form of a glass of Chardonnay. Oh yes, and you absolutely must sprinkle swear words all over your confessions, like the hundreds and thousands on the fairy cakes you despise making so much.

Trawling through some of these yummy/scummy mummy blogs I found myself nodding off pretty quickly, as one sad episode blurred into another. And that was without a glass of Pinot. These women are obviously determined to be sensational, and the way to do that, it seems, is to be outrageous. If they can’t find something unsavoury to say about their kids, they resort to the kind of language that would have earned my brothers a clip around the earhole.

I’m pretty sure most of it is tongue in cheek (or tongue in bottle), and some of it is quite amusing if there’s nothing good on Netflix, but the sad thing is that this kind of blog appeals to those mums out there who really do find motherhood to be one enormous chore. Thank god, someone else out there feels the same. Someone else can relate to the tedium and frustration, to the misery and despair. And all the while the yummies are rubbing their hands in glee and clinking glasses. Bottoms up.

At the other extreme you have the self-righteous bunch, soothing their little bundles in their rocking chairs, sipping their herbal teas and swapping crochet patterns. All that talk of breastfeeding, pureeing and cotton versus wool is enough to make the rest of us reach for the bottle (gin or formula, take your pick).

I like to believe I have forged my own path, without too much crazy in either direction. My approach has always had its own sprinkle of irreverence, albeit without any help from a bottle. People who don’t know me might not appreciate my brand of humour, however, so I will let you judge. Let me give you a recent example.

Child #6, the drama student, approached while I was dutifully preparing dinner, in a respectable ‘good example of parenting’ manner (even though my kitchen repertoire consists of three meals, give or take one or two). ‘Do you think I’m too ugly to be an actress?’ she asked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I replied, not even looking up from the kale I was chopping. ‘That’s what they have make-up departments for.’

Inspiration struck today at ... Home, in the West Village

This isn’t the best coffee joint on the planet, as the beloved hot beverage can only be found in a jar (thumbs up from the scummy mummies) and often we have run out of milk (looks of disapproval from the self-righteous brigade).

Pros: the bathroom is so convenient and always clean.
Cons: the early part of the day might be interrupted by the rumble of snores from the bedroom where He Who Knows Best is still catching up on his beauty sleep.

Destined to achieve little

When Child #1 was 13, he earned himself a pretty dreadful and damning school report. Bad grades, bad behaviour, bad attitude. And at the end of it all, etched in ink for posterity, a remark from the head teacher (principal, to you Americans): ‘Child #1 is destined to achieve little.’ (He didn’t actually say ‘#1’, of course, but I feel it might be better to preserve #1’s anonymity here.)

As it turns out, the ‘little’ that #1 has achieved so far includes two university degrees, a stellar naval career, an MBA, and now a future in finance. I’m sure many of his peers wish they had achieved so little.

What kind of person writes off a 13 year old? And a high-ranking educator at that? Lots of teenage boys see school simply as a social venue – lessons get in the way of their attempts to chat up girls, play class clown, and generally act like the immature creatures they naturally are. Of course, as parents it’s our job to make sure they turn up for school and at least try to learn something. It is a drag for us, and a drag for them. Few of us emerge from the experience unscathed. But you never, ever write them off – there’s always potential and hope. (That’s what I told myself in the deepest and darkest hours of #5’s teenage years – how I didn’t turn to the bottle I’ll never know, but that’s a story, or fifty, for another time.)

I was heartened this week to read of a father in Texas who, at the end of his tether with his tiresome teen, threatened that one more misdemeanour would result in a rather unusual consequence. The son either didn’t believe the threat, or couldn’t control himself. Either way, the father ended up spending the day sitting next to his horrified child in class. I found this encouraging because so many parents these days seem to let their kids rule the roost and behave like spoiled brats, with no consequences for bad behaviour.

One of our kids was once grounded for a week for one of his many ‘crimes’ (I shall leave out his number in order to preserve his anonymity, though you may be able to narrow it down to one of two). He complained dramatically that we were infringing his human rights and declared that he was off to call social services. ‘I’ll get you the number,’ I offered, ‘and then I’ll help you pack.’

Inspiration struck today at ... Argo, 949 Broadway, right by Union Square

Despite this being a chain of tea cafés, I always go for a latte because I can’t quite kick the coffee habit. (I have given up gluten and chocolate, but coffee seems just a sacrifice too far.)

Pros: this place may specialise in teas but the coffee is really good. There are also power outlets all over the place, so no excuse for not getting some work done.

Cons: a few communication issues have cropped up because apparently my English accent is difficult to decipher (who knew?), but it has given me a chance to sample a latte with almond milk (bitter and disgusting, if you ask me) and rewarded me with a free croissant for my trouble. So no cons really.

Back story

Everyone here has a story to tell.

The previous super in our building, for instance, a large and rather slow character, turned out to hold two degrees from prestigious universities along with a licence to drive huge and intimidating trucks. The postie, who trudges along his route with a smile on his face in all weathers, was a mechanic in the Israeli air force, responsible for repairing fighter jets. Our curmudgeonly old neighbour, frustrated by the walking stick that is her constant companion, turned down the chance to be a model so that she could counsel young drug addicts instead.

It’s easy to judge a person on the face of one or two encounters. But there is always a back story that has fashioned that person into the character they are today.

I have always encouraged the kids to take an understanding approach. That bully in the playground might live with two parents at war, with constant yelling and verbal abuse. The kid with the spiteful comments might have a sibling at home who demands all the parents’ attention. The jealous teen who chips away at your confidence with carefully crafted barbs might resent your loving home life.

Child #5 came home from school one day complaining loudly about a new boy in his class. The boy is in an electric wheelchair and communicates through gestures only. #5 said this boy was mean and disruptive. #4 confirmed that this was indeed the case. (As #5 had something of a reputation for being disruptive himself, I had to suppress a smile here.)

Well, how would you like it if you lived your whole life in a wheelchair, I asked. If you couldn’t go out at lunchtime and kick a ball around with your friends? If no one invited you to parties, or just to hang out? No excuse, apparently. I told them I was disappointed at their lack of empathy, and shook my head sadly to reiterate my point.

I was in school just a few days after this conversation, helping out with a PTA event. The boy in question was powering along the corridor in his wheelchair, so I stopped what I was doing and nipped over to hold the door open for him. At which point he looked up at me, changed course … and ran over my foot.

When I told the boys about it that evening, they simply shook their heads sadly, to reiterate their point.

Inspiration struck today at ... Fika, 555 6th Avenue

From South Korean last week to Swedish today. I like this chain, despite the fact that you need to score one of the very few soft chairs if you want to stay a while. Otherwise prepare for a stiff backside or a short visit.

Pros: they try hard with their marketing, for instance live bands on a Friday evening, and an app that allows you to pre-order and lets them track you in real time so that your drink is ready and waiting for you, freshly made.
Cons: you often have to wipe down the tables before you sit down – come on Fika staff, you are going to lose that A rating.

Sensible shoes

I was horrified to discover, in the post, a mail order catalogue addressed to me in capital letters (just in case I didn’t realise it was intended for ME). This catalogue was full of middle-aged women posing chirpily in outfits designed for middle-aged women. But you are a middle-aged woman, you might declare, it says so at the top of your blog. No, what really horrified me was when I realised that not only did I find some of the outfits worthy of a second glance, I had turned down the corners on the interesting pages for future reference.

I should explain. Despite photographic evidence to the contrary (it was the Eighties, for goodness sake), I have always prided myself on presenting a youthful appearance. I still wear mini dresses with leggings and DMs (Dr Marten’s boots, for all you middle-aged ladies now scratching your grey-sprinkled heads). I keep my hair blonde, with a dash of purple or pink, depending on the season, and never leave home without some basic make-up (for the neighbours’ sakes as much as my own).

So you will forgive me if I feel a little peeved that the marketing gurus leading the charge into old age feel I should slot into their next target bracket. Apparently I should be wearing pastels and sensible shoes, at twenty per cent off with a coupon. What’s next, home-made cardis and cups of cocoa as I sway backwards and forwards in my rocking chair to the rhythm of my knitting needles?

Don’t get me wrong. I do not condone women of more than a certain age dressing like their teenage daughters. God forbid we should start wearing over-the-knee socks and taking pouty selfies that only hormone-engorged kids could believe to be attractive. But equally we must not succumb to the mid-length, unflattering styles favoured by our grannies, or allow anything even vaguely quilted to adorn our bodies. It’s a fine line we women of a certain age are treading.

The line with Child #6 is also a rather precarious one. While not being a fan of the skin-tight dress and the see-through top so many young girls squeeze themselves into, she nevertheless wants to express herself in a way that sometimes leaves He Who Knows Best spluttering into his cocoa (he being a few years older than me). A hint of cleavage or a glimpse of pale stomach and he’s likely to snap his pencil on his Sudoku page and start muttering about how dating should be illegal before the age of thirty.

As I said, it’s all a tricky business. I will mull it over while I finish my latte and flick through my catalogue again.

Inspiration struck today at ... Caffé Bene, West 17th Street and 8th Avenue

This is the South Korean version of Starbucks. A couple of the venues around here have closed down recently, but I’m happy to report this one is still going strong.

Pros: staff always greet you with a smile, good latte.
Cons: music is way too loud, particularly in the morning if you’re not a teen dipping out of school.

Mutterings

On my right, Child #6 is rolling her eyes and muttering over her iPhone. On my left, He Who Knows Best is muttering over his Book of Incredibly Eye-wateringly Difficult Sudoku. That is the title he insists on giving it, anyway, and as he has been on page 1 since last Wednesday, I am guessing he is finding these mind bogglers a little tricky. I offered to get him started, but was met with a rather hostile ‘No thank you, I like to take my time’.

I am seated between the two because that seems to be the safest arrangement. When I suggested we walk to the park and take in the unseasonably warm sunshine, perhaps with a latte in one hand and some reading matter in the other, I hadn’t bargained on ending up in a war zone.

It all started with the boy with the red hair. This boy, with more than a little of the look of the Irish about him, met #6 at a quinceañera at the weekend. (For the less worldly among you, a quinceañera is a fifteenth birthday party for a Spanish girl, and a fancy affair it is too.) #6 and her friends had spent the afternoon in our apartment, transforming themselves from the casual drama students I know them to be into elegant and rather gorgeous young women. When they emerged in a cloud of perfume and giggles, I was even too dumbstruck to utter one of my usual pithy comments along the lines of ‘Well, you could at least have put on makeup’ or ‘Where did those ugly bugs go?’

Anyway, I digress. The boy with the red hair was obviously rather taken with #6, who did indeed look more than a little fetching in a blue cocktail dress handed down by her sister. So after the party he Snapchatted her and asked whether she might like to go to the cinema the next time he was in the neighbourhood.

And that’s when the trouble began. He Who Knows Best, on overhearing this news, looked up from his Sudoku long enough to declare that we would be going along to the ‘picture house’ as well, although we would make one concession and sit a few rows further back. Seeing #6’s look of abject horror, he warmed to his theme and started debating which of his many disguises he might adopt for this particular outing. He appeared to be favouring a bandana and dark glasses, perhaps with a leather jacket if it didn’t turn out to be too warm. As he possesses neither a bandana nor a leather jacket, I was having a bit of trouble picturing him in this get-up.

Not too long into He Who Knows Best’s musings, #6 had a serious sense of humour failure, at which point, being the peace keeper I am, I suggested the trip to the park.

So there we were in the West Village, sitting on the bench, watching a fat black pigeon fancying his chances with any female bird that was foolish enough to cross his path. ‘Will you look at that,’ I said, in an attempt to lighten the mood. ‘They’re all the same, whatever the species.’

More eye rolling, more muttering, though at least this time they were on the same page: muttering about me.

Inspiration struck today at ... The Hudson Café, 628 Hudson Street

This is one of my favourite spots in the neighbourhood - just round the corner from our apartment.

Pros: great coffee and salads, pretty and creative environment, village feel.

Cons: tables are very small, too many young waitresses conducting their love lives while you're trying to write.