Growing pains...

This morning after dropping off my young lady in the school playground I took note of how eagerly she just grabbed her bags and ran towards her class queue. No kiss goodbye, no clinging to my legs and no backward glance. 'So long and thanks for all the fish' mum...

Always independent and never one to mourn my absence throughout nursery and now school, it struck me just how grown up she is for a child who has only been in this world for five years. The whole process of letting go of the baby is very much evident amongst the parents too. It seems the school has been training us parents to let go as well. Whereas Reception Class was very much about parental involvement, the next stage, Year1, is about parents and children separating in what can only be a process of teaching independence and responsibility. At first I was rather put out by being dictated to in this subtle process, but I can appreciate the reasoning behind it. This is preparation for the future. As a parent your job is for life but that unique bond that exists initially between you and your baby evolves and gives way to time and maturity. Part of you is relieved but the other is a little reluctant of letting go. Sure enough, my daughter hasn’t hesitated in embracing her individuality and doing her own thing. I am pleased for her as much as for myself. I’m not sure handling a clingy child is my forte. As much as I give love, comfort and support I don’t believe in mollycoddling a child and allowing for every whim. I have seen parents struggling with such children only to suffer in the long term from frayed nerves and exhaustion. If that were me I would probably head for the nearest airport sans brat. I often get comments on how well behaved my kid is. Aside from luck, I’d like to think we as parents have managed to instil this in her. I firmly believe children are as much a product of you as you are of your parents. We need to be conscious of how we guide them.

For a parent I have a meagre supply of patience. It’s not an automatic thing that you gain once you have a child. If it isn’t there to start with you’re going to have to learn it pretty pronto. I have tolerant days and days where I hold my head in my hands and scream inwardly. Recently the school uniform looks like it’s been to hell and back, I cannot decipher what foodstuffs or substances have been thrown at it, wiped on it or melted into it, but the laundry basket has kept me busy. Then the P.E kit is lost, buried in some classroom jungle or other. Be sure to have a substantial school budget set aside for such eventualities. You can label things all you like; they will still get lost...and what is it with kids and that sour smell they seem to absorb when at school. I do not exaggerate when I say it’s not dissimilar to a wet doggy smell. The bathroom is our best friend!

Every milestone brings with it a new set of things to get used to. When you have a chattering monkey constantly bending your ear morning, noon and night then it takes much to keep me sane. I feel my age too. Her youth and exuberance makes me feel like a third rate donkey after years of hard labour. Then again, she floors me with some of the most hilarious comments and grown-up observations for someone so young. Today I asked her if she had behaved in school. She looked at me and said in her matter-of-fact way:

“Mummy, you cannot always be 100% good. Being naughty sometimes is allowed.”

After mincing over the comment I realised she was telling me that she misbehaved today. When pushed for the reason she eventually revealed that she wasn’t very nice to Adam because he was ‘snotty and annoying’ and wouldn’t leave her alone. I noticed that she stands well clear of this particular young man when in the class queue. If looks could kill then I’d have to blame myself. She’s inherited that from her bad tempered dragon of a mother. Not so long ago she complained about another boy with a similar snotty nose, wiping it on his sleeve much to her distaste and shouting ‘croissant’ in the playground ‘like it was meant to be funny mummy’.  I suggested to her she tells him to use a tissue or gives him one. But she roundly told me that it was his mummy’s job and the teacher’s job, not hers. I was speechless! Fruit of my loins she most certainly is with comments like that. I have a discerning child!

She’s also been obsessed with ‘interrupting’ volcanoes.  She had a nightmare the other night about being stuck and being surrounded by lava. She came into my room on Sunday morning (really early) to whisper in my ear about this godforsaken volcano. For a moment I thought I was dreaming and then bang went my lie-in. Blurry eyed and croaky I half listened to the dream volcano and then just got her tucked into bed with me trying to get her to sleep some more only to be met with fidgeting and tickling. Then it was a swift transfer over to her dad: “Bother him,” I whispered.

I really must stop watching BBC documentaries about the Human body. Although informative and wonderfully presented I find myself weeping for my biology. Our sole purpose in life apparently is to have sex (great), perpetuate our genes as the only way to achieve immortality and eventually die (not so great). We will have fulfilled our biological function and are superfluous to purpose after that.  Well, I’d like to think that I’m more than just the sum of my parts thank you very much. Evolution is such an impersonal process.  Did you know that aside from Pilot whales we are the only species on earth to go through the menopause? How depressing is that! Another milestone to overcome and then it’s osteoporosis, and all manner of issues. Men are fertile to the end of their lives. Women, on the other hand, are subject (to choose but a mere few) sagging breasts, bat wings, cellulite and beards. Yes, beards!!! Our sex hormones diminish and so does our freaking femininity by the sounds of it. Put us outside and we could pass for bearded, garden gnomes. Of all the ignoble things; is it a wonder the beauty industry is a multi-million pound corporation given this physical obsession we have about ourselves? I don’t know any woman who has never complained about some aspect of her body. Never! Although I try to be sensible and pretend I don’t care, I most certainly do. I still have nightmares about the bearded lady who used to come into the library. As for men....most of you will bald. Do yourselves a favour and shave it all off when it happens. Don’t comb over the little that is left, it’s hideous and hugely unattractive. Be bold and go bald. There’s a price to pay for all that testosterone and we have to make the most of our physical lot. Oh, and be sure to watch for ear and nasal hair. Apparently testosterone has no problems fuelling that growth. Let’s hope we chose our parents well. It’s all in the genes.

Ultimately I hope that my moaning about how make-up no longer sits on my face the way it used to because my skin is losing its elasticity and questioning a bar of chocolate because of how fat my arse will look after eating it, will just be an occasional gripe. I will most likely never stop whinging about it as I think that even with the best intentions I’m still a little insecure at heart, even after all these years. I think we all are to an extent about different things. People who tell you they don’t care are telling big fat fibs. Either that or they’re fooling themselves into believing the lie. As much as we laugh at Arabella Weir’s famous catchphrase: does my bum look big in this, it is indeed something we can all relate to in some form or other, hence the propensity for laughing at the comment. It’s true that confidence grows with time and I often wish that my confidence now was more evident when I was younger and had everything going for me. Youth is most certainly wasted on the young.  Now I have my middle age to look forward to and I had better do it with grace, because nothing is going to stop the process. Tempus fugit and before you know it we’re contemplating our demise. I do it now, I’m that morbid. I have woken up anxious and in dread fear of death. I have issues obviously.  I need to get out more! The thing is when I’m in that mood I’m likely to be a little rebellious and not 100% good.  What was it my daughter said....?

“Being naughty sometimes is allowed.” Yes it is, and I may be taking a page out of her book doing just that before long. All these constraints and rules make for a dull life sometimes. I don’t want to face the grim reaper when my time comes with regret in my heart.  Perhaps a game of chess with the personification of death might buy me some time to get used to the idea?

A gargoyle in my sanctuary

Meet my friend the gargoyle. Technically he is really a chimera, but I call him Quasi in homage to Victor Hugo’s Quasimodo. He’s not exactly the most attractive of creatures but he is endearing for those of us who see past the grotesque features. He has a toothy grin that welcomes you into his abode – Rochester Cathedral - and a curious stare that seems to assess your intentions. I took this photo when I visited the cathedral a few weeks ago. Most people went abroad for a break. We just hung around the neighbourhood to see what we had in our backyard: a castle, a cathedral, some Dickensian charm and a whole lot of history. It’s not the first time we have visited, but it was high time we retraced our steps and had a proper look this time round. The glorious weather bestowed to us desperate sun-seeking humans was a boon. It would seem a benevolent weather front took pity on the normally dreary United Kingdom.

 I’m not particularly religious in any sense whatsoever, but I am a spiritual person who appreciates the beauty of something, whatever its purpose. Cathedrals and churches have always attracted my aesthetic sensibility. They are beautiful buildings that you can’t help but admire. Architectural delights, immense and grand in their scope, detailing the past in the stones that make them up; a history so detailed you can almost see the shadows of centuries past as you touch them and feel their cold surety. I don’t feel like I’m trespassing as often (for me) worship is irrelevant here. The sanctity of the building lies in its history. The blood, sweat and tears that surely went into its construction - the human creative fire that forged it.

The cathedral was quiet and very nearly deserted when we went in. Hardly a soul was there with exception the three of us and the odd random tourist. The clergy were absent and there was no sign of a guide or anyone of that ilk. Just how I like it! It’s rather refreshing to know that your every move isn’t being monitored. In some cathedrals and churches (not all I might add) I get the distinct impression that I'm perceived to be a potential delinquent, ready to pilfer the golden crucifix and the priests wine goblets perhaps wearing a dark cowl and walking out of the nave to the strains of Ave Satani as I ransack the holy objects. For those not familiar with Ave Satani, it’s the theme music to the film ‘The Omen’ composed by the wonderful Jerry Goldsmith. I have it in mind to go round in said cowl, just before closing time, and glide alongside the pillars just to see what visitors would make of it, even if it isn't Halloween. 

*Sorry I’ve watched too many supernatural thrillers.*

So here is a building - a haven and sanctuary as it was constructed to be. A place simple and almost introvert in its decor, unlike the odd other cathedral that bombards you with iconography at every turn. Rochester cathedral is the epitome of austerity. A restrained place of worship that doesn’t make you feel out of place like a heathen holding a portrait of Christ. I didn’t feel compelled to douse myself in holy water and genuflect before the alter as taught to me growing up. For one thing Rochester Cathedral is Anglican and not steeped in such strange Catholic practices. I always felt like such a fake doing that. I never felt comfortable adhering to such behaviours shrouded in ritual and what I often thought as supernatural. I respect other people’s devotion to what they believe in, but I take a rather acerbic view of religion and all its do’s/don’ts, pomp and drama. I remember my first ever confession a week before my First Holy Communion (a Catholic sacrament). We had a very nice bushy-haired young priest named Fr. Nolan who explained all the necessary procedure and what it all meant. To this day I know not what it all means. All I remember is that I needed to find myself a sin to be able to confess on the allotted day. As far as I knew I hadn’t committed any felonies or sinful deeds, but for the sake of the confessional I needed to confess an impressive sin. What is the worst thing an 8 year old could do to incur the wrath of God? Not sure...stealing money out of the coffers, stealing all the wafers, drinking the ‘holy’ wine and getting drunk in the process; perhaps hiding all of the bibles? I eventually settled for lies. In my ultimate cunning plan I decided that I would lie to the priest about having lied to my parents. It was all one big colossal lie. I didn’t like my mother’s stew and lied about the fact that I did. Not only was I an ungrateful child I was a disgraceful lier. I was told to say one Our Father and 5 Hail Mary’s for my terrible sin. Do you know how terrified I was of that confessional box? It was like the Catholic tardis with a very scary Dr Priest inside of it. I would have probably fared better confronting the Daleks. The Spanish inquisition would have been a walk in the park compared to what I felt that day. In my bladder induced weakness I also forgot my prayers, I think my mind went blank half-way through the Our Father and instead I was filled with visions of avenging angels and sadistic nuns waving the cane at me. I always wondered why some nuns, or at least those I encountered, were always such miserable and strict creatures. As human-beings they certainly did their best to try and be rather inhumane at times. I often wondered if they were suited to certain doctrines, some of which I felt occasionally seemed to be in conflict with their humanity. Then again, there were other sisters who were perfectly comfortable integrating their beliefs into their earthly existence and were very content. I do not wish to insult or belittle those beliefs, but you have to question the absurdity of it all at times. In the words of Mike Leigh, the film director:

“Life is both profound and absurd.”

Rochester Cathedral boasts an impressive organ (not something I say very often) which is fairly modern in its current incarnation having undergone some rebuilding and a few upgrades over the last century or two. The oldest pipes I believe date back to the 18th century when the instrument was considerably smaller than it is today. It is a thing of complex beauty. We were fortunate to have been introduced to some of its beautiful notes as (I assume) it was being warmed up for a service later on in the day. The organ notes reverberate off the stone walls and resonate within your cells reminding them of just how alive they are. It’s an assault so divine you almost want to lie prostrated on the floor and melt into it: a series of notes that breathe into your ears permeating your body in a harmonious vibration; haunting, forbidden and powerful. It was a delightful medley of notes that made me quake in my shoes. I have always believed that music is the one thing that all of humanity has in common, no matter what kind you prefer. It’s as though musical notes define themselves within our living cells. To listen to music and be able to feel it is to be alive and is a way of expressing divinity, in that it’s as close as we can possibly get to the soul. To be able to resonate on a musical level is the closest we’ll get to spiritual ecstasy, something cathedral organs do well, whether one is religious or not.

One of the things that struck me most about the cathedral was the light reflecting off the stone, beaming through the beautiful stained glass windows. When the sun shines through undisturbed by clouds and obstacles you can see the warmth in the stone. Depending on the glass, they may even appear to be glowing like an aurora borealis: a beautiful fusion of light and colour. Touch the stone and you feel the solidness, the staid and loyal fixture that holds the edifice up. The stone reflects mood, saturated with centuries of spiritual and meditative devotion, it is palpable. It’s all quite wondrous, for me at least. I see life within stone and appreciate its strength and age. I cannot help but admire such beautiful arches and sculptures chiselled and put together by stone masons of old, no doubt a dying breed. Such craftsmanship is sadly very much a rare skill now.

Like Quasimodo I have needed sanctuary in the last few weeks. Not only has the winter been long and soul destroying, but now with the beautiful spring weather after those arduous months, the media has infiltrated once again and saturated our minds with stories and world events that, quite frankly, have switched me off: terrorists, politics, and wars. The human propensity to live in a dystopian and cynical world has given me the just excuse to simply go and find my sanctuary. Anything that doesn’t involve TV’s, radios, newspapers, the internet and all sensory enemies. Quasimodo went to find some friendly gargoyles and sought them out in a place called Rochester. They are there to drive away the demons. That’s what gargoyles are – demon repellents. If they can drive away all that media crap and human foolishness then I’ll seek them out with frequency. I’ll sit in the cloistered garden and look at Rochester castle over the cathedral wall and imagine I’m listening to tales written in stone. The stones have witnessed much and to their credit will remain until such time as erosion and natural forces reclaim them back into the earth. As will we and our history.