Two years ago I had no friends. Today I have 87. It’s true, just go and look on my Facebook page if you don't believe me.
Well, when I say 'no' friends, it’s not strictly true, DH is obviously my friend (in a sort of manacled together fashion), but that doesn’t count anyway.
I have a couple of friends from school with whom I keep in touch. By ‘in touch’ I mean the odd email and the occasional drink at Christmas. Mind you, it’s only in recent years that we really had anything in common (well, not since we all had a crush on McGyver and thought Morrissey was deep).
Through our late twenties and early thirties, as they surged ahead in their chosen fields, I spent my time watching CBeebies and cleaning bottoms. ‘My life is meaningless’ I would wail down the phone, in one of my late night drunken monologues. ‘I’m rubbish at housework, I want to go to parties and I’m pretty sure that Jake from the Tweenies is gay’.
We’re now back on an equal footing as they have since become mothers themselves, although they have wisely chosen to have only one or two children. As one friend commented cheerfully, after one particularly noisy, messy, vomit covered, head lice infested visit ‘well, thankyou, that has delayed any maternal yearnings for another 6 months.’
Then there of course are my siblings, with whom I’m in almost daily contact. But that doesn’t count either, we’re bound by blood, baggage and rivalry.
Of course my neighbours could be counted as friends too, although our endless plans for nights out and dinner parties have never amounted to anything more than the occasional cup of coffee and one, drunken and impromptu party back at ours after chucking out time.
Of course this is purely down to the fact that having children means anything less than an all expenses paid trip for two to New York (babysitter provided) just isn’t worth the hassle.
And then came Facebook. I love Facebook, the ultimate tool for a friendship commitment-phobe such as myself. It’s brilliant, with little or no effort on my part, I can suddenly be part of peoples lives; people I might not have seen in 20 years. At the click of a button I am privy to their sadnesses, joys, and Christmas photos. And I don’t even have to get dressed.
And the best bit is, nothing is required of me other than the odd insipid comment such as ‘hey that’s great, good luck’ or ‘lucky you, enjoy yourself’.
But I’m being disingenuous. There is great pleasure in rediscovering long lost cousins, ex- flat mates, work colleagues, people with whom you’ve shared a part of your history and yet have had no contact in decades.
My past is littered with the carcasses of deceased friendships. There are dozens of people whom I’ve met, liked, sometimes lived with, worked with, certainly got drunk with, who have disappeared along the way on this journey we call life. Of course, back in the 90’s, when the internet was still in its infancy, the only way to keep in touch with someone who’d moved on was through their parents phone number or address (even then you were likely to lose it). But in these high tech times of social networking sites, and search engines, finding someone is easier than looking up the yellow pages.
Of course, there are the dangers. Looking up past boyfriends, for example, is an irresistible but potentially dangerous practice. Interestingly, not one ex boyfriend of mine is to be found on facebook, I can’t help but feel it’s intentional (ok, so I may have displayed some bunny boiling tendencies in a past life.. although I prefer the term ‘enthusiastically challenging’, besides, most of that was reserved for DH and remember, dear reader, he married me)
But Facebook is a marvel. Through some sort of cyber witchery, it can suggest people as friends who may have no connection with anyone else on your 'friends list'. This can result in a flurry of excitable emails with the individual in question as you catch up and rediscover each other over the course of a few days. However, it's not always good news. I am reminded weekly of a friend that I haven't spoken to in 5 years. To put it delicately, we won't be revisiting that relationship.
The aim is to have as many FB friends as possible. My personal ambition is to have to click onto a second page when scrolling through my ‘friends’ list. I'm surely into the home run at this stage.
But some people take the whole thing too far. Does anyone really want to know that you’ve decided to eat a banana for lunch? Or are going to pop to the shops? I recently heard a story about some witless oaf who, following a hard night out on the tiles, took a duvet day, phoned in sick and then bragged about the fact on facebook. Needless to say the person in question was fired when the boss discovered the truth (no doubt by some well-meaning colleague).
How long before people log on to their status update to tell us they need the loo or are about to have sex? Just typing that makes me realise they probably already do!
And then there are the quizzes, which are bizarre, pointless and sometimes funny although there is something tragic about a 36 year old woman spending 3 minutes of her day answering questions on the 'which Harry Potter Character are you?' quiz (the Weasley twins apparantly, a result which instantly reminded how stupid the quiz was in the first place). Although the 'which psychiatric illness do you have?' quiz was alarmingly accurate given it was based on only 5 questions (ADD aparently).
Interestingly, facebook has wormed its way into our social consciousness too. Photos taken on nights out are now taken purely with the intention of publishing them on facebook. It’s the ultimate in approval-seeking one-upmanship. 'See, I AM popular I tell you, look at how many people are at my party!!'
They say that we all have an internal voice, one which praises, comments and demoralises us, depending on our psychological disposition. Certainly, I have a very loud and active inner voice, featuring all my family members; I used to refer to as my ‘Inner Greek chorus' as it commented and lambasted me on my every thought, motive, move. Facebook's a bit like that, like a large, collective social consciousness, a large gathering of people sitting in the corner of my room, judging and watching my every move, discussing it between themselves.
Of course, I could just switch off the PC, go outside and get a life, but then I'd be back to trying to make friends in the real world, and that involves getting dressed and talking to people. Like I said, unless I'm offered that trip to New York, I'll be sitting at my desk waiting for the next live update.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Monday, 16 November 2009
Customer Service revisited, a BBQ.. and a hasty retreat..
I must briefly return to the matter of customer service as it’s a topic so rich in material I could probably revisit it on a weekly basis.
The other day I went into a well known shoe shop with 7 year old boy to buy him a pair of school shoes. On finding the desired shoe, I held it up to the eager shop assistant who asked me what size his foot was.
-‘Actually, could you measure him please, I’m not sure what size he is’
-‘what age is he ma’am?’ he asked
-‘well, he’s almost 7 ….. but what has that got to do with it?’ The man was already studying a chart pulled from behind the desk.
-‘Can you just measure him please’ I urged him.
-‘Ma’am, this is his size’ he told me, pointing to a number on the chart.
-‘Err, how can you tell from that?’ I shot back ‘He might be big or small for his age…please measure him’.
Ignoring me, he disappeared into the back and emerged a minute later with a shoe. Simultaneously irritated and resigned, I hoped desperately that he wasn’t right about the size. He handed it to 7 year old.
It didn’t fit. Thank god.
Vindicated, I asked for a bigger size, this was obviously going to be a case of trial and error….
We eventually emerged from the shop with the new shoes (which of course had to be worn immediately… remember being 7?) but the experience summed up customer service here; over the top, invasive attention up until the point that you actually require some assistance, at which point all pretence of service dissolves and you’re left fending for yourself.
Although on a rare occasion you get more help than you require.
A friend of a friend recently went through a pregnancy scare with his girlfriend. Panic-stricken, he went into a pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test. Distracted by the white knuckle fear which accompanies such an experience, it wasn’t until some time later that he recalled the hilarious advice given to him by the assistant behind the counter as he handed over the test.
-‘Sir, this test is only for women’
You couldn’t make this stuff up!
With four young children, I’m a big fan of the ‘drop in creche’ (as if you didn’t know that at this point). My first priority with each mall I enter, is to identify the location of the crèche where I off-load the children in order to buy some time for myself, or simply to avail myself of a walk around the supermarket which doesn’t involve one step forward, 3 steps back as I constantly gather and herd them in the right direction.
Recently, I left almost 3 year old and 5 year old boy into a local crèche. An hour later, I returned to discover almost 3 year old sitting on the ticket counter and 5 year old climbing over the various car rides around the gaming arcade. Approaching the crèche keeper, I asked ‘why did you let them out?’ to be told ‘oh ma’am, they wanted to go out’. Trying to explain that allowing a 2 and 5 year old to make that decision wasn't acceptable, fell on deaf ears as the crèche attendant chuckled away. (Just on that, from an anthropological perspective, what is it in the Philipino culture that makes them giggle at the most inappropriate moments?...surely worthy of a study)
The key is to pre-empt every situation in order to avoid outrage and disappointment. Now, when I check the kids into a crèche, I am obliged to add 'don't let them out'.
So eldest son turned 7 on Thursday. We decided to have a party on Friday, inviting along some neighbours and their kids; in other words a booze-up diguised as a childrens party.
I had invited several people around for a BBQ, which was optimistic since I don’t actually own a BBQ set.
I spent all day tidying up, a mammoth task, (while DH begrudgingly erected Ikea furniture). Considering I had told my guests that the BBQ would kick off at 5ish, it should come as no surprise that DH wasn’t despatched to the shops for food, booze and the infamous BBQ set until 4.30pm.
When the first guests arrived I was obliged to explain that not only did I not have a BBQ set yet, but no food or drink either since everything needed was on DH’s list. My guests, new aquaintances, politely sat and waited as I frantically scanned the drive for DH's car.
Luckily, he wasn’t far behind them, hastily shoving beers into the freezer before unpacking the shopping. Proudly producing the boxed BBQ set, he took it outside to set it up. Venturing outside some 30 minutes later to inspect the new purchase, I nearly collapsed with laughter as I took in what can only be described as the smallest BBQ EVER. It barely came up to DH's knees. He spent the whole night crouched over it, flipping steaks, while simultaneously trying to look 'cool' in front of our new neighbours. Well, serves him right for buying the cheapest one in the shop.
Probably the Smallest BBQ set in the World
Finally, an update on the toilet training. Almost three year old now totally refuses to wear a nappy, removing it the instant I put it on him. Obviously this still results in the daily pooh on the floor, but worse, he’s started to do it in public (he's imaginative, he managed to do it in the water feature of the local mall last week).
Waiting in the sunshine for 8 year old girl to finish school the other day, I had taken the precaution of bringing a book with me. I flopped down onto the fake grass as almost three year old sped off toward the climbing frame with the other boys.
Some minutes later, as I reclined in the sunshine, I distractedly stared around me as almost three year old ambled over toward me.
-‘I did a pooh mama’
-‘oh you DIDN’T, not HERE?’ I sprang to my feet to inspect the damage.
-'where is it?' I demanded
-'Pooh, pooh' he giggled, wiggling his behind. Nothing there.
I won't offend you with the rest of the details, but what followed involved a search and rescue operation and a rapid clean up act on the 'fake' grass, swiftly followed by a hasty retreat as soon as 8 year old girl appeared. I've been avoiding that part of the playground ever since. Sometimes don't you just wish for rain?
The other day I went into a well known shoe shop with 7 year old boy to buy him a pair of school shoes. On finding the desired shoe, I held it up to the eager shop assistant who asked me what size his foot was.
-‘Actually, could you measure him please, I’m not sure what size he is’
-‘what age is he ma’am?’ he asked
-‘well, he’s almost 7 ….. but what has that got to do with it?’ The man was already studying a chart pulled from behind the desk.
-‘Can you just measure him please’ I urged him.
-‘Ma’am, this is his size’ he told me, pointing to a number on the chart.
-‘Err, how can you tell from that?’ I shot back ‘He might be big or small for his age…please measure him’.
Ignoring me, he disappeared into the back and emerged a minute later with a shoe. Simultaneously irritated and resigned, I hoped desperately that he wasn’t right about the size. He handed it to 7 year old.
It didn’t fit. Thank god.
Vindicated, I asked for a bigger size, this was obviously going to be a case of trial and error….
We eventually emerged from the shop with the new shoes (which of course had to be worn immediately… remember being 7?) but the experience summed up customer service here; over the top, invasive attention up until the point that you actually require some assistance, at which point all pretence of service dissolves and you’re left fending for yourself.
Although on a rare occasion you get more help than you require.
A friend of a friend recently went through a pregnancy scare with his girlfriend. Panic-stricken, he went into a pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test. Distracted by the white knuckle fear which accompanies such an experience, it wasn’t until some time later that he recalled the hilarious advice given to him by the assistant behind the counter as he handed over the test.
-‘Sir, this test is only for women’
You couldn’t make this stuff up!
With four young children, I’m a big fan of the ‘drop in creche’ (as if you didn’t know that at this point). My first priority with each mall I enter, is to identify the location of the crèche where I off-load the children in order to buy some time for myself, or simply to avail myself of a walk around the supermarket which doesn’t involve one step forward, 3 steps back as I constantly gather and herd them in the right direction.
Recently, I left almost 3 year old and 5 year old boy into a local crèche. An hour later, I returned to discover almost 3 year old sitting on the ticket counter and 5 year old climbing over the various car rides around the gaming arcade. Approaching the crèche keeper, I asked ‘why did you let them out?’ to be told ‘oh ma’am, they wanted to go out’. Trying to explain that allowing a 2 and 5 year old to make that decision wasn't acceptable, fell on deaf ears as the crèche attendant chuckled away. (Just on that, from an anthropological perspective, what is it in the Philipino culture that makes them giggle at the most inappropriate moments?...surely worthy of a study)
The key is to pre-empt every situation in order to avoid outrage and disappointment. Now, when I check the kids into a crèche, I am obliged to add 'don't let them out'.
So eldest son turned 7 on Thursday. We decided to have a party on Friday, inviting along some neighbours and their kids; in other words a booze-up diguised as a childrens party.
I had invited several people around for a BBQ, which was optimistic since I don’t actually own a BBQ set.
I spent all day tidying up, a mammoth task, (while DH begrudgingly erected Ikea furniture). Considering I had told my guests that the BBQ would kick off at 5ish, it should come as no surprise that DH wasn’t despatched to the shops for food, booze and the infamous BBQ set until 4.30pm.
When the first guests arrived I was obliged to explain that not only did I not have a BBQ set yet, but no food or drink either since everything needed was on DH’s list. My guests, new aquaintances, politely sat and waited as I frantically scanned the drive for DH's car.
Luckily, he wasn’t far behind them, hastily shoving beers into the freezer before unpacking the shopping. Proudly producing the boxed BBQ set, he took it outside to set it up. Venturing outside some 30 minutes later to inspect the new purchase, I nearly collapsed with laughter as I took in what can only be described as the smallest BBQ EVER. It barely came up to DH's knees. He spent the whole night crouched over it, flipping steaks, while simultaneously trying to look 'cool' in front of our new neighbours. Well, serves him right for buying the cheapest one in the shop.
Finally, an update on the toilet training. Almost three year old now totally refuses to wear a nappy, removing it the instant I put it on him. Obviously this still results in the daily pooh on the floor, but worse, he’s started to do it in public (he's imaginative, he managed to do it in the water feature of the local mall last week).
Waiting in the sunshine for 8 year old girl to finish school the other day, I had taken the precaution of bringing a book with me. I flopped down onto the fake grass as almost three year old sped off toward the climbing frame with the other boys.
Some minutes later, as I reclined in the sunshine, I distractedly stared around me as almost three year old ambled over toward me.
-‘I did a pooh mama’
-‘oh you DIDN’T, not HERE?’ I sprang to my feet to inspect the damage.
-'where is it?' I demanded
-'Pooh, pooh' he giggled, wiggling his behind. Nothing there.
I won't offend you with the rest of the details, but what followed involved a search and rescue operation and a rapid clean up act on the 'fake' grass, swiftly followed by a hasty retreat as soon as 8 year old girl appeared. I've been avoiding that part of the playground ever since. Sometimes don't you just wish for rain?
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Self -improvement and why Darcey Bussell has nothing to worry about......
I need a hobby. Having moved just over a month ago, I've still not figured out what is going to engage and amuse me here yet. Obviously 4 children do a pretty good job of that, but I’ve always been a keen advocate of ‘me time’ and besides, I like to counteract my unhealthy lifestyle with a couple of hours self-improvement each week.
Before arriving in the UAE, when the plan was to live in Abu Dhabi (pah! in a bedsit maybe), I had done all my research and had identified many classes and courses to interest me.
Unfortunately, all this research went to waste when we ended up in Al Ain where I realised there was very little on offer other than trawling the mall or going to the gym. I pride myself on never having been to the gym. The idea of exercise being an end in itself horrifies me. I'd rather do something pleasant that may hopefully result in my becoming toned, slimmer with an adrenalin buzz. The thought of pounding away on a machine with no objective other than getting fit seems slightly soul destroying, much like taking Slim Fast rather than eating a yummy salad.
To keep me entertained and buy me some time away from the house for a few hours as week, I undertook a TESOL course (teach english to a speaker of another language) which was useful in this country and even found me a teaching job for the summer.
My father always sagely said 'education is no burden' and I like to live by this doctrine. Whether it's an intellectual, spiritual or physical pursuit, I find learning something new quite life affirming.
In my time, I've attended classes in yoga, pilates, interior design, desk-top publishing, Italian, ballet, editing, jazz, belly dancing aerobics, flamenco, typing, shorthand, water aerobics, public relations, pyschology..with varying levels of success (and these are just the ones I can remember)
I like the camaraderie of these classes, particularly the dance ones. Ballet is my favourite. There is a quaint, ethereal quality to these classes, besides, where else are you going to find a room full of thirty-something women (and on the rare occasion, men) trussed up in pink tights, satin slippers and leotards attempting battement tendus and plies to the tinkling notes of Chopin? There is a safety in knowing that no one is laughing at you (well, not overtly) as you attempt to pirouette across a studio, an act which can leave you so dizzy that the walk back to the barre resembles the walk home from a tequila slammer contest.
When I first moved to Galway my daughter started ballet in a school which also advertised ballet classes for adults. Thrilled at this news I signed up immediately.
On arrival at my first lesson I was vaguely aware that there wasn’t anyone over the age of 12 in the changing room. Presuming I was simply late I tentatively opened the door to the studio and peered in.
Now, this was before I started wearing contact lenses so my sight was pretty blurry without my glasses; I say this because had I been able to see clearly, I would have simply closed the door and tiptoed away.
Squinting, I noted that the rest of the students appeared to be quite short but since I couldn’t see too clearly I reasoned, Father Ted like, that ‘small just means far away’.
A dozen pre-teens watched me approach the group with undisguised curiosity.
Standing there, aged 33 in my ballet tights and leotard I suddenly felt ridiculous.
-‘err, I thought this was an adult class’
-‘It is, it is, come in and join us, the others will be here soon’ purred the Russian teacher.
-'Well, if you're sure....'
Feeling like Dawn French in a tutu, I made my way to the barre sucking in my stomach and trying to appear nonchalant, hoping that the students would assume I was a colleague of the ballet mistress. But inside I was dying.
Dawn French in a tutu
Now, at my age I’ve come to terms with my body issue demons, but trying to compete with a group of prepubescent dance students is humbling to say the least.
The ‘adults’ never showed and I spent a humiliating and exhausting hour avoiding the wall length mirror whilst being put through my balletic paces with a bunch of giggling school girls. I never went back.
One ‘group’ or ‘class’ I’ve always given a wide berth is that of the mother and baby/toddler variety. I despise the idea of getting together with a group of women purely because we’ve all given birth within the last couple of years. And the thought of discussing breastfeeding and pureed organic broccoli is enough to send me sprinting to the nearest night club.
I suspect that this is partly due to a subconscious fear that I can’t compete with the way these women totally surrender to motherhood for the first couple of years, eschewing fun in favour of being the best possible mother they can be.
I’m too selfish for that. I love my children passionately, but they’ve never interested me to the point that I wouldn’t rather go out to the pub with DH.
That said, I recently attended a mother and baby music group with almost 3 year old, in a misguided attempt to ‘make friends’.
Sitting cross legged on the floor in a circle, the leader sang a little ‘hello’ song to each child there, which the rest of the group joined in on. ‘Hello Cressida, hello Cressida, let’s all clap our hands’ they sang. Almost three year old gave me a withering look that said 'you gotta be kidding' as he wrestled his Spiderman action figure out my hands.
The following hour was spent skipping around in a circle with flowing chiffon and tambourines invoking little Cressida, Tarquin or Samir to connect with the music. As the mothers became more competitive, the babies became increasingly disinterested and the whole thing finally ended when more than half the class were crying. Seeing the ordeal was over, almost 3 year old made a bolt for the door as I politely explained that we wouldn't be returning, thanks all the same.
I tried, but really, competitive parenting isn't for me. I'd rather throw almost three year old in a creche in the mall and spend an hour lazing over coffee. It's a win win situation. He gets to play with blocks, dress up as Spiderman and roll around in the sand while some adoring creche assistant follows him around. Me, I get to drink cappuccino undisturbed whilst scouring the local paper for prospective evening classes. So far I've come up with conversational Arabic, cardio dance classes and tai chi..... watch this space.
Before arriving in the UAE, when the plan was to live in Abu Dhabi (pah! in a bedsit maybe), I had done all my research and had identified many classes and courses to interest me.
Unfortunately, all this research went to waste when we ended up in Al Ain where I realised there was very little on offer other than trawling the mall or going to the gym. I pride myself on never having been to the gym. The idea of exercise being an end in itself horrifies me. I'd rather do something pleasant that may hopefully result in my becoming toned, slimmer with an adrenalin buzz. The thought of pounding away on a machine with no objective other than getting fit seems slightly soul destroying, much like taking Slim Fast rather than eating a yummy salad.
To keep me entertained and buy me some time away from the house for a few hours as week, I undertook a TESOL course (teach english to a speaker of another language) which was useful in this country and even found me a teaching job for the summer.
My father always sagely said 'education is no burden' and I like to live by this doctrine. Whether it's an intellectual, spiritual or physical pursuit, I find learning something new quite life affirming.
In my time, I've attended classes in yoga, pilates, interior design, desk-top publishing, Italian, ballet, editing, jazz, belly dancing aerobics, flamenco, typing, shorthand, water aerobics, public relations, pyschology..with varying levels of success (and these are just the ones I can remember)
I like the camaraderie of these classes, particularly the dance ones. Ballet is my favourite. There is a quaint, ethereal quality to these classes, besides, where else are you going to find a room full of thirty-something women (and on the rare occasion, men) trussed up in pink tights, satin slippers and leotards attempting battement tendus and plies to the tinkling notes of Chopin? There is a safety in knowing that no one is laughing at you (well, not overtly) as you attempt to pirouette across a studio, an act which can leave you so dizzy that the walk back to the barre resembles the walk home from a tequila slammer contest.
When I first moved to Galway my daughter started ballet in a school which also advertised ballet classes for adults. Thrilled at this news I signed up immediately.
On arrival at my first lesson I was vaguely aware that there wasn’t anyone over the age of 12 in the changing room. Presuming I was simply late I tentatively opened the door to the studio and peered in.
Now, this was before I started wearing contact lenses so my sight was pretty blurry without my glasses; I say this because had I been able to see clearly, I would have simply closed the door and tiptoed away.
Squinting, I noted that the rest of the students appeared to be quite short but since I couldn’t see too clearly I reasoned, Father Ted like, that ‘small just means far away’.
A dozen pre-teens watched me approach the group with undisguised curiosity.
Standing there, aged 33 in my ballet tights and leotard I suddenly felt ridiculous.
-‘err, I thought this was an adult class’
-‘It is, it is, come in and join us, the others will be here soon’ purred the Russian teacher.
-'Well, if you're sure....'
Feeling like Dawn French in a tutu, I made my way to the barre sucking in my stomach and trying to appear nonchalant, hoping that the students would assume I was a colleague of the ballet mistress. But inside I was dying.
Dawn French in a tutu
The ‘adults’ never showed and I spent a humiliating and exhausting hour avoiding the wall length mirror whilst being put through my balletic paces with a bunch of giggling school girls. I never went back.
One ‘group’ or ‘class’ I’ve always given a wide berth is that of the mother and baby/toddler variety. I despise the idea of getting together with a group of women purely because we’ve all given birth within the last couple of years. And the thought of discussing breastfeeding and pureed organic broccoli is enough to send me sprinting to the nearest night club.
I suspect that this is partly due to a subconscious fear that I can’t compete with the way these women totally surrender to motherhood for the first couple of years, eschewing fun in favour of being the best possible mother they can be.
I’m too selfish for that. I love my children passionately, but they’ve never interested me to the point that I wouldn’t rather go out to the pub with DH.
That said, I recently attended a mother and baby music group with almost 3 year old, in a misguided attempt to ‘make friends’.
Sitting cross legged on the floor in a circle, the leader sang a little ‘hello’ song to each child there, which the rest of the group joined in on. ‘Hello Cressida, hello Cressida, let’s all clap our hands’ they sang. Almost three year old gave me a withering look that said 'you gotta be kidding' as he wrestled his Spiderman action figure out my hands.
The following hour was spent skipping around in a circle with flowing chiffon and tambourines invoking little Cressida, Tarquin or Samir to connect with the music. As the mothers became more competitive, the babies became increasingly disinterested and the whole thing finally ended when more than half the class were crying. Seeing the ordeal was over, almost 3 year old made a bolt for the door as I politely explained that we wouldn't be returning, thanks all the same.
I tried, but really, competitive parenting isn't for me. I'd rather throw almost three year old in a creche in the mall and spend an hour lazing over coffee. It's a win win situation. He gets to play with blocks, dress up as Spiderman and roll around in the sand while some adoring creche assistant follows him around. Me, I get to drink cappuccino undisturbed whilst scouring the local paper for prospective evening classes. So far I've come up with conversational Arabic, cardio dance classes and tai chi..... watch this space.
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