Night Terrors

I haven't been sleeping well recently...... another symptom of the menopause I've been reliably informed........ but I was reminded by a friend of the excellent power of lavender. As I happen to have a handy bunch of dried lavender, lovingly picked in my friend's French garden, dusting nicely in a tin jug on the windowsill, I was able to create my on lavender sleep pillow by shaking the heads into one of those gossamer bags that jewellery often comes gifted in ....... knew it would come in handy one day. I slid the bag into my pillowcase and subsequently enjoyed several nights very good sleep.

Until the other night......... I sat up in bed, it was dark, the buzzer buzzed again. I was out of bed before I was awake. I had no idea what time it was but it was very dark and very cold. I knew my son was at home but I looked at his door just to check. Locked from the inside, it couldn't be him buzzing the buzzer. Maybe one of his friends? It had happened before.

"It's the police," came the response to my hello into the intercom, "open the door."

Still more asleep than awake, I felt completely confused, my heart suddenly racing. I looked at my son's door again: he was definitely asleep, he was in, he was safe. I buzzed open the door to the building and then my front door. A very tall, very young police boy appeared in shirt sleeves and a stab vest. Behind him stood a very short, very young, police girl also wearing a stab vest. It was very, very cold. I remember wondering why they were in shirt sleeves as I stood in the hall, shivering in my pyjamas. I still wasn't quite sure if they were just trying to gain access to my building or me. The police boy then whipped out his note book, he asked if a name I'd never heard before lived in my flat. I said no, I'd never heard of her. I really couldn't get my head around what was going on. I felt utterly dazed, shaking with cold and shock. The police girl asked how long I'd lived there and I had absolutely no idea, I couldn't even remember what year it was. They both kept apologising for it being 'after midnight' and understood I was confused. I hadn't even had a drink. Honestly your honour. I asked what it was about and they said she was a 17 year old missing person and somehow her care home had our address. At this point I began to come too, her first name rang the faintest of bells and I said I believed she maybe the girlfriend of my son's friend, I knew there'd been an argument with a parent, I knew his friend had nowhere to stay. But she definitely didn't live with me. They weren't terribly bothered, thanked me, apologised for waking me, wrote down a reference number and asked if my son might call the next day if he knew anything of her whereabouts. And said good night. I went back to bed. It was only quarter to one. Now I was wide awake.

They were perfectly polite but I was surprised by what a shock their visit had caused, my heart still pounding in my chest. I wondered how it might be if English weren't my first language, if they'd been banging on the door wanting entry, how much more confused I would have been, what I might have done or said or not been able to remember even if their visit had been a mistake.

The girl was 'found' the next day, never knowingly missing, and very sorry.

Top tip: new favourite chocolate, Co-Op's Fairtrade Dark Chocolate with Cranberries..... a taste of Christmas on your tongue

Country Life........

I have been to the country. The proper a-long-way-from-London country. Hardy country. My cousin has moved to Dorset and so I channeled my inner Tess, packed a basket, put on my bonnet and went visiting.

Leaving London by railway train I noted that the top of Battersea Power Station was not even visible so dense was the foggy day. I right pea-souper and no mistake. By Basingstoke the weather had made little improvement. It is one thing to visit the countryside in sunshine, quite another on a dank, drizzle heavy day. My demeanour was little improved upon arrival at the railway station where my cousin informed me the oil for the aga had run out that very morning and there would be no new delivery till after I had departed. I feared, like Withnail, I may have gone on holiday by mistake.

But by the time the drizzle had turned to rain we were safely seated in a warm bar-cum-tearoom in Bridport......country folk appear to know how to cover all bases...... eating delicious Welsh Rarebit, drinking beer and eyeing up the fatest coffee cake I've ever seen.

The 7-bedroom house is huge; a shabby-Georgian gem from which one might expect to see Mrs Bennet emerge in search of Lizzie or Lydia, right opposite a large farm with a lot of cows ....... and a lot of country air. The cost of renting this beast is less than a 2-bedroom flat in north London. The next day the sun was out and we headed to the sea. We walked with the children and their dog along the beach and I filled my pockets with stones...... for my bathroom. The sea sparkled and crashed and lapped the shore like liquid silver. We searched through the bric and brack and tat of the market: Noddy Annuals, stuffed seagulls, blue glass bottles and Marks & Spencer mohair cardis, looking for hidden treasures. I bought an old bottle crate originally from a bar in New York that had somehow washed-up in Bridport which has inspired me to repaint my kitchen. And then we went to Lyme Regis and sat in the window of Hix Oyster & Fish House, perched high on the hill looking down on the Cobb and across the harbour, and ate homemade.... yes homemade ..... crumpets with homemade jam and thick cream and drank Prosecco while watching the dark creep in over the sea and the lights come on along the shore. And to mis-quote Lizzie Bennet, perhaps I didn't always love Dorset as well as I do now, but in such cases as these a good memory is unpardonable......

Top tip: I am currently drinking a glass of water with a spoonful of organic apple cider vinegar....tastes horrid but apparently cures everything and restores a child-like bloom of youth.... we'll see.

Lets face it.........

I seem to be having a growing spurt. Like a toddler who suddenly looks like a child instead of a baby, I now have the face of a much older person. Well, much older than me...... surely. Lines and wrinkles were never something that have ever really bothered me. My course, olive complexion came into it's own just past puberty and kept the aging process at bay. Till now. Now the lines of battle have been drawn up, apparently while I was sleeping, under both eyes, from nose to mouth and between the brows. The only line that's not getting stronger is my jawline. Now the line, 'you look great' is always followed by, 'for your age.' And no amount of sleep seems to make any difference. This is it. Is this trench warfare in need of filler?

So what to do? Where as before a good hair cut and an expensive tub of moisturiser might have made one feel better, if not more beautiful, now there is a whole world of nips, tucks and injectable facelifts. And this is no longer the preserve of the rich and famous, or even the well-off and magazine worker. A friend of mine who recently turned 50 has just had something injected into her face that will, apparently, grow collagen, making her....naturally.....beautiful once more. At £1000 it's not cheap, takes up to 6 months to see the full affect and lasts up to 2 years. What happens then is anyone's guess. She didn't pay, it was a gift from the boyfriend. An interesting conversation: darling, I love the way you look, I just want you to look younger.....

So is this the future? Do I now need the youthful radiance of a Hollywood star to shine in north London? If those in relationships have to stay young and beautiful what hope for those still hoping to find one? Or should I just follow Jerry Hall's anti-aging advice, never wear your glasses when you look in the mirror......

Top tip: Almond oil for body and face it's an exceptional moisturiser, go swim in it.

My life in pictures........

If it was a movie I would have run down the road and across the walking bridge to Tate Modern and along the embankment, under the glittering lights, hung low and bright and blue in the trees, and into the British Film Institute. I would have turned with a pleading look to the girl with the clip-board standing by the door and she would have smiled, said 'it's OK, you've missed nothing' and let me in. I would have stumbled in the half light to my seat and Alexander Payne, the director of About Schmidt, Sideways and out-soon, The Descendants, would have paused from discussing George Clooney's performance in his new film, looked directly at me and said, 'there's a seat here,' gesturing to the front row. After a fascinating talk about his life and work, when the clapping had died down and we were all reaching for our coats, the enigmatic, gently greying, American would have stepped forward and said, 'Hi.' He would have smiled and hoped I'd enjoyed his talk. I'd have apologised for being late, the buses, the traffic, my crazy madcap life. He would have laughed at my amusing story and asked if I lived in London, if ..... if I was doing anything, how he was having a crazy time of meet and greet and premiers and dinners at the London Film Festival and how it would just be so nice to go for a quite drink, if I wasn't busy that was.....

But it's not a movie, so I ran down the embankment, the cold night air rasping my throat, my bag heavy on my shoulder, sweating my way through the early evening lovers and theatre going tourists who blocked my path, and into the BFI where the girl with the clipboard said the email I thrust at her wasn't good enough and that I would have to go to the box office on the other side of the building to collect my ticket first. At the box office they couldn't find my ticket but they did find a return. Eventually. I ran back to the girl on the door with the clipboard who said I could go in but not without the usher. She went to find the usher. The usher ushered me in to an empty seat next to a man with a beard who kept texting. Alexander Payne didn't notice me. The talk was good though.

Top tip: for dark humour with gorgeous George, go see The Descendants, coming soon to a theatre near you.

Accidents will happen......

Something terrible's happened. Really, really awful.

My friend died of cancer in April. She is the closest friend I have lost. So far. I think about it a lot. It's a shock. I am shocked that she's not here. She was married to a French guy. I've known him for 20 years but I don't really know him. They have 2 daughters, 13 and 14. So it's been a tough time. For everyone. For those of us who were her single friends and don't have kids the same age as hers, we are having to find our new place in our dead friend's family's life; for those with a husband who can still chat to him over the BBQ or kids who can hang out with the girls, it's easier, they still do Sunday lunches, Saturday suppers, long weekends and weeks by the sea. But for those of us who mainly hung out with her, we're auditioning for a new position.

So, when I rang to see how the girls were getting on back at school, I was delighted when the eldest asked if I would help her dye a pair of grey shoes, black. This was my new place, I thought. I dye shoes, bags, clothes. I change things, make things, this is what I did with my dead friend when we were teenagers. This is what I would do with her kids now they were teenagers. We fixed an evening, the first time I'd been there without any other friends since the death. Just like when I used to go for supper when my friend was alive. It felt weired. I felt emotional. But it felt good to go. I had found a place in their life. The girls were on their own when I arrived, there is an hour or so between the help leaving and their Dad getting home. We chatted about the summer, their holiday, they were on good form. They are quite remarkable kids.

Their Dad came home, he is obviously very stressed. My friend and he ran their own interior design business: very high end, very high spec. She ran their business, ran their home and raised their kids, he never even saw a phone bill before. Their home was completely renovated and redecorated before my friend died. Working in interior design, they'd never got it sorted. It was something she wanted to do before she was done. We got the shoes. He said don't do it in here, do it outside. We said it'll be fine, it's dark outside, we'll do it here. Don't worry. I dyed the shoes, the girls went to lay the table for supper, I knocked over the black dye on the super-super-bespoke, high-end, ordinary-people-can't-buy-this-floor floor. I ran to get a cloth, my friend's daughter grabbed a pan scourer. She rubbed off the surface of the super-super-bespoke, high-end, ordinary-people-can't-buy-this-floor floor. The French guy went mental. He was screaming at her. I was screaming at him. We were all nearly in tears. I wanted to run out the door and never come back but I couldn't. I'd come to help, to make things better and now it was so much worse. I told him I would contact the floor people and do what ever it took to fix it. Everyone calmed down. And then we had to eat supper. I felt sick.

That was three weeks ago. The floor is of course created by Pygmy-elves in a forest somewhere undiscovered by the modern world and carried through the night only on full-moon before being laid in one deft movement and then all the elves commit ceremonial suicide so this process can never, ever be recreated again. But, for an incredibly high price and Aussie bloke will come round and try to fix it. He sanded it. He applied the stain and it proved a perfect match. Finally I began to breath again. The next day I returned to oversee the finishing oil. The boards did look a little darker but the family was in Paris for the weekend so plenty of time for it to dry. Today I got a call, apparently it's too dark and the offending patch, which was the size of my fist, undetectable unless pointed out and easily concealable beneath the table where it was, now covers half a dozen boards, spread right across the room, because even the tiniest speck had meant a whole board was sanded down. He says it looks terrible. He wants them to come back, they might have to lay new boards. Now I never want to go back again.

Top tip: go see Midnight In Paris....... Woody nails nostalgia and makes us laugh out loud!!