Film Review: Home

Home - Directed by Ursala Meier (French – subtitles)

Marthe and Michel’s family of five live off a highway. Not one that tails away from a slip road – there is little space between their house and the road. As the road has been un-used for some years, this hasn’t been a problem. The road becomes an extension of their life as the space is utilised for various sports, games and leisure activities that indulge the free spirits of this family when they’re not at work or school. Yet there is always the creeping spectre of their lifestyle being rudely shattered with the motorway once again set to host traffic. Reports of work lorries, some way down the road, are wearily investigated and a local roads based station ‘Radio Highway’ becomes a harbinger of doom when it anticipates, in excited tones, the re-opening of the motorway.

If Radio Highway’s voice reeks of propaganda on behalf of the petrol heads, the element of ‘occupation’ is suggested by the appearance of road workers, all orange nylon work trousers and heavy boots, who descend to erect road guards and dispassionately move anything on the road owned by the family.

Up to this point we have seen a happy go lucky family living in their own idyll but with the onset of traffic and noise pollution, characteristics of the family give out and eccentricites are exposed. One of the daughters Judith, a stoic, thrash metal listener who seems to predominately sun bathe elicits honks from passing motorists. The family begin to get viewed with freakish curiosity. Cracks open up. Basic things like setting off to work or school become fraught operations.

Michel’s temperament often threatens to boil over in these circumstances so when he bursts in on the bedroom of a now communally huddled up family to declare ‘It’s over’, things take a darker turn into a living entombment. This is an original ‘anti-road movie’ film on what happens to a family when the outside world starts to unwelcomingly encroach on a family’s space.

Phantom Band 7th November 2009

Having arrived at Salford's Islington Mill by way of asking directions I was glad to find that Marple’s Dutch Uncles were the support band. I had seen them last year, also in a support role, and found their spidery guitar tunes all contained within a pop framework very enjoyable. The band are young, their stage manner bouncy and fittingly, inside what was an old cotton mill, their clothes carried a radiant hue.

The Phantom Band appearance is more inscrutable by contrast with some of their hooded attire extending to spangly, sequined robes although singer Rick is unfrocked.

In contrast to the Dutch Uncles elasticity they positively take their music on an exploratory loop for minutes at a time before morphing into something else, feathered along with various pipes or percussion instruments. The more conventionally structured songs such as Island (whose preliminary strums enticingly recall Silent Night) are delivered with such echoey precision as to make them sound other-worldy. It would be a challenge to see the songs of such length hold the audience’s attentions but there’s enough in the likes of the Howling and the Doorsy Throwing Bones to pick up the pace. I left after their main set to catch the bus home seven miles away but they were to come back and played two encores.

I was unaware of this venue which has already been active for several years. This looks a fine place with other floors given over to artistic ventures. The open plan is all it had in common with the loft apartments that often arise from such unoccupied buildings. After lying derelict in urban Salford the Mill has been re-opened.

Photo by Simon

The beggar on the bus.

I took part in a 5K run at the park this morning. The organiser’s website asks us to walk/run or take public transport to the park rather than drive so as to reduce our carbon footprint. I bought a day bus pass to get to the park and used it, later in the day, to go into town. So far, so economical.

Coming back from town, Ed and I were at the end of the queue that tailed outside of the bus shelter. As the bus pulled in and the passengers draw forward to get on, I became aware of a commotion going on towards the doorway. It was being orchestrated by a rotund guy in his late thirties who was wearing an acrylic track suit. He had his ‘uncle’ with him, who was slighter of build, also donning a black tracksuit and wearing a dejected expression. What the loud guy was talking about was clear enough as he wished it to broadcast it to anyone within hearing distance: He had just come from the train station where his bag has been stolen by ‘some smack head’. His bag contained their return train tickets to Leeds. He had previously explained his situation to the people at the train station but they wouldn’t let him board the train without tickets.

Thus his next step was to turn up at our bus stop. Not that our bus went to Leeds. What he wanted, he says after completing his monologue, was £40 – ‘two quid off everyone here will get us back’. As the bus opens its doors, the people queuing, clearly uncomfortable, drew towards it. The odd person, such as a girl in her late teens, hand over the requested cash. He is exasperated at the lack of response and, during this period, appears to be in a phone conversation with his mum. He comments to his uncle – or to us – ‘I’m telling her what’s happening and she’s in tears’. Incredulous that a busload of people (consisting of pensioners and people heading to districts of varying economic status) were unable to summon together the collective fare to return him and his uncle to Leeds he continues to press his case: ‘I’m going to try again’ he says to his uncle. He steps onto the bus. To no-one’s pleasure he’s ‘going in’. He hasn’t finished with us yet.

The bus driver’s reaction from behind plastic sheeting can’t be gleaned but he doesn’t appear to tell the loud guy that this is not the time and place and can he now sling his hook. So another request is now put out to everyone on the bus – all the more intimidating and ‘in your face’ for being in the confined space of a carriage. The pensioners sitting at the front of the bus bear the biggest amount of its ferocity. Someone further down the carriage comes forward with some money. The loud guy talks to the bus driver about the inflexibility shown by the rail company while rail bosses go on to earn millions then he eventually leaves.

I’ve seen requests for money made to the gallery on transport carriages before but never with this amount of ‘shock and awe’. In these situations, I’d guess that he gets some cash from people who don’t necessarily believe him but just wish him out of their personal space. As a ‘panhandling’ tactic it draws on levels of energy which would be beyond most of us. A lot of boxes are ticked in his stream of narrative: victim (at hands of ‘smackheads’), morals (we owe it to see them home alright), emotions (his mother that is crying) and justice (the rail bosses that earn millions).

Ed didn’t seem too put out at this scene and even started singing a song. Perhaps he’s used to hot heads.

Taking public transport can sporadically ask challenging and unwelcome questions of the person travelling. Do we give to people who ask for money? Do we say something when someone is smoking, especially when it’s in the presence of children? How do we intervene if some bloke is bullying his partner? Much easier to be a car driver, detached from these issues - other drivers or pedrestrians may be cursed; rolling scenery may be commented on but as a driver we are one step removed from things that go on and can drive on by easily enough.

Woodbank Parkrun

I decided to take the plunge run the first Woodbank 5K Park Run on Saturday morning. To get here I memorized the directions, alternatively walking and jogging. The final road that I thought backed onto the park was impenetrable and I had to ask a dog walker for an accessible route to the running track. He advised me to follow a trail path at the end of Bideford Road. I found the running track with minutes to spare. There was to be respectable turnout of 59 runners. The route seemed an obvious place for running with its oval running track which would lead, out of the stadium, onto a path with wide paths. I wondered if most would be experienced runners familiar with the running track and I had no qualms about putting myself at the back of the runners lining up. There wasn’t the throng of runners that may initially slow things by dint of sheer numbers so being at the back of the pack would have no bearing on my performance.

It was a bright sunny morning and perfect conditions for the run. It wasn’t long after completing the initial running track that I established my position which turned out to be middling. I was able to see the person ahead of me by a respectable distance and aspire to overtake them if I had it in the tank to do so. The track is mainly flatter than Bramhall Park’s but it occurred to me running down Vernon Park’s path that what goes down will invariably come up which it certainly did after one sharp incline. On this trail, unlike Bramhall Park, I was also able to get a sense of how far ahead the front runners are on the further path as they swept past on an adjoining path many minutes ahead of us.

My final time at 25 and a half minutes was at about one minute slower than normal. I am loathe to blame it on anything other than a drop in my physical performance although my unfamiliarity with the new route may have contributed. At Bramhall Park, I know the parts to hold off and where to build speed and I‘d hope that my next run on this track finds me using my acquired knowledge of this route to hone my style better.

The greater space and smaller turnout to Stockport’s other established 5K run meant that I didn’t establish the familiar rivalries on the track and strike up any chat while queuing up with my number position at the end (although the efficiency of the coming of bar code system may unwittingly iron out the latter) . Bramhall Park’s greater numbers within smaller confines brings a more noticable community feel but as numbers expand on this race (not to mention the on site tuck shop and nearby café) , I’m sure the same will occur here. To organise two 5K runs in Stockport at the same time shows what a great amount of interest there is and with this now requiring double the amount of volunteers, I am full of admiration for the organizers and volunteers of the park runs.

http://www.parkrun.org.uk/woodbank/Home.aspx

We've been camping

Tuesday 4th August 2009

I am not a fan of camping. I like breathing in the air and being around nature. I like the wafting smell of powdered soup. But I also like to return to a warm, snug bed and for basic errands like making a hot drink and travelling to facilities not to be too laboured and hazardoud an activity.

We arrived at the Bakewell Camping and Caravanning Club site in wet and blustery conditions and left a complaining Ed strapped into his car seat as we set about putting the tent up. The weather helped to concentrate our minds to the task in hand. I tried not to glance too much at the tent next to us that was palpitating in and out with the wind.

We surprised ourselves by getting it up in a decent amount of time, something that the couple in the next tent even complimented us on. Jan waved off my suggestion that we should have a contingency plan if our tent was to blow down in the night. In the conditions, we drove to the town centre – to our shame, it’s a walkable distance. We walked along the river and found a coffee shop and, naturally, had the Bakewell Tart, a lemon version of which I found delightful with the first bites and sickly with the last.

Back at the tent, we had a drink at the on site bar, came back to the tent and made up Ed’s milk. We put him to bed whereby he would resurface constantly to have a scamper around the insides of our tent until 10:30. The wind up lantern, it transpired, didn’t generate much light – some batteries are needed there. Outside, I side-stepped muddy trails with the torch.

Wednesday 5th August 2009

Our tent is on a downward facing bank which, in the conditions, makes getting away in the car very difficult. In fact, our car got stuck in the mud: the wheels whirred frantically, spraying some mud my way after I had tried giving the car a push. I subsequently sought the guy with the tractor and applied a tow hook at the front of our car. The tractor man eventually got us to the top of the slope. Buy that man a drink if we see him at the bar later.

There was a stationary convoy of traffic to the Bakewell show which brought back memories of getting stuck in similar on the way to last year’s Dunster show. In what was still a slightly fraught journey we went a long way round around Bakewell. We decided to catch a steam train to Matlock from the Rowsley South stop. When, on arriving at Rowsley South, I saw a penguin bin at the end of the ramp to the station it cheered me. A chap on the opposite table of our train didn’t agree and thought the bin to be naff and aimed at the children. But it was the exception as all the other characteristics of a steam train station were in place - the old world signs and slow paced guy manning the ticket booth who was eventually roused from his activities to serve me. On the train there was even some people making disapproving noises of Lord Beeching’s rail legacy on the next table up.

We followed the long riverside walk into the town centre, ate out (beans on toast for Ed) and bought another lamp for our tent and batteries for our existing wind up lantern. This period marked a change in the weather. When we got back to our tent the mud had dried a little, campers had shed upper layers of clothing and there was the smell of barbecues oozing around. We laid out our picnic cloth, cooked some Linda McCartney sausages and I began to see the potential of doing this. With the encroaching darkness after 9pm we were also able to read in altogether brighter conditions.

Thursday 6th August 2009

We learnt our lesson from the previous days and didn’t put any shoes or socks on Ed. By the end of his morning of running around the field, his toe nails were black. ‘Make sure he has a long soak in the bath later on’ said Jan.

As we packed up in the morning, it occurred to me that it’s not setting the tent up that’s the hard bit – it’s packing the thing. Several times we tried to straighten out the tent after taking it down – we folded it in thirds, physically rolled across it whereby the air content would bulge at the other end from where we were folding it.

We adjudged thus camping trip to have gone reasonably well and have committed to a second bout of camping in Ripley later in the month. A full compliment of good weather days would go a long way. Note to self: Buy some wellies.

Film Review: Blue Eyelids (Parpados Azules)

I believe today’s showing in Manchester’s Cornerhouse was the first of a run of dates in the UK that culminates at Oxford’s Ultimate Picture Palace on August 31st. I was among eight people who showed up for this screening. I hope that a momentum builds for this Mexican film as it is deserves a bigger audience.

Marina works in a garment factory in Mexico City. She lives in a cheerless apartment. When the factory’s owner Lulita calls her workforce in to announce who, of the factory’s workers, has had their name picked out of the hat for winning a luxury holiday away, Marina’s name is called out. The camera lingers as employees' heads shuffle about then focuses on Marina as she timidly raises her hand. It's apparent that she would rather she didn’t win.

Having won a pair of tickets, Marina is left in a quandary as to whom, if anyone is to accompany her. She invites her sister who subsequently ostracizes her after being unable to cheekily displace Marina in favour of her husband. In a café Marina meets Victor, a former school peer who works in a similarly mundane job and dwells in a similarly drab apartment. Life has dealt a harsh hand to both these characters who find themselves largely friendless and many a film viewer may be hoping that these two hook up. Marina offers Victor her other ticket and we wait for them to switch from the grim, dingy environment they inhabit to the sunny bright lights of their holiday resort.

In a series of awkward meetings in the run-up to the holiday it is apparent that the course of their relationship does not run smooth. During a picnic, Marina’s mind drifts abstractly as she picks at the weaves of cotton. Yet there are potential ties that bind such as that their shared song – a fine Ray Davies penned tune – and cinema attending moments, the latter of which inspires them to attend a Dance night. When the pair find themselves displaced from their table close to the dance floor, there is one of many moments where the actions slows down and expressions are caught in freeze-frame, illuminating the characters state of mind.

There are no clichés in this film. It swings between will they/won’t they elope? There are some interspersed scenes of the factory owner Lulita letting her true passions – her caged birds - fly off into the ether. Will, the film asks by implication, Maria let her prospective lover go? This is an absorbing film, without cliché, right to the very end.

Friday 24th July 2009

Ed seems to have dropped the physical manifestations of venting his frustration and replaced it with the exclamation of ‘Oh No!’ While eating his lunch of beans on toast, he voiced these words when his triangular block fell off his table. He was still sitting when he reached for the block but slipped off and, in the process, took himself, table, chair, lunch, beaker and the remaining blocks with him. That was the end of his interest in his lunch as we sought to pacify him. Amidst this scene, Molly the dog arrived, eagerly eyeing up the scattered lunch remnants.

While still in the conservatory, thunder and lightening arrived. Dense rainwater streamed down our windows; it was like having our house pushed through a car wash.

Our local corner shop ‘Lowfield Road Stores’ had a ‘50% everything must go’ sale. It was their last day of trading. Since we’ve moved into our house two of our nearest shops have now closed down; the other shop has now become a residential address with whitewashed walls, hanging baskets and trellises. I bought 80 PG tips and a fruit shoot for less than a pound but this brought no satisfaction as another family business bows out. I asked the guy at the counter why they’re closing and he said ‘Just not making any money’. I wondered about the locals I sometimes saw heading the short distance to the corner shop in their dressing gowns. Will they wear similar garb to make the journey to the next nearest shop?

Before we went for our anniversary meal in Heaten Moor, we called in at the wonderful Blue Cat Café. Some bands were rehearsing before packing up their gear to presumably play elsewhere. Our subsequent meal at Amillo’s Restaurant was quite lovely. I think Penne alla Vodka is my favourite pasta dish,

Cooking with Father

I had some mozzarella to use up so I set about cooking some rice balls with melted cheese (‘aranchi’) for Ed from a recipe off Annabel Karmel’s ‘Cook it Together’ book. Also contained in the balls are risotto rice, parmesan, breadcrumbs, onion and beaten eggs. Initially I made the mixture and left it to set in the fridge for several hours.

While these were setting we went to the park. Ed walked up to two ladies on a bench wearing a beaming smile. He returned to them with increasing jollity. One of the ladies said to him ‘Your T Shirt is right’. His T Shirt said ‘Cheeky’ and had an accompanying picture of a monkey.

From the moment I took the mixture out of the fridge, the whole process of making rice balls proved to be fiddly. I encouraged Ed to roll the four mozzarella filled balls in breadcrumbs and parmesan and then round the beaten egg mixture. He had helped me whisk the egg, a process in which its fluid flew around the place. At this point I made a mental note to get an apron for Ed – and myself (perhaps, in the spirit of re-using, there will be a comedy apron left over from next week’s scheduled stag do).

Holding Ed so he could watch, I set about frying the balls. They broke up and left a layer in the pan. Although broken up, the flattened version seemed to help melt the mozzarella better than if it was fried while in a ball. After they were fully fried I took the mixture out and re-arranged it back to the right shapes.

I realised that there was also an accompanying tomato sauce that could be made. Lacking the ingredients, I went in the cupboard and found a nachos topping sauce to use.

Come teatime, Ed didn’t like the cheese balls. One came out of his mouth as quickly as it went it. He did, however, like the nacho sauce. I mixed up some potato and chicken for him to have with the sauce and he ate most of it.

At least the cheese balls found favour with us. We talked about making them at buffets. But the ingredients don’t come cheap for these four items - £1.20 for mozzarella with the parmesan, risotto rice and egg raking up the price. Not a cheap nibble.

Things didn’t end here. At 4: 15am, Ed stirred and didn’t get back to sleep. He filled one nappy, and then another one. He had an upset stomach - it seems the chilli contained in the nacho sauce proved too much for the poor boy.

Thursday 28th May 2009

While waiting for our aeroplane to take off, Jan got out Ed’s beaker of water. As the straw was flicked upwards, a build up of water was unleashed which promptly sprayed over the lady seated in front of us. We knew this had happened when we heard her shriek but, regaining her composure, she gracefully waved off our apologies.

It was Ed’s first experience on an aeroplane. He was a little un-nerved when the aeroplane took off and we sought to comfort him.

On arrival, we got a connection outside Mallorca Airport. We had been told that our coach journey would last up to an hour with our hotel being the last of all the dropping off hotel stops. In the coach drive around Alcuida, there were some familiar names: Burger King, KFC & Pizza Hut. Near to our stop a pub called the Britannica, with a mural of an inebriated guardsman gave a cultural taste of what to expect.

At the Mariners club, where we were staying, there were two levels of ivy covered apartments. The apartments surrounded a strip of area that included the swimming pool and children’s play facilities. Our ground floor apartment was opposite some slides and apparatus where the kids would move on to, in quite boisterous spirits, at the end of the mini-disco. It was lunchtime when we arrived and we ate for the first time, a pizza in the hotel’s bar area. The tables have HP sauce and olive oil bottles, catering to both British and Mediterranean tastes.

Around the pool, we chatted to a lady who says that the most affordable food that she has found in the area is at the hotel itself. She recommended its roast dinner. Hmm - so far the cuisine on offer is comparable to town retail outlets and Toby pub carvery specialities.
The pool water is too cool for Ed; when we lower him in it he protests. Some people sunbathing nearby, who are about to leave, kindly offer their inflatable whale which he can sit on top of. This way, he doesn’t make contact with the water. I push him around, and around, the children’s pool.

We go to the supermarket to stock up on groceries. The recommendation is to use the Spanish ‘Eroski Centre’ rather than the more expensive and everywhere Spa. At the counter, I’m sent back to the fruit and veg area to weigh our stuff on the weighing scales. Around this time, Ed must have lifted a Kinder Surprise – we find him eating the chocolate shells. ‘It must have already been opened’ we say to the till operator while scratching our heads. But, back at the apartment, when we take him out of his buggy we find kinder packaging and a free plastic cat.

In the evening, we visit the hotel’s restaurant. We heard that they do a buffet for nine Euros. Not much for veggies here although the waitress arranges a special omelette for me. She recognises Ed’s Macca Pacca from In the Night Garden. So she receives British television? Oh yes. ‘Come Dine with me’ is a favourite and she chats about arranging similar social cooking with her friends during the winter months when it gets quiet at the hotel.

Friday 29th May 2009

Ed is still reluctant to take a dip in the children’s pool. The sun beds were quite limited and Jan followed the example of others staying here who have used the floral patterned cushions lifted from the apartment sofas to give an extra layer of comfort. On the veranda we had a lunch of bread, cheese and wine.

In the evening we went for a walk along the port where we were told that there was a wider range of cuisine. We passed restaurants of various cuisines. The most popular place was an Italian themed ‘cheap and cheerful’ joint. We sought some tapas and to this end we settled on the outdoor seating of a beach fronted restaurant called Pipper’s Steak House. (It’s hard to imagine anyone called Pipper devouring steak.) Amidst out tapas choices were the roasted green peppers which seemed to be a local delicacy. They were small and had touches of olive oil and sea salt – very nice. Jan pointed out to the waiter that he had brought the wrong chicken for one such tapas dish. At this two British families with chips on adjacent tables raised their heads. The waiter returned with the right version a short while later. Mallorca was generally more expensive than the UK and this meal were as expensive as it got, but the cuisine, view and atmosphere made this a pretty satisfying evening.

We walked back to the hotel with Ed singing a song about a rectangle. Jan inserted our key in the apartment door only for it to snap off with the door unopened. It was already past Ed’s bed time. While I sat with him watching the hotel entertainment, Jan went to the receptionist who rang the hotel’s on site handyman. The handyman refused to return – he was at home waiting for a mobile delivery from a courier. The Hotel Manager got on the receiver to him. Our basic Spanish could pick out the words ‘Listen to me! Listen to me!’ being bellowed down the phone. The handyman belatedly agreed to return.

While we were waiting for him, we watched the mini-disco. ‘Agadoo’ was blasting out. Stuck here listening to this - I hoped this was going to be the low ebb of the holiday. At 9:30 a tribute band – ‘Girls so Loud’ came on stage. I recognised two ‘original’ songs and some further cover versions. For their version of the Girls Aloud version of the Pretender’s ‘I’ll stand by you’, they requested a father on stage to which these attractive songstresses would proceed to address their singing, clasping their microphones yearningly. Two of the girls sang at a time while the other changed costumes. Back at the apartment, the locksmith turned up meaning that we missed the second half of the set which would have apparently taken us through some more general classics through the ages.

Saturday 30th May 2009

Ed awoke at 7am clamouring for water. He was very hot and not well. I walked to the pharmacy to get some Ibuprofen. In these circumstances, we cautioned against going anywhere too far; he was to be apartment-bound for most of the day. Jan sunbathed while I stayed in looking after him. Occasionally he aroused himself to put together some six piece jigsaws and colour in some pictures.

Jan looked after Ed in the afternoon while I ventured out to further explore the port area. I stopped at a Welsh themed bar called ‘Sandra’s’. The Welsh theme was contained within a Holyhead Hotspur scarf hung above the bar and a Cardiff City FA Cup 08 pendant. While here, Jan rung me to say that the electricity had stopped working in the apartment. There were some raised voices in the apartment above - theirs’ had seemingly gone as well but everywhere else in the complex had seemed fine. Our new acquaintance, the site handyman, eventually came on the scene and put the energy right.

Ed was fractious for much of the day. In the evening his spirits raised a little and he wanted to go on the play facilities. Even so, Jan and I had different eating times and took turns in looking after him. I found an establishment called Pizzeria Hollywood, where all the punter’s eyes were directed, in rapt attention, towards the TV screens for the final of Britain’s got Talent. I saw Susan Boyle’s attempts and the ultimate winners Diversity while eating in with my pizza. Does it get any more Brits abroad than this?

Sunday 31st May 2009

It was market day at the old town and we were keen to see a bit more of the place. We spoke to a travel rep before setting off. It was rather cloudy and we asked what the weather forecast is. ‘Some rain is expected’ she said. This on the day, when back in the UK, ‘Brits sizzled in the sun’. ‘It’s not like rain in the UK which never stops’ she said’, perceiving our groans. ‘Rain here comes and goes and it’s quite interesting to look at’.

Any Mallorca rain-watching could wait as we set off on the twenty five walk to the market. As we got nearer, we were joined on this trail by healthy looking Swedes and Germans. We found
the town centre to be a pretty, historical walled area. Waves of people poured in both directions. Jan bought a fan for a niece, being able to barter 50c off the price of it. We had a pasta lunch outdoors at Bar Can Barraxet restaurant.

Back at the complex in the evening, Ed ran inside the Kid zone Hut. There were activities lead by Thomson staff but, not yet being three years old, he wasn’t old enough to join in. A nice member of staff went to the backroom and got him a T-Shirt, cap, crayons and some paper. She explained, in her scouse accent, that he wasn’t able to come in for insurance reasons. ‘It’s difficult for them, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘They hear all the noise and activity and want to be part of it’. Meanwhile, a shaven headed obese chap with an ‘I’m as pissed as my Nan’s mattress’ T shirt waited to sign his daughter into the hut for the activities. Ed and I perched ourselves down on the grass with the paper and crayons as the exuberance and high spirits emanated from the hut.


Monday 1st June 2009

Ed recovered enough for us to visit the island’s beach. Jan was pleased that we were able to find some available adjustable sun beds and shade cover all close to the restaurants. The beaches are white and clean and the sea is clear and shallow, settling at the shore rather than coming in foamy, splashing waves. While in the sea, squadrons of fish can be seen passing by below.

I made some sandcastles for Ed. He removed the sand from the castles and put it back in the bucket.

We had a look around the restaurants on the seafront but were undecided and gravitated back to Pipper’s Steak House for a second time. Ed is still not eating well - at the restaurant table he clamours to get away. Similarly later he is unimpressed by his bread, cheese and tomato tea on the veranda. We feel that he has lost some weight.

Tuesday 2nd June 2009

I wanted to have another look at Alcuida on a market day so I walked with Ed into the centre. We bought some bulbous grapes and stopped at a café for coffee and cake. The chocolate cake was moist and gateaux-esque. I had a look at one exhibition of art in an air conditioned building before we headed back.

After lunch, I take Ed to the pool. He protests, cries and is generally un-enamoured of the whole experience. ‘Take him away’ says Jan wearily. I take him into the apartment for a lie down. Some minutes later he is chatting. Within ten minutes he is up and motions to leave the apartment. For the first time during the holiday he volunteers himself for taking a dip in the pool! He walks on his own, then walks with Jan. Later, some nearby children deploy their inflatable raft far too close to him. It catches him and he topples down in the water. He is face down in the water for a second of two before I can get to him and lift him out. He is put out but not put off at being in the pool. Jan roundly tells off the children for larking about with the inflatable dingy.

In the evening we went looking for a tapas bar that the receptionist of our hotel recommended. We couldn’t find it and decided on a Chinese Buffet Restaurant after it was enthusiastically sold to us by a staff member in the street outside. Inside, we put Ed’s detachable seat on the bamboo chair and get him some sausages, broccoli and mash. He is hot and bothered and fractious and has only small amounts to eat. Jan went to that buffet area to get him an ice cream but, in that time, disaster strikes. Ed vigorously thrusts himself backwards at a ninety degree angle. His head on a rest hits the floor at full whack. From the other side of the table, I motion his chair back up with some help from a waitress. Jan rushes back from the buffet bar. We look at his head and see a bruise where his crown would have felt the full thud. We need to take him back to the hotel and call a doctor says my wife. Diners from other tables look on. Jan whisks Ed away from the table bearing our untouched main courses. I pay our bill to the confused looking staff and seek to catch them both up.

At the hotel, a member of Kid zone, a trained first aider, has a look at Ed. The doctor is on her way. The doctor, a young informally dressed woman examines her head. ‘I’ll arrange for him to be checked at hospital’, she says but when Jan goes to get his passport for the paperwork, she tells me ‘He’ll be alright’. A taxi is booked. Jan is unsure about going in one of these without a baby seat but eventually agrees.

At the hospital, we explain our situation to the receptionist. We are guided to the waiting room. We never wanted to step inside a Spanish hospital but the waiting room area looks a decent place with its airy feel, marble features and swirling staircase. No uniform lines of screwed down seats with a screen saying there’s a waiting list of two hours. There is just a young local couple with their child before us.
After a wait of forty minutes we see a doctor. He asks us to describe the incident. He further asks if there was any vomiting, bleeding or unconsciousness. Nope. He asks about Ed’s crying and explains how toddlers would communicate in these circumstances. He errs against taking an x ray; the radiation from this may be harmful, he says. An enquiring assistant pops her head through the door and the doctor explains in Spanish and a ninety degree sweep of his hand what happened. The assistant nods and departs.

‘What I suggest’, said the doctor, facing us again ‘is to wake him up every four hours from his sleep to check that he hasn’t drifted into unconsciousness. He did outline a worse case scenario – internal bleeding which, if the worst comes to the worst, would be reflected in his behaviour after two or three weeks. Thus he cautioned vigilance. Amidst all the paperwork to take to reception, he produced one sheet of warning sign characteristics to look out for.

The lady at reception stamped the paperwork while holding a conversation on the phone. When she came off the phone we got on to the subject of fees: hospital and doctor call out fees. It was revealed that our insurance stipulations were that we were to pay this upfront – for this we made a hasty trip to a cash point on site. The money was to be claimed back when we returned from our holiday. The receptionist was knowledgeable on British holiday insurance recommending Halifax and the Post Office. Most of others, she says, ‘get you to pay up front as it cuts out the amount of work that they would have to do’

It was 10pm when a taxi dropped us back off at the hotel and Ed wasn’t the only one who was tired. A bar maid, on hearing the incident, had promised us a glass of wine. We sipped these while the hotel hosted a parrot show. During the night, as Ed was stirred from his sleepy intervals, there thankfully appears to be no causes for concern at the moment.

Wednesday 3rd June 2009

Jan took a seemingly recovered Ed to the pool for an early swim. I go for a swim and go on to take Ed out at a cafe called Diane Apartments. When we go in I realise that this is a hotel complex that is open to the public. There are sun beds out, a massive winding tunnel slide that leads to the pool and, of most interest to Ed, an elongated cage full of chirping budgies.

We come back to the apartment for some Edam, tomatoes and grapes. I venture out, with Ed, to have another look at the quarter of Alcuida from which our visit was cut short last night. We come back to find that he has a slight temperature but after some paracetamol, it doesn’t return.

We decide against taking Ed out for tea, and again each of us goes for a separate tea while the other of us looks after Ed in the apartment. Jan goes to the barbecue on the complex and I go to McDonna’s which turns out to be another public face to a hotel complex. A chap called Peter Mac has a regular karaoke night. He surveys the audience of three (a couple having a meal and me at the bar waiting for a takeaway) and says: ‘it’s a tad quiet so I’ll belt a few tunes out for the moment’. Afterwards I think I should have volunteered myself for some singing while I was waiting for the food to be cooked. There was a minimal audience to potentially humiliate myself in front of and little chance of them seeing me again and pointing me out in the street to great merriment.

Back at the hotel, we take Ed out to the mini-disco. He, by far the smallest, joins the kids on stage. He whirls in and out of the bigger kids and lines himself up with the Kid zone leaders. We retire as a magician turns up on stage with his cyclical appeal for volunteers and equally repetitive narrative (‘your eyelids are tightening’). We put on the air conditioning on in our apartment and hope that helps fight any temperature.


Thursday 4th June 2009

Our coach was to turn up at 4pm and our checking out time was 12:00pm. We paid to for an extension of four hours on the apartment which gave the semblance of an extra day at the hotel.

After a week of preferring not to eat in the hotel’s average restaurant, we weren’t straying today. We could afford to give the place one last try. I ordered a Spanish omelette. On the outside patio tables, the Heinz tomato sauce bottle was one that had been refilled with a non-Heinz tomato sauce. Ed, still off his food, went for a walk around the complex possibly wanting to take it in one last time.

The coach was nearly full to the brim by the time it pulled into our complex. The helpful Thomson girl aided me in wheeling up our cases to the coach’s luggage compartment. On the microphone later, she advised us to enjoy the sights of the island for one last time. One historical sight to UK eyes from a bygone age that could be glimpsed was the clothes store C & A.

The time at the airport passed reasonably quickly. Our bottle of wine was isolated by the customs people from our hand luggage and lobbed in a disposable cart. It would only have been acceptable to carry it in our main suitcases. What a waste.

After our flight, back in cool Manchester, we caught a Hackney taxi, and Jan requested that we be driven down residential streets for the sake of Ed’s safety. The taxi driver, a little defensive, said that he would be a safe driver on the motorway as he is a family man himself. ‘But other drivers can be frantic’ said Jan.

Father's Day at the Olive Press and Quarry Mill

The Olive Press, an Italian themed restaurant in Cheadle Hulme, is situated below several floors of offices. It is run by a chap called Paul Heathcote for whom the term ‘celebrity chef’ is used in the local papers. There were no ‘Father’s Day’ themed offers on today but the place is pretty children friendly and, naturally, the young ones were present with their families today of all days. A glass wall where various types of packaged dried pasta were shelved and displayed on the other side came between our table and the chefs.

We had some appetisers of breadsticks, crispy bread with olives, pesto, hummus and a sun dried tomato spread. We recalled Ed liking this on his only other visit here. Sure enough, he also liked it today. I had a main course buffalo mozzarella, cherry tomato and basil pizza, really a plusher version of the margarita but pleasing enough. J had a carbonara which she liked although it was a bit frugal on the bacon. Ed divided his time seeking to be lifted between benches while tending to his lasagne.

Under threes ate free here, and the waitress reminded us that Ed was entitled to a desert. The service was very good. Several weeks ago some staff went through the traumatic experience of being ambushed and held by a bunch of scumbags after one night shift. If that has cast a shadow over the place, it didn’t show this afternoon. Our two courses, drinks & Ed’s meal came to just over £22. This place is worth visiting, especially with the offers available until the end of next month.

After our meal, we went on to Styal Mill, an industrial heritage site. It was sometime later in the afternoon by now so it was more of a whistle stop tour than it would have been. The factory was founded for the spinning of cotton, and one chap on the site volunteered to show us three how one such old machine would have worked. Its chugging and rickety volume caught Ed unaware. He had some scope for walking and we covered the whole area, with the massive working water wheel being the last of our stops. After our walk through here, we had a coffee then caught an electric fuelled float to the top of the hill and walked through the trails back to the car park.

Moving up an age group

It is the first day at Ed’s new Tumbletots group. He has moved up from age group 1 – 2 to 2-3. The previous group he attended involved a circuit of ladders, slides, tunnels, elevated planks, tilting planks all punctuated with sing songs and other sporadic activities involving the likes of hoops and beanbags. There is a commitment to developing child’s motor skills and confidence. Ed never chronologically followed the looping circuit; he would return to favourites, bemusing others with his attachment to the numbered stepping stones on the occasions that these get an outing.

I knew that this new older age group would be more structured and present a challenge to Ed’s free spirit. The first part of the new session, had us all sitting around in a circle. Genial group leaders ask the children to relay what they have recently done. Various children stepped forward and told of their recent activities to the interested and engaged group leader. No sooner had the first lad volunteered his trampoline success than Ed scurried off. He wanted to play on what he has been familiar with and – success! – the numbered stepping stones were laid out. I shadowed Ed as he sounded out his new surroundings. Meanwhile, in the circle, other children continued to step up and recall their recent activities. I couldn’t coax Ed back to the circle and was relieved when the green light came from the circle for play on the apparatus.

This didn’t appear to be very long and I inwardly sighed when the Tumbletot kids were to be subsequently divided into four leader led groups for ‘train-time’, an activity that involves doing a train/conga like walk between groups. A quarter of the hall was siphoned off for each group’s activities. Ed looked bewildered and raised his arms to me for support; I recognised and recalled that experience of not knowing what’s going on as all other young peers are familiar with and on top of what they are doing. We went through three out of four ‘train’ groups. He did go on to get a grasp some activities such as balancing, with my support, on the wobble boards.

At the end, back in the circle group, he was presented with a certificate for moving to his new group. Pleased, he set about applying his sticker to it. It’ll be a tricky period ahead, preparing and encouraging him to embrace the workings of this new group before breaking up for the summer holidays.

Montgolfier Brothers Kings Arms, Salford 11th June 2009

Roger Quigley’s band outings around Manchester and Salford are usually free and played in good humour. Tonight’s outing is an open rehearsal for a gig that will take place the following night, at Moscow’s Open Book Festival. We are warned that there may be some starts and stops but, after a faulty speaker is put right during the first song, theMontgolfier Brothers run through tunes picked from their three albums.

The excellent opener, the title track to their first recorded offering ‘Seventeen Stars’, contains a familiar lyrical note of resignation. ‘Time to bring things down’ says Roger after another such lyrically themed song. The set is shorn of the instrumentals that sound like they could accompany a poignant social documentary about Salford. The tunes played, right up to 2005’s jaded 'love cheat’ themed selection from ‘All my Bad Thoughts’, are sometimes sparse and sometimes layered with new member cellist Sophia (which wouldn’t make them brothers any more I suppose) adding texture on songs such as on lushly orchestrated ‘Even if my mind can tell you’.

The gig was played in two parts with the backdrop of a black and white Italian film behind the band. The audience were seated at candle lit tables lit with only the odd actor punctuating things with a heckle. With not even a beer glass collection passed around for putting their thought out live show on, credit crunch culture doesn’t get better than this (you can forgive the Kings their beer prices).

Seven Day Diary

Below I have relayed some diary items for the last week. As I published them following the day it happened, it starts from the bottom upwards. Reading back on an evidently rainy week, there are reoccurring themes such as nap time. I'll probably relay more of my experience of house husbandry in the future but, for the time being, I'll write about other things on the blog as some of the themes below may read as quite humdrum and repetitive if I continued as I left off.

Saturday 23rd May 2009

We had spent the afternoon at Mum-in-Law’s. Some Aunts and Uncles were visiting from Suffolk. The weather had been welcomingly sunny and Ed had a trial run out in his newly bought ‘lightweight’ travel buggy. It had been a long afternoon and he was ready for a rest. He grabbed his Mum’s wrist, and sought to lead her away saying the words ‘come on’. There’s no section in our Baby Record Book for noting the date he has said this – so for the record, this verbal coaxing was made at age two years, two months and ten days.

He fell asleep for the journey back but woke when we stopped at Handforth for a few shopping items. Being in the car in this hot weather was understandably not going to be to his likening. While waiting for our shoppers to return, I opened the windows and played my free CD of ‘The Tides’ then tuned into Loose Ends on Radio 4. He was still discernibly discontent. Hmm, I’m going to have to work on this. I got out his Iggle Piggle sketch pad, a somewhat babyish copy of ‘That’s not my Teddy’ and then, more winningly, some white chocolate milk buttons. I pointed out noticeable things from his back seat vantage point while hoping Mum and Aunt would return soon. They returned after forty minutes loaded down with shopping bags. Next time, I should be better prepared for scenarios like this, I thought. Either that, or volunteer myself to accomplish an altogether quicker bout bit of shopping.

Friday 22nd May 2009

If I brave a long walk with Ed in the buggy, I try to break up the journey with stops so as not to stretch the boy’s patience. This morning, I needed to go to the Vets for some anti-flea pills for our dog. We passed a park but the day was overcast and dank so I attempted the fifteen minute walk in one swoop.

By Devonshire Park Road, Ed was registering his discontent by taking off his shoe and lobbing onto the pavement. His sock followed shortly after.

Foreseeing a lot of stops where I stopped and wrestled with his foot as I haplessly sought to put the shoe and sock back on, I headed on to the Vets to complete the job. The lady who sold me the pills was sympathetic. ‘My five year old was once the same’, she said.

Coming back, the heavens well and truly opened. The nice traffic-free private road, Davenport Park Road seemed to provide a bit of respite from it. In Bramhall Lane, people hovered in shop fronts that most readily provided shelter. Pounding rain, noise from traffic and my bawling two year old kicking and thrashing against the rain cover combined to lowered the spirits. I pushed Ed to the sanctuary of the Funky Monkey Coffee Shop.

Thursday 21st May 2009

We got some ‘heavy rain’ not long after I started the twenty minute journey to our toddler group. I put the rain cover on but Ed wasn’t happy. I suppose having rain splayed vision takes away from the view. Fortunately, a long road we passed through had enough overhanging tree branches to provide shelter and I took his cover off.

When Ed made loud demands for a biscuit by jostling to the front of the queue, I tried to encourage him to queue patiently behind everyone else. Later, when he got irked over something, he would scurry from the room we were in, down the hall and to the tea counter. By now there was no queue. During biscuit therapy, it proved to be a difficult job to get him to say ‘please’.

In the afternoon, he reclined on the sofa, spent sporadic short periods in his bed and rested his head on a pouf. ‘Time for a nap’, I thought. I took him out in the buggy but he did enough to hold out against sleep. With the coming of age there are obviously going to be less and less naps, but it made for a fractious afternoon of behaviour from him.

Wednesday 20th May 2009

Taking the dog out with us and the buggy can be a fraught affair. One or the other, or sometimes both, can make things difficult by causing a scene. So when I saw another dog galloping across the Park lawn to square up to our Molly, my spirits sunk. The dog’s owner caught up with her dog, warning it: ‘Aah, aah, aah!’ From the buggy came Ed’s voice: he impersonated this with his own ‘Aah, aah, aah!’ It wasn’t the most advanced of expressions that he has come out with of late.

I decided we’d go to the Art Gallery. The pictures are hung well above his head height so he can’t wrench them down and he seems content to get out and have a wander within such a space. When we arrived there something was going on, however, with a table set out by the doorway entrance to one of the halls. I was told that the place was closed to the public for a private function. It was 10:30pm. An introduction on the wall outlined how they were trying to break down the barriers between the art and people viewing it. Well letting people in to see the artwork would be a start.

Tuesday 19th May 2009

After an hour and a quarter at the soft play centre, Ed headed in the direction of the exit door. There wasn’t long before the Story Bus rode into town so I got him a pastry and we sat on a park bench for his 'on the go' lunch. Having devoured this, he left some debris of pastry flakes and bounded off over the grass in the direction of the play facilities. The weather was overcast and not looking good. I lured him away from here with promises of boarding the Story Bus.

With five books under our arms, we headed home. I could see that Ed wasn’t going to have a nap in the buggy - he certainly wouldn't have one at home. We had, by now, been out for several hours so we returned. The absence of napping time creates a lull in the day and made the second half of it top heavy - I am presented with the 'challenge' of more time than I had anticipated in seeking to amuse and occupy him.

Monday 18th May 2009

Ed has finally adapted to ‘Circle Time’ at our Tumbletots group. He applauded the end of songs enthusiastically and at one point, during apparatus play time, sat down in a position where he would have been sat if Circle Time was still going on. At the end of the group, when everyone was back in the circle holding, stretching and waving an elasticised sheet, he was minded to get on top of it. Still, he didn’t protest loudly when I stopped him from doing this.

Coming back home past the Park, there was a window of brightness. We called into the play facilities. Two adults were there with their children, discussing the impossibility of getting a pre school place in the vicinity and the difficulty of having to travel far and wide to where places are available. We had fifteen minutes of brightness where Ed went on the slide and kicked a ball about before the heavens opened. We all put the rain cover on the buggies, bid our farewells and left.

Sunday 17th May 2009

I took Ed out in the afternoon as we went to buy some nappy bags. He fell asleep soon enough. Coming out of Asda, I was compelled to put the rain cover on Ed’s buggy. The rainfall got steadily heavier and, on the way back home, I was drawn to whatever bits of shelter that I could grab, including under some trees that towered over school railings. Opposite the school was a towerblock where some building improvements had been going on. A proportion of this was fenced off and some children at the adjacent school had helped in designing colourful safety posters which attached to the fencing and warned of the dangers of going too near this site. One such poster had fallen off, and a child’s efforts lay on the saturated pavement as the rain pounded away.

Conveniently, Ed woke up and chirped away as I entered the last part of our Close. I got in, removed my soaked jeans and dried and dried my hair in a towel.