Night time questions

One night Daniel couldn't go to sleep.

"Mummy, why do dogs bark at night?"
"I can't hear any ..."

"Mummy, why do dogs NOT bark at night?"
"I don't know. Let's just sleep."

"Mummy, I need water.
"OK."

A moment later, Daniel accidentally drops the cup on me, also flooding the sheets and his pyjama top in the process. After changing the sheets and his top, he closes his eyes again.

"Mummy, I still can't sleep. It's because my pyjama bottom... it's red and it doesn't match the top."
"OK. I'll get you a red top.

"Mummy, my back is itchy."
"Never mind that. Just go to sleep. If you sleep, you won't feel it."

A few minutes later, out of the blue:

"Mummy, when I was in your tummy, did an angel come and tell you?"
"No."
"So how did you know?"
"...."

Then again:

"Mummy, I don't want to be a person."
"What do you want to be then?
"Grass."
"Really? But what if a bunny hops along and eats you ..."
"Hmm. I want to be a double decker bus then."
"But why don't you want to be a person?
"I don't want to get artificial teeth when I grow old."

Hard times

This year hasn't been easy.

Hellish busy and productive on one hand, but also unlucky and unsuccessful.

Still fighting with Easyjet for compensation -- and almost four months on, after tons of emails sent and forms filled in, I'm not sure how much closer I am.

In January, quite unexpectedly, boarded for a job in Jerusalem. Didn't get it.

Also in January, I attended a big brainstorming session for SR which resulted in an immediate and massive increase in my workload. And I wasn't even officially with SR at that point!

It wasn't until I finally made my move to SR in February when the enormity of the project dawned on me. It was crazy; it was way too much. Far more complex than last year, far more ambitious and, as usual, I was thrown in at the deep end. My to-do list grew longer and longer. Oftentimes I woke up in the middle of the night, remembering that I've forgotten something really important without which the next day would be a disaster. I'd end up writing entries in my mobile phone at three in the morning, setting alarms to remember things. My mind was in total overdrive.

On the positive side, I've produced the best radio ever. The conversation between kids in Kabul and Bristol was brilliant. It made a real hit everywhere, across all platforms. I was monitoring the recording in a self-op and it sent shivers down my spine. And it still does when I listen to it. Great stuff, I'm very proud of it.

On the negative side, leading SR's international content left me utterly exhausted. I burnt out and I badly needed a break at the end of March - and I still haven't had it.

The day SR was over, Chrissi arrived.

She's Noni's German exchange and she spent a week in our house.

I had been so worried -- about the condition of the bathroom, Noni's loft bed which is very close to the ceiling, the lack of space in the house, the general fuzziness of the place.

Emergency arrangements were made to draft in Piotr, our much-loved Polish handyman, to replace the floor tiles in the bathroom, many of which had been cracked. Piotr did a great job -- but said the floor under the tiles was in such a bad shape that it would need to be replaced in the summer. (And he was right: four weeks on, the first tile is already rising again.)

But back to Chrissi: I shouldn't have worried. She fitted in perfectly and loved us and the house from the word go.

It was one of those rare "stranger catapulted into your life and becomes best friend" situations.

But - and that's what keeps happening this year -- the moment something starts to go well, there is a sudden relapse.

The volcano cloud and the resulting travel chaos has stopped Noni and her fellow exchanges from returning the German girls' visit. They're still waiting to rebook. And it looks increasingly like their trip would be cancelled altogether.

But I'm running ahead. First, just as Chrissi left, the Easter hols started. It was always going to be bit tricky. I had a feeling early on that things were conspiring against my well-earned break. First of all, Non's and Dan's breaks didn't fully coincide and my leave didn't coincide with a convenient window in their busy Easter break schedules. Organising a getaway was turning into a logistical nightmare and the weather wasn't good, either. Just as I was struggling to arrange something, in between doing loads of night shifts, we had an outbreak of winter vomiting affecting three out of four in the family. That was the stuff of nightmares.

So the break-that-never-really-was was cancelled.

I'm struggling on. But I don't think I've ever been in such a state of total exhaustion.

To tackle it, two weeks ago I embarked on an ambitions running schedule. It was going very well - 50 min runs four days a week, gradually increasing speed.

I was quite pleased with my progress - and then a nasty surprise: yesterday I felt a sharp pain in my right knee. It's the kneecap, the very side of it.

Hope it goes away. Running is the thing that keeps me going.

I'm missing something. I want something big. A breakthrough of sorts. Some excitement. A nice surprise. Something to happen spontaneously. Things to work out all by themselves without me having to work so hard every step of the way - only to end up taking u-turns or finding myself back in square one.

Enough grumbling.

Abigel

We have a new winter tradition and we love it.

For the fourth year going, Noni and I have watched the Hungarian TV series "Abigel" in the Christmas break. It's on two DVDs, with a total duration of about eight hours.

This last time we broke it up to three chunks. On the second night we found it almost impossible to stop. And that was despite the fact that we obviously knew the story very well by then.

So what's so fascinating about "Abigel" that keeps drawing us back? It's simple: a brilliant plot and loads of great characters played by the best acting talent Hungary had to offer in the eighties.

The film is a real gem - if it was not in Hungarian, it would be a blockbuster.

I see that Magda Szabo's "The Door" was received very well by critics when it was translated into English in 2006. Isn't it time for "Abigel" to be translated as well? I'd love to do it. Any interested publishers out there?

It's probably not the next Potter, but you never know. it's got the potential to be big.

Milkpan

Husband selected a nice new milkpan at Tesco's. We needed a new one because
1. after many years' of faithful service, the handle of our Ikea milkpan was now in the final stage of separation from the main body;
2. and the non-stick coating on our new Sainsbury milkpan started to peel off in day one.

So as part of his weekly big shopping event, he put into his trolley a shiny new milkpan.

As he was leaving the checkout area, he couldn't help overhearing the following conversation between his cashier and the next customer:

Next customer: "What a lovely milkpan that gentleman has bought. I'm kind o' thinkin I should run back and get one myself!"
Cashier: "Don't bother, it's awful."
Customer: "What do you mean?"
Cashier: "The handle gets so hot you will burn yourself. I bought one last week and had to bring it back straightaway."

Sometimes I kind o' think this world is going mad.

Happy EasyChristmas -- without a ski lift

EasyJet has become a swearword in our family.

That's because they cancelled both our outgoing and incoming flights.

With the first cancellation, they ruined our ski break. With the second, they ruined our Christmas.

We've now more or less recovered, but we'll never, and I mean NEVER again fly EasyJet. They are useless idiots who have no consideration for their passengers. They simply shouldn't be in business.

It all started with about 2 cms of snow on Dec 18. We, along with thousands of other passengers, made it to Gatwick just fine.

We checked in and we were told to wait in the lounge while the runway was being de-iced. After two hours of waiting, things became a bit suspicious, with BA and all other airlines opening gates and flying happily in all directions, with minimum cancellations. Only Easyjet passengers were told stubbornly to "PLEASE WAIT".

It didn't bode well. And there was the added complication that Daniel was not very happy to wait in the departure lounge for four hours. Quite understandably: I had woken him up at 0345. So by then he was a bit noisy and demanding. And I was grumpy, too. Quite understandably: I had just emerged from four night shifts in a row, with an accumulated sleep deficit of over 20 hours.

Eventually we were told Easyjet was cancelling all flights in the morning. That included at least 15 flights from Gatwick North, if not more. We were ushered down long corridors to the arrivals area to reclaim our checked-in luggage that appeared on the carousels as it we had just arrived. To add insult to injury we also had to queue up for passport control. It was bizarre, not even having left the airport.

Having cleared customs, thousands of disgruntled Easyjet passengers were keen to rebook their flights at the EasyJet desk. We didn't even try. The scenes were utterly disgraceful.

Instead, we collected out car and drove home. By then, almost all the snow had melted.

Back home, I first tried to rebook the canceled flight online. No luck -- EasyJet's web site said our flights could not be transferred because they were in the past! Exactly!

Next, I tried the one-pound per minute Easyjet customer service telephone line. Couldn't get through -- the automated message I got was along the lines of "We're experiencing an unexpected volume of calls. Your waiting time would be over 30 minutes so we now have to disconnect your call."

It would raise any unfortunate traveler's blood pressure, not being able to contact an airline under these circumstances. So imagine what I felt when, a few hours later, I did get through on the phone, after a 20-odd minute wait, only to be "helped" by an Easyjet staff trying to engage in small talk -- at £1 a minute. "How interesting? How do you pronounce that name? Just our of interest, is it a Turkish name?"

I really should have resisted the temptation. But I just couldn't. I know I wasted another pound, lecturing him why a customer's nationality had absolutely no relevance to the rebooking of this flight. Ah, and geography, as well -- you would have thought Easyjet customer "helpers" are given some basic training as to where European cities are located... no, why should they be? That said idiot argued with me, unsuccessfully, that Munich was so far-a-far-away from Innsbruck that it shouldn't be considered as an alternative. So much further away than Salzburg, he said. Yes, right, why don't they teach them to use a map?

Anyway, outgoing flights were rebooked for 20 Dec.. that effectively cut our ski break to three days from five, but at that point we thought it was still worth it.

We would have never gone with it if we had known that EasyJet would also cancel our incoming flight. But there we were, Xmas Eve morning, 0830, Innsbruck airport: FLIGHT CANCELLED.

We couldn't believe our eyes. There were absolutely no weather issues at Gatwick, or Innsbruck.

We were given two options: either take a flight to Liverpool at 1335 or wait for a flight to Gatwick on Boxing Day.

In the end we chose Liverpool. Along with sixty other passengers, all of whom were convinced that Easyjet cancelled the Innsbruck to Gatwick flight because it was ony half-full. Anf they could be more or less sure that all of us would re-route to fill the insofar equally half-full Liverpool flight.

They did that to save money and maximise their profits, while blaming the weather. Utterly disgusting. Mind you, there were no words of apology on the Liverpool flight. To Easyjet, it's just business as usual.

Put simply, I wanted to go back to the hotel and do Xmas in Austria, and charge it on Easyjet or our travel insurance. But the majority of my family wanted to fly back. The kids wanted to be home for Xmas, and even I would have felt a bit guilty about calling in to say my flight had been cancelled .. I was scheduled to work on Xmas Day.

It was a total nightmare though, getting home. First, me, along with our 60 fellow sufferers, got on the two Internet terminals at Innsbruck airport to book cars from Liverpool to Gatwick. One way rentals, last minute, cost upwards of £250.

Not to mention the hassle. Picking up the car was a pain, with National's office being closed by the time we got there, my reservation being temporarily lost in the system, problems with the GPS, the child seat .. all lovely stuff, with increasingly loud screams of "NONO, WHAT'VE YOU DONE?" NOBODY WANTS TO BE YOUR FRIEND, EVER AGAIN" in the background.

I'm not much of a traditionalist, but driving down the M6 in thick fog and heavy traffic is the last thing I'd want to do on Xmas eve. Stopping at Burger King for Chicken Royale made me really, really sad. For this one day a year, I'm very happy to go with tradition: cooking a proper Xmas meal, opening presents and lighting the candles on the Xmas tree.

This last year, it was not to be: EasyJet made us celebrate EasyChristmas.

By Christmas Eve evening, I'd lost my sense of humour. Even worse, I took out all my frustration on my family when we eventually got home at 2130. It was bad: I blamed them for making the wrong decision. I really thought returning to lovely Wiesenhof would have made more sense -- we would had a much better Xmas. Ok, no presents - but lovely food, pampering in the spa, and a bit more skiing. Yes, a bit of anxiety as well about whether or not we'd be able to fly back on Boxing Day, and a bit of guilt about missing my Xmas Day shift -- but on the whole I was convinced it was the less bad option.

Instead, we were back home, utterly exhausted, late on Christmas Eve, with an awful "Xmas has been cancelled" kind of feeling. Next, Xmas Day started with husband returning rental car to Gatwick and collecting our own ... by the time he got home, there was a cab at our house, waiting to take me to work.

Eventually, we celebrated Xmas on Boxing Day. And Daniel wasn't happy with his presents!

He was so disappointed that over the next few days, he kept telling anyone who would listen, with a genuinely disturbed expression on his face "Do you know, Santa didn't bring me the present I wanted." Sympathetic adult: "What did you want?" D: "A ski lift".

Wisdom at 0258

This is from Stuart, my newsreader, at about 0300.

"It's not a good time to be a freelancer these days. Mind you, it's not a good time to be anything."

And Daniel last night, just before I set off for my night shift:

me: "Can you please stop shouting at the top of your voice. You're making me deaf."
he: "Mummy, do you know sign language?"

Thank God it's snowing in Tirol.

Done

I'm back to Radio. It's great to see my old colleagues and return to a very civilised four on, four off rota that allows me to do overtime. I haven't done any WOODS since early September, and my salary slips are a shocking reading!

I got quite confident by the end of my TV stint -- even graduating to Heads, ie becoming a very responsible member of the team. I was still quite relieved to escape. Not one of my fellow female live producer colleagues with kids does a full time job there. A shocking discovery, but a very good indication of how stressful the shifts are, and how disruptive the rota is.

Having said that,I don't want to lose my new-found TV skills, so I'll be back at TVC, doing regular overtime shifts. Best of both worlds.

In other news, we're going on a skiing trip -- the first in nearly two years! It's a pre-Christmas break, and we're heading to Pertisau, a small resort just 40 mins away from Innsbruck. The terrain is unchallenging but we don't care. It will suit us just fine and being still in the low season, it will be quiet. And the hotel is absolutely fantastic -- look forward to serious pampering in the food and spa front.

I'm just a few night shifts away from it .. and a very busy to-do-list to tackle as well before we head off. All presents must be bought and wrapped, cards written and sent, xmas tree decorated ... not to mention the usual hectric schedule of parties, drinks, school concerts and fairs in the run-up to Christmas. All very enjoyable - but difficult with night shifts to do in between!

Never mind - it will be the best holiday ever. Certainly one of the very best deserved.

Television

It's a hard life.

They say it will get easier after about three months -- that's exactly when I return to radio.

For the time being, it still feels like having been plunged into freezing waters at the deep end, with no swimming skills.

There were at least three hellish shifts when I thought I'd quit - the amount of pressure on me was just unbelievable.

I didn't - first, I'm too stubborn, second, most of the people I work with are very nice and I don't want to let them down.

Been driven to complete exhaustion by a crazy rota and a very steep learning curve, but for the time being, I struggle on.

Only 6 more weeks left.

Jupiter and the floor managers

My bosses have decided that it would be a good idea to train us up across all platforms.

Sounds like a job for the railways, but in fact, I'm talking about journalism.

I'm now on a three-month television attachment. And actually quite enjoying it - well, up to a point.

It's a very steep learning curve, especially the technology. Pictures matter more than words here so being able to find them and cut them fast is a more important skill than being able to write good scripts - a real shock to a long-time radio producer like myself.

Another shock came from the lack of supervision: my second TV shift included editing pictures, writing captions and scripts for news bulletins. They all went out without anyone else casting a second pair of eyes on them. I was petrified -- I was certain they'd all fall of the air. It was a miracle they didn't.

It was scary -- but 24-hour television news is a relentless business and there are not always enough resources to check bulletins. Mind you 24-hour radio is the same. Nevertheless, in the radio newsroom I come from, every script is checked and checked again, even if written by the most senior editor. And we all think it's a good idea. So there's a huge cultural difference there.

It is fair to say that before my first TV shift, I did receive a few training courses, mostly to learn about the technology.

Jupiter is now my new best friend - it's our picture editing software, and it's brilliant. But it's so easy to click the wrong place or hit the wrong key accidentally and mess it all up. On my trainig course, for instance, I once managed to turn the entire screen pink. "What have I done?" I asked the trainer. The poor guy looked completely puzzled. "That's probably because you're a girl," came his best guess after several minutes of deep thinking.

On the positive side, Jupiter knows how to do a million things ... but every little thing can be done in at least two different ways, and if you get muddled up and shout for help, you can be sure you'll be shown a third way of doing it, so it is all a bit mind-boggling.

Still, I'm slowly coming to grips with it -- along with Astons, OOVs, SOTs, DTLs and the subtle differences between studio directors and floor managers.

What I'm not coming to grips with is the geography of Television Centre. That's completely beyond me. Newcomers really would need a training course to help them find their ways. After all, I may be asked to collect guests at Reception and take them to the Green Rooom -- that's where they wait before they go on air.

Television Centre is a diabolical place: it's vast and it has circular corridors; it is a bit like a maze. It's also missing the third floor: when going upstairs, after the second floor, you find yourself on the fourth. No one here has a clue why.

It's very very easy to get lost ... and even if I make it to the Green Room, there may or may not be a receptionist to take over the guest.

If there isn't one, my job will be to go into the studio, live on air, and find the floor manager, without getting in vision. It's easy, I've been told, he's the one who mikes the guests up.

Easy. How many times have I been wondering inside live 24-hour news studios? But everyone sort of expects you to know these things already.

The thing is, I'm a known troublemaker ... So the chances of me turning up on live television news, followed by a bewildered contributor, and asking for the floor manager, are, unfortunately, relatively high. What a nightmare.

Galtur half

I did it. In exactly 2 hours, 19 minutes and 59 seconds.

It was a fantastic experience, running the Galtur half marathon.

It's in the Alps, and it's high up.

I thoroughly enjoyed the first stretch -- running out of the village, being cheered on by locals was a very nice start.

I got to the first checkpoint in 45 minutes, just as I planned. Having had two glasses of sports drink, including an ugly blue, I started the ascent.

I couldn't run all the way up the first mountain. It was too steep -- up four hundred meters in about three kilometres. I power walked as best as I could, with occasional bursts of running, and made it to the hut at the top 1 hr 20 mins after the start.

Just before I got there I encountered the first real obstacle: the path was blocked by a cow. It was huge and brown, and it was staring at me. It also had a massive bell round its neck.

Now which end do you overtake a cow? Head or tail? I immediately remembered a story about poor old John Prescott who was nearly trampled to death by a cow just a few weeks earlier.

Very gingerly, I squeezed through at the tail end and soon afterwards, I was enjoying a generous slab of home made muesli bar and a slice of lemon, along with two more cups of sports drink at the second check point.

I thought from now on, it would be a lot easier. I was wrong. I did run down the mountain amazingly fast, even overtaking two runners (yee!) but when I thought I was entering the last stretch of the run to take me back to the village, there was a nasty surprise: the path once again started to incline.

And very steeply, too. And my hands were swelling up. And it was hot. And I had been running for almost two hours. I was getting a bit confused, too. So where on earth was the third checkpoint?

In the end, I found it: strangely, they put it seven minutes before the finish line. I'd thought it would be about twenty minutes from the end, so I had been thinking I was still miles away, when in fact I was getting very near. That slowed me down bit: I was conscious not to run too fast to conserve some energy - not that I had much left at that point!

Anyway, I got a lot of applause when I crossed the finish line. And a medal. And a very nice hot drink. And a certificate which states I came in at tenth among the female runners. Well, there were only 13 of us, but the certificate doesn't say that.

It was hard work, but no torture. In fact, great fun. The locals offering snacks, the mountains, the waterfalls, the forests, the meadows, the bees, the cows. All combine to make it an amazing experience. And relaxing in the swimming pool after the run, watching the sunset over the mountains just conquered in running gear is not a bad thing, either.

I'll be back next year.

Holiday -- part 2 Transylvania

Noni's always wanted a Transylvanian skirt.

I bought two of them in my student days in Budapest: both came from little old ladies selling beautiful hand-made garments in underground stations. One of them was a long wide linen skirt with a tiny bit of lace at the bottom. Twenty years later, it is still in a fine shape. The other one was black with loads of tiny red flowers -- it's now got too many holes for either of us to wear.

The quest for Noni's new Transylvanian skirts began a few years ago in Budapest. Friends gave some tips, and we followed them all up: we went to the markets at Ecseri and Petofi csarnok ... only to be disappointed.

So this last summer, having driven from London to Budapest, a decision was made to venture further east to Transylvania.

It was hot. A brand new motorway from Budapest to Debrecen gave us a good start. Then we made the unfortunate decision to stop for one night at the blatantly neo-communist Hajdu camping in Hajduszoboszlo.

Service was appalling. It was back to the 1970. Four fat ladies with no charm, no customer service or foreign language skills were fiercely demanding at least four documents from each traveller ... with an air of extreme self-importance, they were filling in monstrously long forms by hand to check people in. At the same time they were arrogantly turning down people on the phone. It was absolutely shocking -- the only time during this last stay in Hungary when I felt my blood pressure rising uncontrollably.

And the famous Hajduszoboszlo spa was also fairly disappointing. Crowded, bureaucratic, expensive. The slides were fun and the new pools looked good, but the old bits were depressingly run-down. And we had the worst langos ever!

On to Transylvania, it was a mixed experience. On the positive side, Vasskert camping is Sovata was fantastic. Beautiful, quiet setting, luxurious facilities. The echoing sound of cockerels and dogs in the morning is still in my ears. It was weird but brilliant.

The threat of bumping into a brown bear stopped me from running into the forest ... so my runs were restricted to the roadside.

Which brings me to the subject of roads: in the land of the Seklers, they are bad. It's not roads: it's potholes. And I mean it: potholes only.

We looked at the map and plotted a nice 50-mile day trip to the Red Lake and the Bicaz Gorge ... and we ended up spending five hours driving. I thought the car would break up every minute. But the views were fascinating, and there was an element of fun trying to overtake horse-drawn carts carrying logs or fantastic amounts of hay (plus at least three children on top of the haystack) on zigzag roads.

We loved the forest fruits bought from roadside vendors. The haggling over the price. The hundreds of shops selling Transylvanian skirts in Korond. The pizzeria in Sovata where Dani's favourite spaghetti has been incorporated into the menu. And the storks proudly surveying their villages from their nests.

And it was also a weird but great experience to find that 200 miles from the border, everybody spoke Hungarian.

It was a mix of new and old -- one moment you see a cart and have a time-has-stopped feeling. Then in the next you have the best cappuccino in the world in a funky bar in Sighisoara -- a 500 year-old cellar, tastefully converted, and equipped with WLAN. Then again, you step outside and there's absolutely nothing to stop you from falling into a wide open manhole right in the middle of the busiest tourist street -- a frequent sight in Transylvania.

So go and see it before it the carts disappear -- but mind your step.

Summer -- part 1

It was out longest trip ever. It was also supposed to be a budget holiday with a lot of camping. It was not to be.

First, we drove from London to Neustift. We very nearly didn't make it. Heavy rain, traffic jams in Germany, and being up all night all contributed to a phone call to the camp site to cancel the booking at about 1800. There was no way we could pitch a tent: we were too knackered, it was too late, and it was miserably cold and wet.

So to a get roof above our heads, I called good old friend Patricia, owner of our "best loved hotel" award many times over. I told her we were just passing through on our way from London to Budapest and needed a room for one night. A luxurious hotel apartment on the top floor was promptly allocated to us, with the key hidden in a large pot of red geranium at the entrance -- their usual procedure for guests turning up after reception closes at 1900.


We had the best night's sleep -- but it came at a cost of £100. Hardly a budget hol!


We emerged for breakfast at 0900. The sun was shining, and Neustift looked its very best: glorious Alpine scenery, ski lifts already running, tiny spots of colour -- the first paragliders descending from the Elfer --already visible in the sky. We could not just leave paradise behind after one night.

But equally, we couldn't afford to stay at £100 a night. So a long chat, big hugs and farewell with Patricia followed, with her emphatically wishing us a safe journey to Budapest.

I decided not to tell her that we were actually only moving over to the campsite for three more nights to enjoy our Alpine mini break. It was a big mistake.


On day three, Noni and I were walking down on the zigzag road from Elferhutte after conquering the Zwolfernieder ... sunburnt and happy, about to meet the men at the Elferlift station.



When going round the last bend, we bumped into two lonely figures -- mind you, at that point, everybody's coming down the mountain to catch the last lift to the village, so it was very ususual to see people going the other way. A man and a woman, in trendy hiking gear, the woman wearing a huge pair of purple sunglasses.


Which she promptly removed when she saw me, shouting excitedly: Erika, are you still here? I thought you were in Budapest!

It was awkward, but Non says I sounded all right, explaining how the kids wanted to stay and as we had a tent with us to use later on in the hols, we decided to stay.

Still, it was a very embarrasing moment ... but at least I found out from Patricia that if you wanted to watch the best sunset in the world, you should be heading up to the Elfer at 1700...

22AA

Noni needed some bras. Her breasts had grown, making her life uncomfortable.

So we went to our local M&S where a very friendly assistant promptly measured her up and declared her a size 32C.

I was hugely impressed -- but not for long, because as it turned out, our local M&S did not have a single pair of teenage 32C bras in stock.

We were kindly advised to try our luck at the Kingston M&S, which must be the biggest bra shop in the whole wide world.

Everywhere you look, there are shelves loaded high with brass. And an impressive display of the stuff hanging from millions of hangers. This is surely the place, we said.

However, the teenage section was almost completely empty... and we were told that adult design bras would not fit her, so we should stay clear.

Well, me being a no-bra person -- except for my running -- I was pretty much puzzled by that instruction but I didn't dare to argue. I know nothing about bra sizing but I think a 32C should be a 32C, no matter your age.

Anyway, the teenage shelves had next to nothing in Kingston, so we needed help ... Another friendly staff was found and asked about the whereabouts of teenage bras. "Oh, didn't you hear?," came the answer, "we've had an unfortunate incident here". "???" "Well, there was a fire last week, and all our stocks were destroyed ...luckily it didn't spread to the adult bras."

A day later, accompanied by a recalcitrant Dan on his scooter tram , it was back to our local M&S.
I told the staff that we must buy some bras this time, so another helpful assistant measured Non up again, just to double check. And surprise, surprise, this time she was found to be a 30B ... and there was teenage 30Bs galore at the shop, so we bought four pairs and left in a state of considerable relief.

But not before Daniel also had himself measured. He was found to be a 22AA of which he proudly informed everyone on our way home. Complete strangers were stopped to listen to his boasting of "Do you know, I've just been measured up, and my bra size is 22AA."

Holes for baddies

Dan's been digging holes in the front garden lately. He says it's for baddies to fall in if they come to our house. If good people fall in by accident, a vehicle with a grabber comes up to rescue them.

Half marathon

I'll be running a challenging mountain track -- the Silvretta half marathon in Austria on August 30.

It is a tricky one -- especially a steep, 460 meter climb in a three kilometre stretch, early in the run.

I suppose it could be worse -- if it was towards the end, it would be even nastier.

The usual advice is to start your racing career with a shorter distance. And a flat course. But I love stretching myself, and I feel fairly confident about this.

Also, I'm very practical, and there are three pretty sensible points to consider here:

1. August 30 in Galtur is perfectly timed for our drive back from Budapest to London -- and we wanted a different route for our return journey anyway. By contrast, the Budapest half marathon on September 6 -- which I was briefly considering -- would have involved an awkward flight back to Bud four days after arriving back in London.

2. I've always wanted to go to Galtur.

3. There's a children's race for Dan and a junior race for Non -- not that she's eager to run it. But Dan's interested in putting his hands on a trophy.

So, Silvretta half marathon it will be.

What do you prefer?

It's one of our favourite new-ish games with D. Yesterday, it went like this:

Me: What do you prefer, strawberries or raspberries?
He: Both.
Me: Boiled eggs or scrambled eggs?
He: Boiled.
Me: Trains or buses?
He: Both.
Me: Mushrooms or tomato soup?
He: None of those. They're disgusting, yak.
Me: Your turn.
He: What do you prefer, snuggling up to me or going to Bush?
Me: What a silly question, snuggling up to you, of course.
He: But you go to Bush so much...
Me: What do you prefer, snuggling up to me or going to school?
He: Both

Good answer.

Camping nr St David's

Beautiful Caerfai Bay in north Pembrokeshire.

Clifftop camp site, right on the Coastal Path. Ten minute walk down the cliff to a spectacular sandy beach. Steep cliffs full of daisies, foxgloves and butterflies. The sun was out, and it felt like the Mediterranean.

Camping was exciting. We didn't get much sleep though. First night, it felt cold, strange and very new; we were tossing and turning for ages before falling asleep. Then I woke up in the middle of the night feeling a bit rough. No wonder -- two of out of our three Tesco quality air beds deflated and we were lying on the floor.

The next day we bought some self-inflating mats in lovely St Davids's, so slept more comfortably... until we were woken up by the wind. It sounded scary; we thought the tent was about to take off. It didn't. But it could have.

The third night turned out to be the scariest, though. At 3 a.m., I heard an animal's paws pouncing around the tent. Then I heard a man's harsh voice: MAX! GET BACK INTO THE TENT. RIGHT NOW! YOU NAUGHTY!

I envisaged a blood-thirsty bull terrier ready to dig its way into our tent and attack Daniel. Nothing less. So grabbed two torches to prepare for the onslaught. I was lying wide awake for a very long time, listening out for funny noises that continued into the dawn. Eventually I dosed off, clutching the torches.

I should not have worried. In the clear light of the morning, I spotted the near-invader: it was a tiny black spaniel.

All in all, it was a fantastic break. The kids took to camping like duck to water. They loved everything about it: pitching the tent, cooking the sausages, cleaning up. There was even a fight about who should come with me to wash up the dishes!

Daniel spent most of the time on the beach, working on complex engineering projects in the sand. There was a fair amount of mud throwing, too, and playing "you can't catch me" with the waves. It was brilliant.

Noni loved kayaking, swimming and walking the coastal path. To much of her delight and surprise, we discovered nearby St Non's Bay which was extremely beautiful.

Just busy

David often says I'm the busiest person in the world.

I don't think he's right. But Non says for women with two kids and a great job, in my age group, I'm probably THE busiest.

Since late February, it's been crazy. My to-do-list is just getting longer. It's not chores I'm talking about. It's big issues like Dan's school place (lost appeal, now writing to ombudsperson to get the decision reversed due to a cockup in the way the council administered the process), getting prepared for a board (yet another failure, although a sweet one) and sorting out finances (a bad one).

And the moment I tackle one issue, another three pops up in its place. It's like the dragon in a Hungarian folk tale -- you cut off one of the seven heads, only to see three others sprouting out straightway. Or is it not a folk tale?

So big issues with never ending chores -- 24 hours never feels long enough.

On a positive note, I've stepped up a gear in my running, and feeling very fit. I now do 45 mins twice week, and love it. My first semi-marathon is in sight!

The tree

My daughter's school had a horse chestnut tree in the middle of its grounds for over a hundred years.

It was a magnificent tree. Everybody loved it, and it became a symbol of the school.

Unfortunately, it contracted a disease, and last autumn tree surgeons decided it was too dangerous. So a decision was made to cut it down.

The tree was removed -- at a cost of £4,000. Soon afterwards, a mature magnolia tree was planted in its place -- at a cost of £13,000.

I pay 1,000 a month for my daughter's education, and I keep being told there are no scholarships available for bright students with parents struggling with school fees.
So the figures nearly gave me a heart attack -- what a waste of resources, I thought.

And the new tree doesn't look good. They say it's quite normal after the trauma of being re-planted ... I don't know. Its leaves are brown, shrivelled up and falling to the ground in alarming quantities.

Hope it recovers soon...

Anyaszerepek

Mami, te egy DLR vagy. Ezen a lábadon arra megy a sín, ezen visszafelé.

Szendvicsben legtöbbször az alsó kenyérszelet vagyok. Noni a vaj, Zsebi a csiklandozó felső kenyér.

Mami chick, akinek a babachickjei most bújnak ki a a tojásból.

Mamadinoszaurus, mint fent.

A habos-forróvizes mosógépben mobiltelefon után kotorásztam... Mami, te betetted a zöld farmert mosni? Benne volt a zsebében a telefonom... Tíz perc intenziv kotorászás után kiderül, végig a kabátzsebében volt.

Pakisztáni vízumot intéztem... pedig ANNYIRA nem vonz Lahore, Karacsi.

A dobozfejú tanácsi bürokratának magyaráztam, miért kell Zsebinek ugyanoda járnia szeptemberen iskolába, ahol most van... fellebbviteli tárgyalás lesz a dologból, májusban, LahoreKaracsi után.

Teljes kempingfelszerelést hajszolok az egész családnak, plusz kicsit újabb, légkondicionált Volvót.

Szervezem a lányok szupermarket pénzgyűjtési akcióit. Eddig három nap voltak, a pénztárnál csomagolnak World Challenge pólóban a népnek, mellettük a fundraising vödör .... szerencsére az angoloknál ez reflex -- mint Pavlov kutyája, ha meglátnak egyet, azonnal adakoznak.

D: Steady, steady.