Thoughts in the wake of a Macmillan coffee morning

The collateral of defeating cancer

On Friday, a friend hosted a Macmillan coffee morning at her home. There were pretty cups and saucers, good coffee, delicious cake aplenty, and a jolly time was had by all. There was no mention of cancer, and no need to mention cancer, because among us was an unspoken understanding that all present had been touched by the disease in one way or another. It felt to me like a silent united force – cake-eaters coming together to enjoy ourselves in defiance of cancer.

The self-fulfilling prophecy of social media

What a pretty picture summer painted this year. If social media is to be believed, my friends and acquaintances have spent their summers smiling, whether they were crossing continents or raising a glass beneath the twinkly lights of a garden party. As for we parents in the medley, anyone would think we were in competition with the sun to kiss the freckled faces of our laughing children as they hurdled waves on expansive beaches. Illustrated highlights of the season include granita enjoyed against a Sicilian backdrop, electric eels encountered beneath the Ionian sea, huitres en famille en Bretagne and happy quantities of new wine consumed at a Viennese heuriger. The viewing has been a vicarious delight, and equipped me with some inspiration for next year’s holiday.

The fine art of entertainment

I have recently been involved in the Telegraph’s Kids in Museums award. With hands-on opportunities ten-a-penny, museums are really moving with the times and research shows they are more popular than ever with families. While there’s no doubt that all six museums which made it to the shortlist this summer will provide a rich and entertaining experience for their younger visitors, what of the museum’s more grown-up cousin, the gallery?  Does this more traditional, static experience have the capacity to capture the hearts and minds of our children?

As a life-long lover of art, recently starved of my eye candy through maternal duties, I have a selfish motivation when I wonder if there is room for children to get enthusiastic about art and artefacts that aren’t all-singing-all-dancing. Admittedly, it was with my own interest at heart that I set out with my two-year-old daughter to see if simple paintings on canvas could cut the mustard.

Turn back the clock

Social media is wielding an uncomfortable yet addictive brand of torment for me: facebook has begun colluding with my midlife crisis.

These days, it is impossible to close the door on any chapter of my life due to the surviving evidence - ever present and all too visible.There, on the social-networking site to which I am - guiltily - party, are images of people from my past I thought I put to bed. Sometimes I have not seen their faces for decades, and I confess that the intervening years can cause me to wince. It’s rather like looking in the mirror after ten years without reflective surfaces: a brutal reminder of the passage of time which, thank goodness, is softened by the ritual of daily ablutions and glances in high street shop fronts. Seeing your teen-peers in full-flung middle age is a tactful reminder that they are not the only ones for whom the passing years bear scars.

A birth story

At 1.15am on a windy November night, at 36 weeks gestation, our baby daughter began to make her transition from womb to world.

It was with the ice cold stab of dread I woke, paralysed while I made sense of the feeling: my waters had broken. This wasn’t supposed to happen yet, the baby was preterm. I stole out of the bedroom, packed a hospital bag and a bag for our two year old daughter, did some last minute, frantic cleaning and tidying, had a shower, then woke my husband.

‘I’m having a baby’ I told him. As he blinked to consciousness and I heard the announcement myself and the birth was in motion.

Every mother loves a birth story

It is my belief that it's the privilege of every new mother to tell the story of her labour in as much gory detail as she wishes, and for her audience to listen politely, if not appreciatively. This was not my understanding before I had children myself, but since giving birth I have reached the kind of 'members only' realisation that gives a convenient licence to hold forth.

I have a good old friend whose first birth story came several years before my own, and I remember being simultaneously horrified, regaled and skeptical when she told me in dramatic detail of the birth of her first daughter. She told me how she had done the cleverest thing - producing this perfect infant, and how the arrival of the first grandchild had incited her mother to reveal how her own birth (she is also the first born) had been the best thing that had ever happened to her. And then, many months later, I remember this friend telling me how her husband had suggested she find an alternative topic of conversation to dine out on, that perhaps the birth-story was wearing a little thin for family and friends alike. I laughed with her at the time, part of me realising how 'big' this thing must be, the labour of giving birth, while hoping to bear the pain, indignity and wonder of this transformational experience myself some day.

It's a gift

Inspired by some online-friends from Breast Cancer Care, I thought I'd say it with poetry for a change.