Blessed are the Tories, theirs is The United Kingdom.
Blessed are the Bankers, for theirs is a big fat bonus.
Blessed are the Rich, for theirs is no longer 50p in the Pound.
Blessed are the Super Rich, theirs is called tax avoidance.
Blessed are the Frontbenchers, there lies the problem.
Blessed are the Lords, for there will be no reforms.
Blessed are the Rockstars, they will have titles bestowed upon them.
Blessed are the Royals, theirs is the Civil List.
Blessed are the Media, for in their hands the truth lies.
Silently I was crying inside. But my son’s entourage was an unusually welcomed distraction, deflecting from the highly anticipated event, the first day of school.
No wonder my son looked slightly on edge, with so much build up. I think he was starting to believe that we were giving him to the Missions. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve said goodbye, but for some reason, this one magnifies that this is the first of many to come.
We all know the stories, but when it’s your own story, it’s raw. And I felt alone.
Well, I would have if my over-the-top, noisy, Italian, and brash father-in-law had allowed me to lament in the moment. But no, he was a running commentator on the day’s event and how my emotions were stacking up. My mother was adding some realism, years of experience as a school teacher; my husband was nonchalant; my mother-in-law was reminded of her boy starting school, but was on a strict warning not to cry, so she looked like she’d sucked a few lemons, straining to hold it together. The circus ensued with the little brother pleading to join the big one. And after a few poses for Facebook, show’s over, and it’s time for school.
In his hand, he held my heart. And we walked on.
I was more nervous than he. Schools do that to you. He hardly spoke, but I knew he was assessing the situation. He does this. And all I wish, is that his teachers get to know him like I do. I haven’t totally lost my sense of reason, he’s still a five year old. I’d have thrown him through the doors when he was two, when the thought of Boarding School didn’t seem so bad, but not today. He is perfect and I won’t be told otherwise.
In my state of delusion, we made it through the grandparents, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and the flash photography. But I saw no one. So consumed by holding his hand and steering him through. There may have been tears and tantrums but we walked silently on.
My nerves grew. I wanted the transition to pass seamlessly. Because you see, I thought he was starting next week and today wasn’t the day for my son to realise that his mother’s still looking for the parenting handbook.
My fly by the seat of your pants approach suits me, but my son needs everything just so. I had to step up and make him as proud of me as I am of him. Ok I got off to a bumpy start, wrong class. Though, I was sure it was that one. The relief when I found his peg and hung up his jacket. If I could have ripped the thing off the wall, I think I would have. I was raw.
Never have I felt so happy yet so sad.
But there were no tears. I wouldn’t do that to him, I had the rest of the afternoon after all.
And as I’d expected he turned and I let him go. To make new friends, have good days and bad days, dreams and disappointments, and to start making stories of his own.
I want time to stand still,
I want the world to know,
I’m waiting for love and you’ve yet to show.
Wrapped in a blanket, safe in my arms, this is how I imagine you.
From the first cry, love has arrived.
Skin to skin and we begin,
My child and I.
It’s not the badge that you wear,
Nor the scroll that you hold,
It’s calling him a star,
It’s who you are.
It’s the time that you give,
The love that you bring,
The heart that you show,
The pain that you hide.
It’s every day that you’re there,
It’s his eyes at your name,
It’s the void that you fill,
When I’m not there.
In a sea of black, black being the colour of fashion and designers, we all sort of look the same. Well, not exactly the same. My daughter’s looking mighty fine, but we’ll come to her a little later. The waiters, the bloggers, the designers, the inbetweeners are head-to-toe in black; it’s sublime.
We’re talking 2014’s Spring/Summer, as the rain bounces off the floor, and in my mind Christmas is a dirty word, but in the language of fashion we’re defying all boundaries and bypassing seasons. As a heads up, it’s going to be bright and bold or is it pastel? Colours, textures, fabrics, cloth, silks, and everything in between next season. It’s Spring, it’s fresh, it’s clean lines and very, very, very exciting.
Excited, I type away, standing upright. It’s a party and I am tweeting furiously, capturing the moment, looking up only to snap and stalk here and there. I am your worst dinner guest, rude, consumed and working on the fine art of balancing an iPhone, a spare iPhone, because for the love of God, if one goes dead, I’m dead, and the iPad. I’m doing exactly what I berate my children for. Like a wasp, I’m also poking it randomly in people’s faces; the silent assassin. People do look at you though, this is true. A quick once over to see if you merit importance and are you worthy of conversation? Who the hell are you? Ahh, the hired help?
Height and stature are problematic as I perched on my tippy-toes looking up at the beautiful. My Taggart voice, ‘there’s been a murder”, assists, when told to move. Engaging in brief conversation, why bother? When the model pauses to say I could be her mother, but I’m not laughing. LFW, more accurately WTF. The fashion industry is tough. And what’s worse, is that I will be seeing my beloved child on the back of buses, billboards, shops, magazines, need I go on. I am a mother of two, not twenty-two, hence I swiftly left London Fashion Week (LFW) as one of fashion’s cast-offs.
Click below to buy this season’s multi-coloured, striped, patterned and sequined pieces, all the designers are wearing it; honest.
I’m like a meerkat watching mine. Mine being my son, the Innkeeper. Not a starring role, but there’s always next year and maybe I’ll join the PTA.
I shouldn’t, but I only have eyes for one. And seated next to me they’re leaning forward. My peripheral vision is blurred by an iPad. I can’t see my Innkeeper. I can’t see him. There are now hundreds of them on stage. Where is he? Stop leaning. Is it me or is it very hot in here? Oh, “there he is.” My son, my first born. Born in an NHS stable. I can see him. It must be the star.
My Arafat in the distance. Across the stage, my red tea towel dons his beautiful head. And I relax happily into my seat. They’re leaning forward. Not again. In the spirit of Christmas, shouldn’t we be sharing?
So, I’m leaning and stretching and doing the down dog, just to catch a glimpse of his singing. “Bumpty bumpty bump, riding on a camel”, I could have sworn it was a donkey…bumpty bumpty bump, looking for the baby Jesus.” My heart soars at every line, as I sing silently along. There in the distance, stretched across the plains, i.e the stage, my son.
This is it. The first school nativity play.
“Oh lovely, the angels are here to guide the way.” “That’s nice.” Awwhh….just a little to the left sweeties, I can’t see my keeper. Just a few steps. There are hundreds of them, like Andrex littering the stage. There are only four innkeepers, you’re doing alright son. Next up the wise men; Goldie, Frankie and I never can remember the last one.
They’re all so cute and lovely, but to be honest it’s tunnel vision and I’m planked at the wrong side of the room. Joseph and Mary are centre stage and the baby is away in a Manger, but my little innkeeper like everyone else’s Andrex, wise men and the camel that should be a donkey, is all that I can see and a star is born.