Remembering

I know everyone's done a "where I was" post for this day, but I'm still going to do mine too.

You see, for totally personal reasons, 11 September 2001 had been marked down as a potentially "bad day" in my diary for weeks before it happened. No, I'm not psychic. But when I woke up that morning, I had a knot of fear and anxiety in my stomach, my heart was racing and felt like it would fly out of my body at any moment, and I couldn't concentrate on anything.

On 13 July 2000, my first daughter was stillborn. I had been exactly 145 days pregnant. I'm not going to go into THAT story again, as it's already been written and isn't appropriate for today.

When I found out I was pregnant again, in 2001, I knew that the baby had been conceived on 19 April, the day my then partner flew back (oh, the irony!) from NYC, where he'd been on a short work contract. Naturally, my second pregnancy was fraught with stress and fear and panic. I was terrified of having to go through the same pain and loss a second time, scared that if I did, I wouldn't make it out the other side and would most likely implode.

Equally naturally, I calculated when I would be 145 days pregnant, and set my first goal for the day after.

You've guessed it. I was exactly 145 days pregnant on 11 September 2001.

A colleague and friend in Lyon phoned me at about 3 pm (French time) that day. He said little on the phone, telling me just to put the TV on because something terrible was happening.

When I turned the TV on, the images showed the first plane and the voiceover was speculating as to how and why... Just as the second plane hit.

I sat glued to the TV all afternoon, all evening. Tears flowed, friends joined D and I to watch the coverage, there was fear in the air, and the night felt electric. Everyone was shocked and anxious, everyone was conscious that things had changed.

That night, I started having contractions. After all the stress and anxiety of the day, the contractions may have been inevitable. But for me, I was instantly thrown back to "my" 11 September, and I freaked out. D called the emergency doctor who said I had to go to the city's main hospital. I cried and wailed, unable to bear the thought of returning to that place, that place I'd hated so. D was pretty wonderful that night, explaining how traumatic that would be for me, and eventually a place was found in a maternity clinic, much nearer to our home and where both my daughters would eventually be born.

The contractions were monitored all night, I was given a drip of something to stop them, the midwives were on the phone to my adorable gynaecologist on and off constantly. They all told me that many women had gone into labour that night. Unsurprisingly, that didn't calm me down in the slightest. Gradually, the contractions started to ease off. The danger had been averted.

As I lay in that hospital bed, praying with all my might that my baby hang in there, and grow, and be all right, the images on the TV in my room showed the horror of what was happening in NYC and DC and Pennsylvania. My personal woes seemed quite pathetic in comparison, even if they were all-consuming.

I shared a room with a woman who gave birth to her little Ruben on 12 September, and she was so happy to have had a long labour, so glad he hadn't been born on "that" day. We discussed the events going on around us, putting our events somewhat into perspective, yet still wholly focused on our own lives.

The head ultrasound guy, who knew my "history" and that my doctor had booked me in for a week's stay to calm me down and reassure me, made me so angry when he said he didn't like England or the English (though he claimed to love the Scottish) because of their arrogance and bad cuisine and lack of elegance and poor sense of humour. I was upset enough because of my own circumstances, but still managed to tell him what I thought of his blatant racism, misplaced at any time, but especially at a time when racism abounded, when conflicts were being concocted, when we should all have been trying to show tolerance and understanding, compassion for our fellow man.

That second pregnancy ended well. My sweet girl, C, was born on 27 December, 4 weeks early, painfully small, hypoglycaemic and ailing. She's now just started 5th grade and is a tall, slim, willowy blond with mischievous blue eyes. She's smart and funny and loving and creative and beautiful beyond my wildest dreams. "My" 11 September ended well.

I'll never forget that day. I had been dreading it, dreading another disaster for me, but was saved. So many others were not as lucky. I didn't really know anyone who died, though there were people who did that I'd known by sight when I was a student. It was one of the most terrifying days I've ever lived through, and the haunting images of the people on the roof of the WTC, or jumping from the windows, or in the streets, will live with me forever.

The sun rose on 12 September and the world was a different place. My world was far from serene, but there was a sense of "it's going to be OK" for me, mixed in with so much fear for the world at large. A few days later, a chemical factory in Toulouse exploded, killing many and sparking further panic. It was as if the whole world had gone crazy.

And still, my sweet girl grew, safe inside me.

I was lucky that day. I was lucky that year.

But.

I'll never forget that day.

No longer MIA

The much-feared (by me) 9-week school summer holiday is almost over. The girls start back on Monday morning, C in her last year of primary (5th grade), L in her second year (2nd grade). I think we're all ready for it.

It's not that it's been a terrible summer. Not at all, in fact. August was pretty cool, even. The first 3 weeks of July were the toughest, by a long way, but seem such a long time ago now that I can barely even remember how miserable they felt (and "miserable" might be a bit of an exaggeration, too, to be honest).

So no, I haven't hated the summer at all. But the girls are bickering more and more, and they definitely need a stricter routine. Plus they're desperate to see their friends.

For me, September will be a hectic month. I have to go to see a solicitor on Tuesday with D to talk about buying him out with regard to this flat. I'm dreading it. We've already had a bit of a tiff, in fact - he contacted "his" solicitor (actually the one we used together to buy the place) and told me she would contact "mine" to make sure she could be there. Then D of course informed me (just a few days ago) that a) he never said that (his standard retort) and b) I would have to invite "my" solicitor myself. And of course, at such short notice, she's not free. I'm furious, and can't help but feel that's not a good start to the negotiations.

Teaching will also be starting up again, which means meetings and preparing stuff and actually getting out of the house from time to time. Which will make a change, I must say.

And my dad's been here since 24 August, which is both nice (I do like to see him, honestly) and driving me batshit insane. I suspect he and I are too alike in character - impatient, intolerant (of slowness, inefficiency, for example) and prone to flashes of anger - for us to get along for any considerable length of time. And the fact that his deafness is now a real handicap doesn't help. Luckily, he's spending 2 of his 3 weeks here down at the beach (this week with the girls all the time and me every other night, next week on his own).

Of course, contradictory, pessimistic little flower that I am, the end of the summer also gives me a bout of the blues. I HATE winter, really, really hate it, and it's already September so winter isn't far away... OK, I know, it can stay pretty mild here till mid-December, but it can also be wretched (by south of France standards, admittedly) by the end of October... I do enjoy the heat and the sun and the freedom of summer: no multi-layering of clothes, no struggling to keep warm.

Looking back on the last 9 weeks, I'm struck by how fast it's actually gone, and yet how slow too. 1 July feels like an eternity ago. Even seeing my friend J - only one month ago - seems distant. And Italy. Ah, delightful Italy... It's hard to imagine that that delight even happened at all... maybe it was just a dream?

So there you have it. The summer is over (as far as holiday is concerned), I've actually been "back at work" for 3 weeks already (I only took 2 weeks off) and all the back-to-school stuff is ready for Monday morning.

I have to admit to being pretty excited about the new school year too - can't wait to catch up with friends, see which class my girls will be in, with which teacher, which kids. I just hope it's a good one.

Cringing with embarrassment...

By popular request (if one request can be described as popular), here is photographic evidence of something I mentioned in my previous post.

*Sigh*

I can't quite believe I'm going through with this (I'm a shy, retiring little flower in reality), but well. Here goes:

If you ignore the mess behind me, I'm reasonably satisfied with this photo (mainly because you can't see my face or thighs...).

Voilà. That's one less mystery in the world.

25 things the internet doesn't know about me

Yes, of course this is a meme I picked up from Avitable... and one of the things NOT on this list is my inability to ignore a meme...

Anyway, here we go:

1. When I was 6-7, I attended a very strict school in the south of Scotland and was the only girl in the entire school (it was an interesting experience, to put it mildly).
2. During my time at that school, I had the palm of my right hand smacked with a metal ruler by the teacher as part of a punishment meted out to the entire class. It hurt like hell.
3. The only PE class I consistently enjoyed was also at that school - the boys all played rugby, but for once my mother put her foot down and refused to let me do that (thank God), meaning that I ended up playing badminton with the headmaster's wife every day. Fabulous.
4. I'm not a particularly spiritual person, yet I know that the night my beloved aunt died, way back when I was 21, and far from both my home and hers, our souls connected - she died at the exact same time I was lying on the floor of the jazz club in my university town (held in a fabulous old building with stained glass windows) in a pool of moonlight reflecting through the stained glass. I felt peaceful. (Don't ask why I was lying on the floor...)
5. I cannot ever imagine being able to eat oysters.
6. I love junk food, even though here in France it's virtually treason to admit to such a thing. Meaning I don't eat it very often (probably a good thing). But the cravings are there...
7. I love trashy TV shows, even though I'm pretty much an intellectual snob.
8. Oh yeah, I'm an intellectual snob!
9. I don't think I actually know what it feels like to be truly happy.
10. One of my biggest fears for my girls is that their love lives will be like mine - non-existent for way, way too long (never even went on a date till I was about 21, never got a Valentine's, never got asked out, never heard that anyone had a crush on me), then intense and exclusive for a long time, and finally back to being alone again.
11. I feel woefully unsuited to explaining the finer points of boy-girl relationships to my girls.
12. I am hopeless when it comes to putting on make-up (which is why I rarely wear any).
13. I didn't learn to swim till I was 30.
14. Since learning to swim, I've almost never been in water and am now back to not being able to swim again.
15. The thing about how you never forget how to swim is CRAP.
16. I have always wished I were more athletic.
17. When I was in primary school, I wished my name were Wendy.
18. I would love to learn to dance the salsa and the tango.
19. I hate my skin - both its colour (white as hell, prone to bluish and orange splotches in cold weather, bright redness in hot weather) and its extreme sensitivity.
20. I passed my driving test in 1990 and have essentially never driven since (I've mentioned this before), but am hoping to find the money to take a few (a lot of) "refresher" lessons sometime in the next 12 months.
21. I have never owned, nor ever wanted to own, a dog.
22. I am pathologically terrified of dentists (because I have big gum problems) and haven't been for longer than I'm willing to admit (because I have excellent - but ugly - teeth, no fillings, no bridges, no crowns).
23. I haven't ridden a bicycle since I was 19.
24. I think I have a pretty good rack (apart from the whiteness of my skin, of course), and it's almost certainly the part of my body I find the least offensive.
25. I often feel guilty for not missing my mother because we didn't have a bad relationship. Yet I don't miss her. At all. (Though I do miss having "a mother", just not mine.)

I've just read these back, and now suspect that I sound like a cold-hearted basket case. Which may be partially true, actually (I would baulk against "cold-hearted").

Ah, Italy. You divine creature, you!

*Sigh*

Oh, seriously people, if you get the chance to go to Italy - GO! It's such a beautiful country, even the grotty bits. Italy shines and sparkles and twinkles and entices you in. It scrambles into your heart and won't let go.

The girls and I took the train - cheap, but ridiculously time-consuming, given the distance: 4h20 to Nice (but oh! the scenery...), then hang about a bit there, then 50 mins to Ventimiglia (via Monaco and St Raphaël and Cap d'Ail...), then hang about there for a longer bit, then just over 2 more hours to Genova.

We splurged on a taxi to the hotel, we arrived at our hotel in style.

Words fail me. Our room looked out over what should have been a pretty grim site: dockyards, a cloverleaf junction and flyover, cranes. But even that was glorious. We looked directly on to the famous Lantern, dating back to God knows when (but pre Christopher Columbus, anyway, waaaaay before), the sun was setting, the sky was blue and green and orange and pink, the cranes looked like giant red and white giraffes. It was stunning. Of course, I didn't take a picture. But I did take one the day we left, early, early in the morning:

I know it doesn't look much (I guess I take rubbish pictures) but I love this juxtaposition - the ancient Lantern, the modern docks. The sea stretching out in the background. Swoon.

We stayed for a week, and it flew by. We did so many things, yet still have so much more to visit next time (and yes, there will be a next time, I hope). We ate pasta and pizza and icecream (not together, you understand). We stroked sting rays. (Stroked. sting. rays!!!) We went into a real submarine. We visited the house Christopher Columbus grew up in. We visited the pirate ship made for Polanski's film. We went up in a panoramic lift thing ("Bigo"), 40 m above ground, with spectacular views over the city:

It was a magical, magical week and I am soooo glad we went. Yes, my debts are suffocating me (direct debits being refused, credit cards blocked...) but it was worth the expense, truly worth it. Especially as we didn't spend very much at all (thanks to my dad giving me money for my birthday and me squirrelling it away).

Ah, Italy. Would that I could return RIGHT NOW.

Soon, my friend, soon. I will be back. My heart belongs to you.

Ciao, Bellissima!

Andiamo!

Everything is, once again, a bit last minute. I didn't even go and see our neighbour about looking after Tom till 8 pm (no idea what I would have done if she couldn't have done it...). But I'm just about ready.

The bags are packed, the tickets bought and verified and put in my hand bag; the laundry has been done, so have the dishes. I've cleaned out the fridge of all the stuff that needed to be thrown out/given away. I've cleared my e-mail in-box down from about 900 mails to less than 150; I've noted down addresses for future postcards.

We're almost ready! I just need to make our picnic, check bus times to the station for tomorrow morning, nip round to the post office with invoices needing to be sent out, have my shower and sleep.

If all goes to plan, this time tomorrow, the girls and I should be fast asleep in our beds in the Novotel in Genoa. I am beyond excited, I really am.

I also booked a 2-week holiday for my dad in an apartment in Palavas for the last week of August/first week of September. The girls will most likely spend the first week with him, but then they go back to school so he'll be alone for the second one (though after a week often on his own with the girls, he'll almost certainly need it!).

I'm kind of looking forward to it, though I feel sick at the thought of having to ask him to give me all the money I need to pay D his "share" of my flat. It's a huge amount of money and, even though it will mean that the flat is finally in my name only, it's still basically a huge gift to D. Especially as the solicitors' fees are almost half again.

The thing is, D is making noises about this again - talking of arranging meetings with solicitors and so on, so I know I can't put it off much longer. I did vaguely broach the subject the last time my dad was here, and he seemed OK with it. But it's not so much that I'm scared he'll say no, it's more that I'm so embarrassed at being such a huge failure in life that I can't even pay my ex his share of this flat (bearing in mind it amounts to only about 10% of the value of the whole place).

But I'm going to try and stop thinking about that for now. I want to focus on what I hope will be a good week ahead - I love Italy, some of my favourite holidays have been in there and I'm sure this one will be just as good.

Andiamo!

BH12

About a year ago, I said I would very much like to attend BlogHer 2011. It's currently taking place in San Diego and - in case you hadn't guessed - I'm not there. As the weeks passed, it became increasingly obvious to me that there was just no way on earth I could possibly afford to go to San Diego for 5 or 6 days (for one thing, west coast USA requires hideously expensive flights and layovers and bla bla bla).

Sure, I'm bummed because I would love to be there, love to actually meet some of the people whose work I enjoy so much, let my hair down, have fun, meet new people. But if I'd been in San Diego, I wouldn't have seen my friend J, and her visit has done me a lot of good, I must admit. But still.

However, according to the BH11 attendees on Twitter this afternoon, it has apparently been announced that BlogHer 2012 will be held in New York. That is a much more realistic target for me - yes, it's still a big expense, but at least it's east coast (6 hours away, rather than, oh, I don't know, 12 or something), and it's probably the best-served US city with regard to flights from France. I'm excited at the possibility, I really am.

I've only been to the US once (and that was NYC too), back in 2001, and I loved it. Really, really loved it. I'm going to try and start saving as soon as I have climbed out of my current debt hole. Even just saving €50 a month would pay for the flight (maybe).

That's going to be my target, my goal and my motivation for the coming weeks and months. Funding my trip to BlogHer 2012 in New York City.

Wish me luck!