Party Mania!

It’s been a crazy, full on, seven days since we last chatted. As I sit here typing this it’s 4pm on Saturday afternoon and the blog goes live 8am tomorrow – yes, I do push things to the wire – it’s an overcast, muggy day and the rain is hammering down outside the open back door, the smell of petrichor is wafting into the house, and Ibiza Live is on the radio – “baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me no more”.

On Wednesday it was my daughter’s Sweet Sixteenth birthday party. Now it’s not actually her proper birthday until mid-August, but she has a friendship group of ten girls, and they are such social butterflies that last Wednesday was literally the only day they could all do. So, Miss F was like the Queen this year (gawd bless you ma’am) and will have two birthdays!

We’d discussed what sort of party she wanted to celebrate turning 16, and I’d braced myself for the expected all night rave, illegal drinking and other shenanigans that most sixteen-year-olds seem to expect nowadays. She gave me a bit of a strange look and said:

“Do you know what I’d really, really like.”

“No, what?”

“I’d really like an old-fashioned, retro, birthday party – with crustless sandwiches, and cake, and balloons, and bubbles, and party games – lots of party games, with prizes, and take home bags at the end, oh, and a really special birthday cake.”

I was speechless. But she was adamant, so silently heaving a sigh of relief, we made plans. Games were arranged, beautiful take bags were put together, shopping lists were made comprising of wonderful nostalgic food such as jam tarts, French fancies and even cheese and pineapple hedgehogs which took me right back to parties of my childhood.

Party day dawned beautiful and sunny. Guests were expected at midday, so we left town at 8am to do the 45-minute round trip to collect her cake from the cake-makers in a nearby village. Banging along the A14 we were talking and making plans for the best way to get things done, when an awful suspicion crept up on me that we’d been on the motorway a long time. Yep. I’d missed the turnoff and we’d gone miles out of our way. Panic ensued. Miss F frantically searched Google maps to see where I could get off and go back, but due to inexpertly given directions and me being a slow to react idiot, we missed the slipway back onto the A14 and ended up heading cross-country.

No problem, we thought, we’re heading in the right direction, sure it’ll take us a few minutes longer to get home, but we’re ok still for time. Then suddenly we were off the map and into territory unknown – here be dragons – driving through small villages with unlikely names such as Swaffham Bulbeck (I kid you not). To complicate the issue, we’re bang on school run time, so tiny village lanes are crowded with mega people carriers that are apparently necessary for maniac mummies to get an undersized seven-year-old to school! I accidentally ran a stop junction and nearly hit another car – oops, sorry – then suddenly we were where we wanted to be. It is an unacknowledged fact that British country lanes all inevitably end up in the same place, eventually. Cake was collected. We were back on the A14 heading for home. Trip into the nether regions of the Shire survived. We were running late, so I put my foot down, and a little icon of a petrol pump lit up on my dashboard.

Oh poop. Just what you want. I don’t drive very far normally so I’m really light on fuel use, but I’d done a lot of driving around lately what with prom and all that nonsense the week before, so of course I’d gone through it a lot faster than normal.

“Why is there an orange petrol pump alight on your dashboard?”

“Oh, it’s fine, it just means that I need to pop some petrol in when I get a chance.”

“Is it serious? I mean, how quickly do we need to find a garage?”

“Don’t worry, it’s only if it starts to flash that it’s a problem.”

It started to flash.

“It’s flashing!”

“Yes, I know.”

“But it’s flashing! And you said…”

“Yes, I know what I said, but it’s fine… fine.”

“Why are you slowing down? Shouldn’t you be driving faster to get to the garage quicker?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

I babied my car along the motorway, going so slowly I even annoyed lorry drivers. Was it my imagination, or was the flashing getting more frenzied? We limped into town and stopped at the first garage we came to. Filling up, I heard the petrol hit the bottom of the tank. Oops.

Finally, we’re home. Party T-minus one hour and counting. Luckily I’d had the day off before so a lot of prepping had already been done, but still organised chaos ensued as I quickly put together the food and Miss F hung balloons, strung bunting in the garden and figured out how the bubble machine worked. All was ready with five minutes to spare – just time to rip a comb through my hair and quickly spray on scent and change my top.

After all that, I’m happy to report the party was an unqualified success. The girls loved all the games and the fact they were divided into two teams – House Sloth and House Llama – and that every game scored points for their houses and won prizes for themselves. I’d judged the food perfectly – one round of sandwiches left and a few bits of cake, and until 6pm the whole house and garden rang with the sound of happy laughter and excited squeals as the tension grew (at one point I was convinced pass the parcel was going to end in bloodshed).

It was charming and innocent. I expect many reading this will think it all sounds a bit boring, but it wasn’t, it really wasn’t. The games were fun and competitive, with all entering completely into the spirit of things. As Miss F says, this was really the last time she could get away with having such a sweetly simple party and judging by the heartfelt thanks as the girls left and the enthusiastic messages received next day, the party was a resounding success.

That’s it now for main events this year until Christmas. Well, there is my birthday coming up, but it won’t be such an event. At least, I don’t think it will be, but you never know….

Lots of Love

Julia

To Prom or not to Prom?

It was my daughter’s prom this week. Being British, this meant Miss F was only 15 years old, not 18 as she would have been, were she attending prom in America. Like many American customs that have crossed the pond, this one has had to be adapted to suit a different educational structure. Whereas in America, children attend the same high school until 18, here in the UK children can leave their upper school at 16 to move into further education – be it college, vocational training, an apprenticeship of some kind, or to take A levels in sixth form.

I was unsure how I felt about the whole prom business. I mean, when I attended upper school – back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, we had an end-of-school disco and were grateful for it. A DJ was hired – probably someone’s older brother who had a mobile disco and was prepared to do it cheap – the school assembly hall might have a few balloons hanging about, and there were a variety of bulk bought fruit squashes for the student to re-hydrate with. I’m not sure there was even food available, but if there was, it would only have been a few crisps and maybe some store-bought sausage rolls. Teachers would have lurked on the edges to make sure that no shenanigans occurred between students, and most of us were there dateless. Girls would congregate on one side of the hall, and the boys would huddle together on the other – apart from a few couples who would self-consciously linger in the no-man’s land in-between.

It was all very basic and very innocent, and very cheap – parents might have been asked to contribute a small amount to cover the squash and the disco, but that would have been it. As for expensive prom dresses and suits – well, I do remember my best jeans came out for the occasion, along with a new top – but that was as far as it went. Although, I do have fond memories of slipping across the highly polished wooden floor in my pixie boots doing the “Prince Charming!”

When my daughter’s prom rolled around, I wasn’t too sure what to expect – but had a feeling I wouldn’t get off as lightly as my parents had. Three months ago the pressure began – all the other girls already had their outfits (they didn’t), if we didn’t buy something immediately, then everything would be gone (doubtful), and stores put their prices up the closer to prom you shopped (not likely, but I suppose possible). So, we hit the local shops and found the entire outfit in the sales, including underwear and accessories for £160. I later found out I’d been incredibly lucky to have found a dress straight away that (a) both my daughter and I agreed on (b) fitted exactly, needing no alteration (c) didn’t require negotiating a loan from my bank. Some parents, I was reliably informed, had spent upwards of £250 just on the dress. To which I responded – “more bloody fool them.”

Events like proms are yet one more occasion that lurk to trip the hapless single parent struggling on a tight budget. Once again, we are torn. Obviously, we want our child to be happy, we want them to look amazing and feel confident in their outfit – BUT – and it’s a big but, there has to be an element of common-sense control. £250 for a dress that will be worn probably just once is a ridiculous and slightly obscene notion. I could feed us both for over a month on that amount, and I think everyone would agree that food is more essential than ball gowns.

The closer to prom we got, the more extravagant became the lengths some parents were prepared to go to. A stretch limo for one 15-year-old to be driven two miles down the road, classic cars hired especially for the occasion, even a silver party bus! It all started to have a whiff of one-upmanship, a game I flatly refuse to play, and luckily my daughter and her friendship group agreed. Tentative enquiries were made into the cost of hiring a limo between them, jaws dropped when they heard the price, and a group decision was decided to save their money and schlepp it there in the two smartest cars the parents could rustle up between them. I did offer. I was declined. Apparently a 1996 Nissan Micra with more rust than paint and cobwebs hanging off the wing mirrors wasn’t even in the running for consideration. Instead I was relegated to the role of Mum’s Taxi, shuttling carloads of girls out to the brave mum who’d volunteered her home to be the base of operations and sleepover central – rather her than me, and then collecting them all the next morning to run them to their various homes.

Question: how many teenage girls can you fit in a tiny, two door Nissan Micra along with all their clothes, prom dresses, make-up, hair products and bedding?

Answer: Four, with very careful packing – honestly, the whole exercise turned into a game of car Tetris.

But I guess what you all want to know after this long ramble, is did Miss F enjoy it? And did I feel it was worth the money? Considering the final bill including hair and make-up probably came to £230. Well, I am happy to say she had a ball, literally. The venue was a beautifully restored 14^th century barn on the outskirts of town, and the food was everything a teenager would want it to be. Her friendship group of eight had a wonderful time getting ready together, and judging by the photos, had a lot of fun dancing the night away. Afterwards, there was a sleepover with a midnight feast and games.

And how do I feel about proms now? While I do still think it is a little excessive for 15 and 16 year olds, I can see why it is held now and not in two years-time. Most of these young people have suffered through eleven years of school together, they’ve endured sarcastic teachers, disastrous school trips, tedious assemblies and the terror of exams. But now that’s over. They’re all scattering, going their separate ways. Many will lose touch; friendships will slip; and the girl you sat next to in Chemistry for years will soon be nothing more than a fading memory.

This night was their last hurrah, their final chance to be together as school children and bond in one, stupendous evening that will be remembered for the rest of their lives. Truly, a coming of age experience, and one I’m glad my daughter participated in. Yes, it stretched me financially, caused me to tear my hair out with stress, and had me driving around country lanes like a mad thing, going back for forgotten tickets and cramming so much into my poor little car I could feel it straining up the hills, but ultimately, it was worth it.

The chance to see my tomboy daughter looking like a princess for one night, watching her and her friends pose self-consciously for photos in their finery, giggling, pulling stray curls off mouths plastered with lipstick, teetering in unfamiliar heels and awkwardly clutching tiny bags bought for the occasion. Then waving them off to a night that represented the culmination of eleven years of hard work on their part – it was worth every single penny.

A Blog with a Difference

Hello there, and welcome to my very first blog on “A Little Bit of Blake”! Now, it’s not the first blog I’ve ever attempted, but hopefully this will be the first blog I stick at. Several years ago I started a blog on my website, but I was a brand-new author and completely clueless about how to promote myself and my books. I had no internet presence to speak of, so had no way to drive footfall to my website. Eventually, I grew discouraged at the lack of response, at that feeling I was whispering into the void, and gave up.

Time passed, I published a few more books, became a little more experienced and decided to have another go at this whole blogging lark. This time I started a blog on Goodreads, figuring I might get a bit more traction there, but again, quickly grew bored and the lapses between blogs grew longer until finally I had to admit to myself it was going nowhere and abandoned that one as well.

But now, a few years, a few books and a lot more friends and followers later, I’m going to have another try and this time I think it might stick, because I finally understand what I want my blog to be about.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m an author, I write and publish books, so a good proportion of my blogs will be about books – both mine and other authors – and the whole writing process in general, but that’s not all I am. I’m a single mother, I’m a busy working woman, I’m a reader and reviewer, I’m a complex and multi-faceted person who is interested in a wide range of far reaching topics. Most of all, I’m someone who appreciates that life is sometimes wonderful, sometimes not so much, that it is complicated and hard and difficult. That every day we all get up, shape up and try to make the best we can of what’s been given us. Yet life is also amazing and diverse and best of all, funny. That’s what I want to blog about, life and everything that it entails.

Once a month, sometimes more often, I will have a guest on my blog who has an interesting story to tell. Not just authors, but people from other walks of life as well. People who’ve done something amazing, have faced the darkness and fought their way back to the light. People who are giving everything they have for something they believe in. People – wonderful, diverse, real people with honest tales of real life. That’s what I want my blog to be about, you guys! So, if you have a story you think might be of interest to others then please get in touch and maybe you could be a future guest. If you’ve done something amazing, or are doing something fantastic, then likewise get in touch.

I do hope you’ll stick around. I can’t guarantee you’ll always be interested in everything I blog about. I can’t promise you’ll find my guests interesting, but I can promise to do my best to entertain and enlighten you.

And of course I will talk about this crazy writing journey that I’m on, the ups and downs, the funny bits and the soul destroying bits, but this will be different from the normal authors blogs in that I won’t preach or tell you what you’re doing is wrong. I’m not really the best person to give advice as I’m still pretty much fumbling around in the dark myself. What I will offer is support and encouragement, and the knowledge that you are not alone. That whatever you are going through, I’ve probably been through it as well, or at the very least know someone else who has.

So, what do you think? Worth a look? If I’ve piqued your interest even a little, then why not check my blog every Sunday to see what my week has been like and check out my latest guest. I’m always open to suggestions for any topics you’d like me to explore, or maybe you’d simply like to comment on something in the blog that has touched a nerve with you.

Next Sunday is Father’s Day in the UK and I’ll be looking at the very sensitive subject of how to handle it if your child’s father is absent from their lives. This was a real issue for me when my daughter was younger, and I’ll talk about how we handled – and continue to handle it – together.