by It was supposed to be about my brother’s family but it ended up being all about Mum. As it so often is.
I got to my parents’ flat in St Ives at 11:45 on Tuesday morning (24th June). It was almost a ten-hour trip door-to-door, and within ten minutes of arriving I’d already had a low-level run-in with Mum. The problem was that I asked her a simple question. Don’t ask her questions. I should have known. Bloody hell, this could go really badly. The good news was that we’d be spending five nights (one more than originally planned) down at my brother’s, and Mum would of course be sweetness and light during that time.
Mum, Dad and I took the train down to Poole the next morning. Three trains, actually. From Cambridge to King’s Cross, then the underground to Waterloo, then down to Poole. My brother met us at the station. Soon I had my niece in my arms. She seemed positively lovely. But heck, the demands on my brother and his wife have ramped up beyond belief since I was last down there, now that they’ve had a second child and their first has become much more testing, as my brother put it. There’s no way I could do this, was what I kept thinking. Not with the expectations placed on parents these days and the sheer cost of attempting to meet them (which I know to me would be in vain). My nephew is already a very sharp cookie, but he has regular tantrums (pretty normal at his age I suppose – he’ll be three in September) and is jealous of his baby sister. He still thinks she might just disappear one day in a puff of smoke, but alas. He plays rough with her – I saw him pull her ear and press down hard on her chest and much more besides.
My brother’s place is on the edge of the New Forest; swallows fly over their garden which is teeming with insects. This is of great benefit to my nephew and niece. Insect populations have dropped off a cliff in Britain and kids aren’t spending nearly enough time in nature. Dad pointed out a butterfly called a fritillary, which I thought was to do with its scalloped wings but instead referred to the spotted pattern on them. On Thursday we went for a longish walk through a wood called Happy Bottom (of all things) and along part of a Roman road.
I got to see plenty of kids’ TV which is now very good indeed. My nephew’s favourite show was Nick Cope’s Popcast and it quickly became mine too. The other thing I watched a fair bit of was Glastonbury. I was very impressed with Biffy Clyro, a Scottish band that has been around a while. On Saturday night Neil Young appeared. Isn’t this great, I thought. He’s still doing this at just about 80. But the next day I heard that his performance was terrible. There’s no pleasing some people. I suppose if you’ve forked out £400 for a ticket, you want bang for your buck.
I always say that my brother lives in Poole, but his nearest town is actually Wimborne, an upmarket sort of place whose main draw is the minster. Wimborne is a half-hour walk from where they live, and requires you to negotiate Julian’s Bridge which crosses the River Stour and is nearly 400 years old. The bridge is too narrow for both traffic (there’s a lot of that) and pedestrians, so crossing it can be treacherous. I made several traverses during my time there. One time Mum had a cold so I walked in to Wimborne with Dad. We went to a café, drunk our lattes outside, and mostly talked about Mum. Another time I went in with my brother, we drank at Wetherspoons, and we mostly talked about Mum. (I say we drank but in fact only I did – my brother has all of a sudden given up alcohol. He said it “isn’t a good look” around the children.)
Friday was a “hot” day. The inverted commas are there because it almost got to 30, which where I live is blissfully mild. In the morning my brother and sister-in-law saw a financial advisor. (I spell advisor with an O. I find that way more logical than the, admittedly more common, E way.) It was something about their mortgage, I think. When my brother mentioned to the advisor that his parents were staying and they had all those properties, he invited Mum and Dad in for a session that afternoon, free of charge. Mum and Dad were clearly Heavy Hitters. Mum does “weaponise” her wealth with me at times, making me feel inferior. The last night before I left the UK I didn’t sleep well. I thought, won’t it be nice to come back to Romania and leave the world of Big Money behind. I’ve got, let me see, 645 lei in my wallet. I’ll get 90 lei from this lesson and 120 from that one. I’ll need to spend 100-odd at the market tomorrow and 130 on Kitty’s flea treatment on Monday. Being back in that world will be liberating.
On Friday evening we went to a brewery in Wimborne called Eight Arch, named for that treacherous old bridge that has eight arches. We all had burgers and chips and I had a pint of cider. I drank quite a bit of cider when I was over there. That and bitter. Stuff I enjoy but don’t normally drink in Romania. (I don’t drink a lot here full stop.) Eating with my nephew was fun. He always thought someone was stealing his food.
Saturday was a lovely day, the best of the whole trip, and I’ll save that (and some photos) for Part 2.
