2004/2005

Blimey, a year’s worth of news to update you with… how on earth can I do this in less than the length of a novel? Well, I suppose I’m lucky that, because I’m now just a boring old frumpy mum, I have relatively little scandal and skulduggery to recount. Rather than give you a month by month breakdown, perhaps I’ll tell you about the key people in my life.
Felix was 3 in April. He is a trainspotter. I don’t mean he simply likes trains. I mean he is a true obsessive. With a nice navy anorak with a train badge on it for proof. He knows his coupling pins from his connector rods, his tenders from his flanges, his branch lines from his overhead cables. In fact, you’ll often find us at Alexandra Park station on a Sunday morning standing on the platform with Felix waving to the trains as they make their way to and from King’s Cross. A big hullo to any of you who travel the Route of the Flying Scotsman who wave back. Also a big hullo to any of you who frequent Cassiobury Park in Watford. Yes, Felix is the kid who simply never gets off the Miniature Railway – in fact, I’m hoping they’ll bring in season tickets… He’s also cost me a small fortune in Brio wooden track and the Thomas the Tank Engine characters. I’m sure we now have the definitive collection – all bar Fergus and also the Smelting Yard – though Felix informs me these will be available early next year. At least I know what to buy him for his birthday… Such is Felix’s passion – and off-by-heart knowledge of Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends – that he changes his name on a daily basis according to which engine he feels he is that day. Today he is Murdoch. Yesterday he was Rheneas. Tomorrow he says he’ll be Peter Sam. He calls me Emily (because she’s the posh green engine). He calls his father Skarloey (because he’s ancient). However, when it comes to his little sister Georgia, he likes to call her Nicole. “Why Nicole, Felix?” I asked, “I don’t think the Rev. Awdry wrote about an engine called Nicole?” Felix looked at me as if I was dim. “No – she’s not an engine, Mummy,” he explained, as if to a dim wit, “I call her Nicole because she has short legs.”
Georgia does not, I hasten to add, have short legs for her age. She is now 21 months old and sweet as pie. She’s incredibly feisty and chatters nineteen to the dozen. She toddles around with her hands on her hips, occasionally breaking into a spontaneous song-and-dance routine. She’s endearingly strong-willed. Sometimes, she’ll only eat breakfast if she’s wearing wellies. She insisted on red Start-Rite shoes this season, though I tried to suggest blue. She loves her handbags – actually, they’re mine and bloody nice, pricey ones too – but Georgia has appropriated them as her own and I’m powerless to protest. She’s very girly – but that’s probably because I rarely have her in trousers. While I’m still able to exert some control over what she wears, then frocks, skirts and cardies it is!
Where Felix is blonde and blue eyed, Georgia is much darker and hazel-eyed… and guess what,
I’m now brunette. I was feeling particularly melodramatic early in the autumn and I flounced in to a local salon proclaiming “Conkers! I’m thinking conkers!” with a toss of my head. Luckily, the colourist is used to us histrionic Muswell Hill types and after a blissful two hours in which I read every issue of Hello, Ok, Closer, Now and Heat – recent and out of date – my hair was indeed the colours of conkers.
Andy just about noticed I’d gone from blonde to conker. But, as he admits, he’s a northern bloke and they don’t notice things like that. (To say nothing of not noticing things like there’s washing to hang out or nappies to change or nowt int’ fridge…!!) We had a bit of a drama during our summer hols to Spain. Andy herniated a disc and ended up in Spanish hospital for a week (on quite staggering amounts of valium and morphine – to say he was away with the fairies is an understatement.) He was then stretchered back to the UK. The disc, unusually, squirted upwards, rather than out to the side, and it’s impinged a nerve associated with the right leg. Andy currently has NO knee-jerk reflexes and poor bloke walks with what I’ll kindly call ‘a bit of a stilted gait’. It’ll take a few more months before the spring to his step returns. I have to admit I’m not a very good nurse – I started off nice and caring with a gentle line in ‘there there’ and much tender mopping of fevered brow. However, before long I was muttering “pick it up yourself, Hopalong”.
When I first started writing – giving up my PhD in the process – my alarmed mother would oft proclaim ‘darling – but when are you going to get a proper job?’. My father has never read beyond the first 21 words of Sally – because the 22nd is a bit rude. Anyway, you may have noticed that I dedicated PIP to my parents. Well, this autumn has been wonderful because my ma and pa celebrated their 40th Wedding Anniversary. They really are the most romantic couple – still handy-holdy after all these years. They organised day long celebrations for family and closest friends. We took a boat along the Thames to a gorgeous restaurant and then back again. Andy made a great compilation of music from 1964 and my folks and their pals jived their hearts out on deck – much to the amusement of my brother and I… and the throngs of tourists lining Tower Bridge and the Embankment. The day ended in a screening room in Soho where we all had a picnic supper and watched a private showing of Casablanca. Here’s to you, Mum and Dad – can’t wait for your 50th!
Finn. Well, who would have thought my lovely pony (I don’t know why I think of him as a pony when he’s actually a strapping 16.2hh Belgian Warmblood) would come back into my life? You may remember that I came to the tough decision to sell him in 2002 because I’d bought him as a young competition prospect before I was pregnant with Felix but soon found I simply couldn’t coordinate my commitments as a pregnant Mummy, writer, rider. However, I’d asked his new owner to give me first refusal if Finn was ever to be sold… and that call came in March! Well, I’m a softy and though it was daft and impractical, of course I had him back. Though I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years we had a very sweet reunion. I put him back with the lovely Lyn Jones at Coldicote Sports Horses (where he’d been before) which is just far enough away for me not to be able to pop up the whole time. He went into training (he’d had quite a lax couple of years) and it was as if suddenly everything started to click – his body caught up with his brain and vice versa, judges fell in love with him and he quickly qualified for the Winter Championships. Recently, I let him go again (with first refusal of course…) and I’m chuffed that his fabulous new owner Jackie also happens to be an avid reader of my books! She has given Finn a gorgeous home in Yorkshire – so best of all, I can give Finn a hug en route to visiting Andy’s family. There is a new boy in my life, a young Irish horse called Nathan – but I’ll tell you about him next time.

Tags | McCabes, Pip