And to end with a quote; ' Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.'

Some of you dear readers will have noticed I've been posting less often. Which is weird in a way, as with two children at school now for at least two hour a day you'd think I had more time, or more to say. Well life really is moving very fast at the moment, every time I think, lovely I'll stop and smell the coffee and chill along comes another thing. Not all bad of course, we've had our lovely fish festivals, and birthdays, and sea side days. But it means I've done my stopping and thinking for now.

And even more importantly, maybe that was what this blog was; a chance to catch up with myself at the end of two very busy years. And a chance to reflect on the changes in my life; from children, to moving from London, from having money to not having hardly any at all. And on not working. These changes are all utterly bedded in now, and I feel right at home in my tatty house in my tatty seaside town. I've got some lovely friends, my children are lovely - well sometimes, and maybe, just maybe I'm happy and settled.

So a massive thank you to all my readers, fellow bloggers and friends. It's been great. Really great.

My town via Channel Hastings

Splash from Terry Russell on Vimeo.

Cheers for letting me pinch your idea/blog post Sandra! Fab film...fab, fab fab.

Me time

The definition seems to be grooming one's self, if you read the glossy magazines that is. And God knows my hair, nails, and pedicure could do with some attention. My hair seems to live like a giant bush of frizz since living by the sea -apparantly some kind of sea salt affliction.

However short of me time I am, and I do seem to be desperately short it is the sitting and thinking time I want. I am desperate to spend a morning sitting in the cafe, with a paper (Wednesday Guardian today - my fave), writing a few notes and just being.

So you know what - that is exactly what I intend to do this morning. Sod the washing, sod the spiders lurking in corners of the house, and sod the bleeding cooking.

See you there.

Gadget-tastic

Ol is wanting a Gameboy (advance something or other). Probably my fault as I said he could get one for a fiver if he saved up, and I think he is too young for a DS. Course I made up the fiver bit - sort of like when we tried to buy a five bedroom house in Hastings for under a hundred grand 'cos I thought I'd seen it in the paper - I may have but it was not in the 'nicer bits'.

So anyway the Gameboy is reasonably priced for a secondhand gadget, and for a gadget - after looking at many of them, it isn't solely a boys toy. Many are pink, although the market has dictated these are cheaper, and come with lots of cool more girlie games. It has made me reminisce about the days when they came out, when apparently all the supermodels were addicted to them and spent hours between shoots playing.

Then I remembered when the personal stereo came about; rather like the iphone there was only one brand to have; the Sony. I loved mine and spent hours doing my morning paper round dancing to 'So Macho' by Sinitta at six in the morning. Of course the glamorous image of them was not of strange boy looking thirteen year olds skipping up and down the village streets but of cool Americans on Greyhounds chewing gum and listening to a bit of rock music.

Strange though isn't it how gadgets can become so cool, so must have and the toy of a generation? I don't know anyone who did not have a Spectrum ZX or BBC computer whilst growing up in the eighties, and probably my kids won't know anyone without a net book, or an iphone (us!). Father Christmas sadly can't afford the contract for one, or really justify it, but I'm still working on how it might just be essential. Course I'm sadly jumping on the band wagon about two years too late - and according to some friends; just when a new unbranded version is about to come out that is better and cooler.

It's the Fish (and Wine) Festival Day

Hastings has been readying itself for one of the busiest days in its calender of fun - the Fish and Wine Festival. There is music, wine to taste (and buy), loads of fish - and a decent amount of vegetarian food to sample, children's fun and a beer tent of course. That is alongside our usual fun fair, which is always good, and really does have its own charm. The ghost train, for those who have not ridden it yet, is actually packed with hand made scariness, which in reality makes it far scarier than a Disney type ride.

The local children have been making sculptures and hats and shakers and many of the neighbouring schools have been invited to open the festival by; 'Dancing with Dabs'. The dances look fantastic, as demonstrated by my friend H and Ol - there s a box dance, a four steps forward and clap dance, and a jump and leap dance. Typically though Ol is absolutely refusing to take part. Even though he has made a fetching seagull hat to wear (as have all the infants for some reason - ?to wind up the hate the seagull gang).

So we'll miss the dancing seagull heads this year, but do intend on having a few glasses of wine later (extreme tiredness from 6 hill walks all week yesterday sent me to bed early last night) and to try and get the whole gang doing the dances. Happy Birthday David.

CND, the credit crunch, Keynesian economics and the payback, plus a retro poster

I was delighted to hear one of the proposed cuts i public spending the government may make is on the Trident programme. Essentially it is extremely expensive, out of date and I suspect simply unaffordable for the UK at present - unless we make drastic cuts in welfare, education etc instead.

I've written to our local MP suggesting he supports cutting spending on Trident, instead of public services and would suggest to everyone if you feel the same now is a fantastic time to make your position clear to your politicians.

Oh, and because I can't resist a little retro shop I may just have to buy the poster above from here - http://www.cnduk.org/.

When Facebook is Funny...

It is really really funny. A number of years ago, when I first moved to London a friend of a friend (think they were all working at Imperial College's library) invited me to join a Women's Book Club. This was, I think about 12 years ago, and we religiously met, every month for nigh on five years. We only stopped meeting up when nearly all of us moved further out of the city, I had children, Lisa - the original, moved back to America.

Every month we'd take turns hosting the 'event'. We'd each chip in for some wine and pizza, usually just over a fiver (which was never ever enough so some kind boyfriend would have to run to the all night shop). We lived all over London - Hackney, Stoke Newington, North London, West London, South London and we always met after work. Often on a Thursday but always early ish - at about seven so we did not have to go home first and had more time to drink.

The members varied; with a core of four or five; we got married - went to each others wedding parties, became lesbians, became straight and changed partners. We didn't socialise much between groups - other than a few of us who were already paired up in friendships but we loved BAPS (Beer and Wine and Pizza).

There was the Girl who (inevitably) drank too much cheap white wine and was rude. She was Against Gap, and Next. The time we all went to Beckenham (never again, so so far). The fact that Lisa was an American, and thus started the Second World War (personally I never quite understood this one), the Girl (who later turned lesbian) whose Boyfriend wore her knickers to play football, cycling in the air, falling in bushes, missing the tube and late night cabs, and finally for Lisa Exposure on the Tube.

School bookclub, re-starting on Thursday has a lot to live up to. Last month I'm not even sure we got on to how we all met our first partners, let alone, who else might wear our pants.

Actually it may all be connected to Monday...

My last child starts school on Monday, and yes, I think we have probably, almost certainly decided to stop at two. I am, of course, pleased for her, and excited about all the fun she'll have and what she'll learn and so on. But...and it is a big but, you do lose a little bit of them when they go off on their own in to the world. Other adults, particularly their teachers become very important - and I think, at least for Ol are seen as brighter and more intelligent than his parents.

And we don't get to hang out so much. Of course I feel dreadfully torn about this, on one hand, I've done OK - hopefully set her up to enjoy and get the most out of her school days as a reasonably sociable well rounded child. And of course there have been times in the last four or five years when I would have happily given them to any old school just to have a few moments by myself. And now it is really happening, even to a lovely school I feel bad. I'll miss her and what will I do?

I'll have two hours - ish off every morning until Christmas - not sure I'm capable of doing much anymore to be honest. It's been four - nearly five years since I've worked for actual, like money. I've done lots of bits and pieces, work on Nursery Committees, voluntary work, swapping childcare, even a short bit of mystery shopping. I've made things - lots of things, when the moment strikes but none of this has been as tough my old job used to be. And I think that is the crux of it; working out the head space to do everything properly, without too much stress and without worrying about it. It almost seems impossible to achieve the possible.

It's all about the boobies this week..

Last night I caught a glimpse of myself in my pyjamas, without a bra. The inevitable has occurred. Sagging boobies - almost half way down my chest. Not even sure, in fact fairly convinced that the old faithful exercise called; 'I must, I must improve my bust' whilst jutting elbows backwards at shoulder height will work. We used to work on that a lot at primary school, and as far as I know no one who did the exercise ever got gigantic boobs (possibly need an operation for that), but we did truly believe it would work.

And now here I am - in my later 30's with sagging. Also worried about my ageing neck, and wishing I could suspend my disbelief in wonder creams. Perhaps rather like Father Christmas f I believed in them they would work. Except how could they possibly cut excess skin off, lift, and um reduce big thick lines? Or could they?

Suspecting the only answer to ageing is of the knife variety - can't imagine I could ever achieve that though, even if I agreed with it. Am such a wuss that even in labour whilst knowing the doctor had to do (look away know squeamish people and men) an episiotomy to actually get my daughter out I made him promise to tell me when he was doing it, and told him not to. Fortunately my birthing plan, and common sense prevailed - and he just did not tell me (I could not feel it anyway - the giant baby had squashed all sensation out of my body).

So - ageing. I've even left my hair without dyeing the roots for a week or so now. I'm almost intrigued to see what I look like with some grey as I never do it. Silver fox? Or prematurely ageing woman with stripy grey hair, sagging boobs and lined neck?

What to do?

A flutter of followers...

Just a quick one - am loving having followers. Hello new and old ones! It's lovely to have you here.

Time management and the use thereof...

I wish I was better at time management; this week I feel I've hardly had a chance to have a sit down, let alone read, write, make telephone calls (must arrange a girls weekend soon with Julesey Baby now we're illness free), dentist appointments, doctors, birthdays (two important ones coming up - one 6 and one 60), let alone anything else.

Instead, when I get a bit stressed or rushed I start by saying the inappropriate. Accidentally told Jem's new teacher today that her boobs were large. It was in context though, honest, she'd told me she'd toppled on top of them. And I was saying at least she was protected.

Earlier whilst bemoaning lack of time I realised I have a hair dressers appointment this afternoon and I've committed the cardinal grey haired sin of not dying my hair yet. Nothing worse than being faced with an elderly looking self in a bright salon surrounded by slim enthusiastic young things. Oh, and with a head like a badger myself. A pale white badger with a big moon face.

So of course whilst chatting to some friends, and the deputy head of the school this morning I mentioned this problem. And how the hairdresser will think I am a hair slut. In front of the bloody children too!

I could go on about how lack of time leads me to stupid things...but I am seriously out of time.