Flat-out baby

We tried an experiment yesterday and got Sasha to bed at 6pm. We'd all gone swimming -- the big kids too -- and everyone was usefully worn out. Sash had a bottle and went to sleep in the car, and was then carefully conveyed to the cot when we got back. Didn't seem to wake up any earlier than usual. We got up at nine, had a bath and played for an hour or so, then had breakfast. Sasha then downed two whole Weetabixes in the time it's taken me to eat a piece of toast, but has now konked out, snoring with head on table. Hmm, interesting.

A has been requesting a new blog entry as he's got me on his home page -- awww -- which means he gets the Ken Dodd song on the brain every morning [after seeing the title, which was 'the greatest gift that I possess']. As is the usual way of things, as soon as I'd posted about being so happy, I got onto a downward slide; partly Christmas, I think: it always seems to be an anti-climax. Perhaps it's because you remember the excitement from childhood, and can never match it as an adult? Oh well. I seem to be better now. Anyway, I was reflecting that 'If you're happy and you know it isn't such a daft summary after all, since knowing you're happy is the essence of the thing: it's all about definitions after all.

The sun is shining and the baby is asleep: I'm going to go and dig up nettles. Huzzah!

The greatest gift that I possess

Bonus points (as ever) to anyone who can identify the header (it sounds oddly Christmassy, somehow; but isn't). I've been meaning to write about the nature of happiness for sometime, but have actually been handicapped by not being able to get that bloody song out of my head every time I so much as thought of the word. Arrrgh!

Several different ideas milling around in my head. One is that I've always made a point of giving an honest answer when people ask me how I am. So not necessarily (ha! but pretty inevitably) giving all the gory details, but if they say "How are you?" I say "Crap!" if it's crap; I only say "Fine!" if I am fine. But conversely, if I'm blissfully happy, I say "Blissfully happy." One of the only things in the whole world that so much as faintly annoys me about A is that when I ask how his day has been, he'll often say "Not too bad." Even when I'm fairly sure it has actually been pretty good. And I really dislike the cynicism of that (most kinds of cynicism I'm fine with, obviously; just not that one). I suppose my view is based on honesty: I dislike communication by rote. I don't like it when words lose their literal meaning: I think it's dangerous when you start saying things without thinking about what they really mean. That was one of the things that put me off religion: all that insincere chanting of liturgies.

But I digress. It seems to me to be so grudging to refuse to say that you are fine, you are well, you are happy. doesn't it also rather insult the people with real problems? Another example: In his notes on the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 'Once more with feeling', Joss Whedon (yes, I am about to blaspheme against my god) says, to conclude his introduction, "Very occasionally, if you really pay attention, life doesn’t suck." This really quite offended me, in a way I don't expect Joss ever to. Why? Well, here is a guy who loves writing,who gets to write all day, who has been sucessful, even lauded, for his writing skills. So he's respected in a field in which he wants to be respected. And he's making money. And he's living in an affluent, civilised society, and what's more he's near the top layer of it socially. What the heck has he got to complain about? To put it brutally, what right has he to be grumpy?

I feel the same about myself. Here I am, in a well-paid job, with interesting hobbies, in a nice house, with a nice man, a nice baby, and a nice cat. Oooh, and lots of lovely secondhand paperbacks. I might be me but with health problems. I might be me with not enough money and horrible credit card debts. I might be me with A dead in a car accident, or Sasha with health problems. But that's only the tip of the iceberg: I might be still in this lovely civilised society, but with debts or illness or a dead-end job. I could be in lots of places in the world where being left-wing and outspoken would have got me shot by now. I could be in a country, or at a time, when a 41-year-old having a baby would have very little chance of surviving it. I'm sure you can see where I'm going. We have such privilege that we can barely remember what it might feel like not to have it. And we're not even just -- just!!! -- well-fed and well-housed. We have centuries of literature and music at our fingertips. We have it all!

I keep remembering a lovely column by Andrew Brown, who writes a very interesting blog (I've linked to the blog, not to the article, which was aeons ago). The gist of it was: he was at home, sitting by the fire, with a very nice book and a glass of rather good red wine, thinking how splendid this was. But also relecting that he might have been in much the same situation a hundred, two hundred, even three hundred years ago. Good book, good wine, good fire: these things have been constants. The difference was that three hundred years ago, those pleasures would have been yours only at the very top end of society. Now they're actually pretty modest; easily attainable. It's the old old story: we'd be so happy if only our aspirations didn't always increase to match our achievements.

So, I've been thinking about how wonderful everything is. But I've also been thinking: if I'm so happy,why don't I feel it more? Because things are pretty damn blissful: why aren't I higher than a hawk? Or deeper than a well? I began to wonder whether I was somehow failing to engage with reality: whether I'd somehow detached myself. But the more I've thought about it, the happier I've been feeling; a glow of content has started to permeate me; and so I wonder: are we afraid to be happy? Do we just hate to admit to it? Does it make us seem smug? Is it naff? Are we afraid that if we tell someone we have it all, they'll want to take something away? Maybe it's an English thing, not to gloat. But it's odd, isn't it?

Fritter

Well, I've been dissipating my creative energies on Facebook, as everyone warned me I would. But like everyone else, I'm finding that the initial thrill wears off pretty quickly, and you're left constantly infuriated that Scrabulous only succeeds in loading once in twenty attempts.

So much I meant to write about... Most recent first. We went to see The Turn of the Screw at ENO. The balcony seats were smaller than I remembered, and I realised that the price of day seats has quadrupled since I started going -- weren't they £3 not very long ago? The opera was splendidly sung: Rebecca Evans as the governess was terrific, and the boy playing Miles (sorry not to remember his name) was astonishing. It was all rather gloomy -- dark sets, black clothes, lots of fretting, and things didn't (I don't suppose this counts as a spoiler) turn out well. But then there aren't that many cheerful operas.

But life has been hectic: I'm now back at work two days a week, and one of them in London. And this week Sasha has had a bronchial infection which led to an alarmingly high temperature and a lot of wheezing, plus a cough that woke all of us up through the night. Then there was last week's carol concert, which went really well -- even my debut as a conductor -- but was a huge amount of work. And photocopying (legal copies only - Company of Musicians policy!). So I am shattered. But it's good to be busy and doing stuff. I haven't had time to look at Facebook.

That lovely weekend

My wonderful baby is sitting happily shoving a plastic toy around, and has been for the last hour or so. Some of that time was spent holding up lego bricks and cooing to them. That was so lovely I positively choked up. I'm so glad Sasha is self-reliant: it's a great gift, I think, to be happy in your own company.

A lovely birthday weekend. I went to Little Quavers with all three children -- the big kids have learned the songs from me: they can pretty much memorise anything on a single hearing. Actually, all the women at the groups seem to learn things with very little trouble: I suspect it's only classical musicians who get so used to the dots that they can't do without them. (Come to think of it, one of the many very impressive things about I Fagiolini is that they can sing huge pieces -- not just (just!!) Monteverdi madrigals but weird contemporary pieces -- from memory.) Anyway, we all walked back from Stapleford, which was just the right distance (though I'd forgotten to double the time to allow for dawdling, sniffing flowers, etc), to lunch with all the women from my NCT morning. Seven mothers and babies all stuffed into our living room, occasionally all crying at the same time. It was a riot. Luckily, A volunteered to make the spag bol as otherwise it would have been pretty hectic.

Close friends for dinner, and A made his famed pea and garlic soup, which I keep promising to post the recipe for here -- but I want to write about the Naming Day too. Then next day our Elgar workshop, with Berty. This had been a delight to fix, so for once I wasn't too grumpy. The music was a revelation: we went from opus 18 to opus 72, and covered a huge range of styles, from faux folk ballad (My love dwelt in a northern land) to fervent godliness (Go, song of mine) to a weird mock-Russian thing (Death on the hills). We all had the tunes on the brain for the next few days. Good stuff. Sunday was late breakfasts and pub lunches and a nice time with the kids.

Also got quite animated because I was asked if I'd like to organise an Advent and Christmas evening in the church. We decide we could do half-and-half Company of Musicians and Come and sing, with me directing the first and A the second, thus usefully dividing the childcare. I'm really enjoying putting a programme together. Partly because I don't seem to have sung at Christmas for a few years, and the music is so fab: Britten's Hymn to the Virgin, Howells' A Spotless Rose, Byrd's Laetentur coeli --- oooh, yummy yummy...

Knocked up

Went to see this movie last week as it got a stunning review in the Guardian. It wasn't quite as good as all that, I thought, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong with it. It did manage to avoid a lot of cliches, but actually I don't think it replaced them with anything, so remained rather hollow.

I can see why the reviewer thought it was sweet, but the sweetness needed a little more substance. There really wasn't anything (minor spoilers here) to show why the female character would decide to make a go of it with the geeky guy. If we'd seen some evidence that she'd had a hard time with a couple of smart-alecky media guys, say, it might have made more sense for her to go for someone she perceived as sweet but dorky. But I suppose I did like the way that his sweetness wasn't overplayed.

The sexual stereotyping seemed to slightly patronise both sides, as it often does (yes, I know that's a split infinitive, and I see no reason to avoid them -- if you disagree, tell me why). It seemed odd that neither female character had any other female friends. But that explained why the sister in particular was jealous of her partner's relationship with other men, though what wasn't clear was why the writer seemed to think this was reasonable of her. Ooh, she was horrible. Is it really all right for someone to love you so much that they want you to be with them all the time, and regard time spent with other people or even time spent on your own as a betrayal? If this had all been the other way round, she'd have been demanding 'me time' (loathsome phrase) and that would have been just fine, wouldn't it?

It was certainly thought-provoking in a way one doesn't expect a slushy romcom to be. And that has to be the most realistic childbirth scene I've seen. Ouch.

Good places to eat in London and, er, Pampisford

Fellow fenlanders might like to try out the Chequers, in Pampisford: quite a nice walk from Sawston. They've revamped their menu, and it's pretty darn good. A had the sausage and mash, which was okay but lacked onions. I had a jacket potato with smoked bacon, mushrooms and gruyere. Just the right degree of ponciness, and they didn't skimp on the cheese. Excellent stuff. And a good range of beers. Much better than the Red Lion in Ickleton, where we went a week or two ago because it had been recommended: definitely over-poncified, and our home-made burgers were really quite nasty.

In London next to Farringdon tube, and nipped into a new place called St Germain. Turned out to be pretty packed, but they said they'd see what they could do. When I said apologetically that we also had a pushchair, they were all smiles. I was waiting a minute or two for the manager and three different members of staff came over to say he wouldn't be long... gosh. The manager himself managed not to make "You haven't booked?" sound like a snub, and was as helpful as a human being could be. We also saw that they have a set menu at two courses for £14, three for £17, which they do *all the time*. We will be back! (89-90 Turnmill Street, EC1M 5QU)

As we couldn't get a table there, though, we set off for Exmouth Market. Everywhere was either packed to bursting, or completely empty. Then at number 55 was a place that looked good. Again, super-friendly staff, pushchair no problem. In fact,this time the manager came over with a lime and a cork for Sasha to play with. And the guy at the next table spent ages talking to Sash. And the food was *fab*. The starters we chose were foie gras parfait, mmmmmm, which they recommended a glass of dessert wine with, and it was an especially gorgeous one. And scallops, which were cooked to perfection -- tricky, as they take less than a minute -- with fennel, which was beautiful. Main courses of beef something, lovely again, with polenta to die for (no idea how they made it so tasty), and a fantastic puree they said was parsley, though I don't usually like parsley and this was yummy. And a red wine risotto with goats' cheese and beetroot that was pure genius, and possibly the only time that a vegetarian option has actually competed with the carnivorous stuff. Puddings were a divinely squidgy chocolate pudding with marmalade ice cream, yum yum, and a very tasty cheese selection. All that, and every person in there -- customers and staff -- was lovely. Starters were £5-8, mains £8-14 or so. Do go: The Ambassador, 55 Exmouth Market, EC1R 4QL.

Under attack

As well as eating my shirts in the loft, the mice have also chewed through our phone cable (they're trying to cut us off!!). The moles in the garden have dug another hole in the lawn. And the moths in the clothes room have nibbled another two of my favourite jumpers, despite there being so many mothballs scattered around that a recent guest refused to sleep in there.

It's been that kind of week. For the last fortnight.