A visication is when you have visitors and it’s like being on holiday, apart from the extra work and cooking of course. You can do holiday things and spend lots of money, because you are on holiday after all. Experience thrills from the cliff lift to the big wheel, pirate crazy golf to the zip wire – though none of my visitors have wanted to go on that, except the ones that are too small to be allowed.
With visitors ranging from four to my age, if you include the dogs and stays from 1 day to six weeks, who knows what you might be doing. Who will be going in the sea, watching others going in the sea or mending the beach hut? Other holiday adventures include river trips, visiting museums, painting pottery, going to a Brick Fest – Lego not house building and theatre or cinema.
One thing is for certain, if you have a big family get together on a bank holiday weekend in summer there will be a huge deluge of rain on the cliff top and your guests will be sand blasted on the promenade. The picnic will remain in the rucksacks and relaxing in the sun at the beach hut replaced by hot chocolate at the cafe.
But there are still fun things for your visitors to do on a rainy day like going in the loft for a good rummage, bringing down the old Scalelectrix, setting it up and fighting over it.
Of course the best part of having visitors is them doing jobs for you, ranging from fixing the television, which turned out not to be broken after all to totally renovating the house. If you have handily just had an operation they do cooking and housework.
Which sort of visitors do you prefer or perhaps None?
‘That’s all done then, they won’t be able to use their devices till the Easter holidays.’
‘Brilliant’ Ellie pictured them all round the table after dinner playing games, then watching a good quality drama together…’I’ll get on with dinner then. Have they noticed yet… where are the kids?’
‘Rory mumbled something about someone’s house, I told him not to be late for dinner, school tomorrow. Roxanne’s next door.’
‘Good, Steve and Mandy have signed up for the scheme so the girls are probably commiserating.’
David was quite a lot older than Ellie, which didn’t seem an issue when they were all babies and toddlers, but nowadays she wondered if he had lost the plot. His excellent career had meant he now had underlings to deal with technical matters and social media. It was indeed ironic that his company were very big in computer technology. David actually knew how the internet worked, but had no interest in playing with it, preferring the golf course. He had no idea what his children did with their phones and devices or why his wife needed an office with a desk top computer when she did not work. When his company won the contract for the new scheme he didn’t bother mentioning it at home.
‘Mum, I’m hungry.’
‘Another hour till dinner’s ready, go and play.’
Ellie looked at the expression on the face of her youngest, he was not hungry, just bored, usually he needed to be dragged from his computer game to the dinner table.
‘When is Dad going to switch the internet back on?’
‘At Easter, not Dad, it’s controlled by the government’s new scheme.’
Ellie checked the roast, ten minutes to spare, she picked up her phone and checked her WhatsApp messages, but there was no link. She looked at Messenger, Molly had been waiting for Ellie to take a turn at Words With Friends, but when she pressed PLAY nothing happened.
‘David, my phone isn’t working.’
‘Of course not Darling, that’s the whole point. We have to set a good example to the kids.’
‘But I’ve got 4G.’
‘Not in this house, or in our road, the majority of homes signed up so the whole road is shielded.’
‘But I’ll still be able to work from my computer?’
David sighed, he wondered if Ellie understood how anything worked.
‘No, but you don’t need to use it.’
‘What about my blogging.’
‘This is about protecting all the children’s minds, no one is worried about your little hobbies.’
Before Ellie could retort, the oven timer went.
‘So we are going to enjoy more family time. Your mother doesn’t miss her phone, what did she actually need it for? ‘
‘Keeping in touch with my friends?’
‘You can pop round for coffee, like my mother used to do. Actually we should all be more sociable, invite friends round for dinner.’
‘Like your boring golf friends Dad.’
‘Your mother has plenty of interesting friends, they must have kids you would get on with, or know already.’
‘How do you know Mum has interesting friends, I bet they are all boring.’
‘Not at all, isn’t she always telling us about their fascinating lives and their travels? And what about that Molly who is always beating your mother at word games and Albert, she’s always playing with him.’
The children all sniggered. ‘Luckily for you Dad she ‘s not in love with him because he’s a robot, Al, Albot.’
Ellie laughed with them, but did not mention that she had no idea who Molly was in real life, or even if she was real. She had popped up as ‘waiting to play’. Of course Ellie had real friends to play with on her phone. She hadn’t seen them for years, they had popped up on Facebook, old school companions with little in common except school history and liking Wordblitz. But it was fun.
She had not thought David listened to her prattling on, filling in conversation gaps when they were out shopping or driving somewhere. The interesting lives, now she thought about it, were all blogging friends. She felt she knew them well, even those who were only a ChatGPT cartoon or represented by a cat. They had all been through a lot together, world wide pandemics, parents or children or their own health problems. And most of them had a great sense of humour, or at least they were funnier than David.
The full impact of the new scheme was beginning to sink in. She could not slip up to her office or browse on her iPad to get away from Sycamore Avenue and whose house would she pop round to for coffee? Mummy friends had gone back to work, David was too boring for them to have regular cosy dinners out with other couples. In fact her life as portrayed on her blog was much more interesting. Fortunately David and the children never took an interest in her blog and certainly never read it. They had no idea she wrote about them in less than flattering terms. Other parents loved her blogs, glad they were not the only ones with dreadful children or relieved how normal their own were. She could hardly invite blogging friends round, luckily nobody knew where she lived, at least she did not think they could know.
Now they would be wondering if she was still alive, she had not thought to share a brief post saying she was taking a blogging break, implying exciting real life adventures.
Everyone can reminisce, unless they have total amnesia or do we need someone we can reminisce with? Often the other person does not remember the event or recalls it totally differently, but shared memories are fun. Shared memories also have an expiry date unless they have been written down. As the eldest sibling I am now the only one who remembers The Twickenham Years. My brother and sister were toddler and a six month old baby when our parents bought their first house.
My six and a half years in the rented top of the Victorian terrace where I was born were happy, but then I was blissfully unaware of what else was going on. By the time my brother was born my mother had lost three babies and both her parents. When my sister was born Mum nearly died and all I remember was the Black Magic chocolate orange cream. When she came out of hospital after the ‘eight pints of blood’ that were to become family legend, her best friend brought round a box of chocolates and I had the orange cream. I had told my teacher that Mummy was in hospital with a bad back.
An internet search reveals the row of houses looks much the same as I remember, snapping pictures from the computer screen gives the pictures a suitably nostalgic hazy appearance. Now turned back into the elegant large homes they were originally I was surprised how easy it was to pinpoint information about our old home via ‘Mouseprice’. In a surreal moment back in 1990 we took the children to look at my place of birth and the night before I had a psychic feeling there would be a For Sale board up – and there was. I took the number of the estate agents and rang them up to ask the price, which was a quarter of a million, astonishing at the time. No chance of us buying it! When I say my parents moved out to buy their own home it was not in this area, there was nothing they could afford. How much might it be worth now?
Welcome to 295 St Margarets Road, Twickenham, a charming and spacious terraced type home with 4 bed in the TW1 1PN area. This lovely residence, which comes with the freedom and stability of a freehold ownership, and sits comfortably in tax band .
This classic property was built before 1900 and has a reported internal area of 178.0 internal square metres in a neighborhood known for its allure and prestige. This home stands out for its value and character – with a market valuation of £1,042,000 and a rental potential of £3,209 per month, and a 5 year CAGR of 12%, it represents not just a residence but a worthwhile investment in a sought-after area.
You can discover more about this property by reading the Mouseprice attributes tables in the next section, or if you are the owner and would like to update this property, for example if you’ve built an extension, you can do so at the top of this page.
Meanwhile, back to the past.
A dreadful old lady ( Mum’s words ) lived on the ground floor with a kitchen a scullery and no bathroom. The rental agreement was that she could come upstairs once a week to use our bath. She used to come up with a pack of Omo, a brand of washing powder claimed to make clothes whiter than white. Our bathroom was scary with the hot water provided by a monstrous noisy boiler looming over the end of the bath. It was called a geyser. It would be many years before I realised geysers were real geothermal features hotter, more dangerous and even older than ours.
In the kitchen a more modern and elegant Ascot heater over the sink provided the hot water. After hand washing clothes and boiling nappies Mum would lean out of the kitchen window to hang them on a pulley washing line attached to a post at the end of the back garden far below. The garden was part of the old lady’s rental and we never set foot in it.
I have a vivid memory of staring out of the living room window on a sunny day desperate to be outside, but in fairness to my parents they were constantly taking me out for fresh air and exercise, down by the River Thames and to various nice parks nearby. Later Mum would look back and wonder how she managed to push the pram with two children and me on my tricycle and get across the main road to Marble Hill Park. Indoors there was fun to be had as Dad made me a rocking horse which sat in the bay window. It did not look like a horse, but was a smaller version of park rocking horses with a proper rocking mechanism and I really felt like the Lone Ranger.
At some stage my parents acquired an old ‘jalopy’ which I thought was its make, not its nickname. Small and black it needed to be cranked up with the metal handle inserted in the front of the engine. In this we were able to go on outings to Kew Gardens and Richmond Park. One time I was convinced I had stroked the nose of a deer with huge antlers. When I told my parents and aunt and uncle they did not believe me and I am beginning to wonder myself…
The jalopy lived in a garage in someone’s garden in a house across the main road we lived on. Dad drove it into London to his office and on summer evenings when he came home Mum would see me across the road to run and meet him. As The Woodentops were my favourite puppets on Watch With Mother, one time I ran to him calling ‘Hello Daddy Woodentop’. This caused amusement as Dad, like all the men in his family was bald.
It was at Penn Ponds in Richmond Park that I did not learn to swim, but did love wading around. I have always thought hot weather means you should be immersed in water of some sort. One time I found floating in the pond a brightly coloured feathery creature and picked it up, only to look up and see an angry man trying to fish and telling me off.
As my brother got mobile and Mum had a baby to deal with, I would sometimes be locked in the front room with him. This might sound bad, but the alternative was presumably him falling down the steep staircase and fracturing his skull on the tiled floor below. On one occasion I credit myself with saving his life, though at the time I thought I would get told off for making him vomit. He was choking on a plastic rose from his toy watering can. As I did not know the Heinrich manoeuvre, I stuck my hand down his throat to pull it out.
By this time I was at school. I had begged to go to school and Mum got me in to The Blue School in Isleworth at four and a half years. I started just after my baby brother had arrived so probably thought I was being ousted. It was a long walk and I had to be dragged crying with the promise of Robin comic at the weekend, or threats of no Robin comic at the weekend. Thanks to the internet we know this Church of England School is still flourishing after nearly 400 years. It looked pretty old when I went there, but they were building a new school building right next to it as we left the area.
It was Mum’s friend Pam at the bank where she worked who had led to my parents finding somewhere to live and being able to get married in the post war shortage of homes. Her parents rented a downstairs flat in the same row of terraced houses and knew the landlord who had a vacant upstairs flat for rent. Pam lived with her parents and as there was only one bedroom she slept on a ‘put me down’ settee in the front room. As far as I know she never left.
After we moved away we did go back to visit the old couple, Pam’s parents. In their garden was a fish pond and enough room for us to run around and play while the grown ups were having boring conversations. I did get told off for getting the poodle excited and risking him having a heart attack. But worse was to follow. Nobody had told me I was acting as life guard. While I was playing round the corner my sister fell in the fish pond, luckily seen by the grown ups through the window. I was soon alerted to the drama, wondering why all the adults had rushed outside. The old lady said I would get a black spot in heaven.
Mum and Dad were glad to get their own house with a garden, but missed the lovely area we had lived in which is still highly sought after. In Farnborough, Hampshire Dad joined the other fathers on the new estate who commuted up to Waterloo on the steam train.
Have you vivid memories of your early homes or been back to visit?
Quentin Quick was looking forward to the meeting of the Puddleminster Pens. Working their way through the alphabet they had reached the letter Q, his nickname. At his suggestion they did not pick a single word for this week, but searched for as many words beginning with Q as possible. Quentin had an ulterior motive, he was addicted to playing Words With Friends on his phone and Q was worth ten points, but hard to place. The group had discussed whether any English word could feature Q without a U. Words With Friends accepted QI, but Puddleminster Pens did not.
Quentin actually had a love hate relationship with Q as he could not escape it. As the fifth to be born and the only boy in a set of quins, life was always going to be challenging. His mother quipped that only sextuplets got serious publicity and quillions of quids. His querulous father Mr Quincy Quick queried if the quins were even his; after all, no quins had ever been born on his side of the family.
As they all grew, his hopes of having an amazing family, like that lot on television, were quashed. His favourite quote was ‘We landed quantity over quality.’ The junior Quicks were unlikely to turn into a musical quintet or quest for fame of any sort. Rather than musical harmony or team sport the quins would constantly quibble.
As Quentin scribbled, wondering if his piece would be an autobiography, he was in a quandary. Should it be entertaining or an honest account of their lives… Five Alive, what was that film called with the robot called Number Five? His parents had splashed out on a rare trip to the cinema and bought them popcorn, well one large tub to share… His mind was wandering, but he could not resist looking it up. Short Circuit, that led to his sisters and friends calling him Number Five for a good while and asking him if he had been struck by lightning.
The family had attracted quite a bit of attention in the cinema foyer. Looking back, he realised his mother’s obsession with the Sound of Music had not only led to her praying for a large family, but had influenced her dressmaking. She was an excellent seamstress and without her skills it would have been a hardship buying all their clothes, but it was an understatement to say the children all looked rather quaint. She did try to make their only son look different from his sisters, but young Quentin begged to also have a frilly dress. Mrs Quick had to warn her husband to be politically correct and let Quentin be himself.
‘I have one son and he turns out to be q…’
‘Quincy… try to be more sensitive, what if he grows up artistic and writes a tv series about us?’
But Quincy found it hard dealing with five adolescents. Queenie did her brother’s make up for him, while Quintessa announced she was trying out for the junior women’s football team and Quilla was the only one who took school work seriously as she wanted to do quantum physics.
Quentin sighed. Quilla was now well known in scientific fields, but the rest of the family had remained unknown and poor. Quentin still liked dressing up, but did not have the personality or bone structure to become a class drag act. So the only thing left to do was try and write a book. Hence his joining the Puddleminster Pens.
Thursday arrived and the group seemed to enjoy his ramblings and tentative scribbles, encouraging him to keep writing, get it all down on paper, then polish it. Only Captain Pedantic, as they called him, had a quibble.
‘There is no such word, no such number as Quillions.’
‘This is a special book – CHRISTMAS 2025 OUR FAMILY’
‘Old photos, who wants to look at old photos?’
‘I do, they must have lived in this house.’
‘Ha ha, look at what they are wearing.’
‘The garden has changed a lot since then, rather cute, flowers all different colours.’
‘Boring, turn over…. Yuk, what is that?’
‘A baby, what some people used to have instead of cats.’
‘Why?’
‘Not sure, maybe all will be revealed if we keep turning the pages.’
‘Why are they sitting on the ground looking at water?’
‘I’ll do a historic data check…. Sea side, that’s what a beach looks like…’
‘Boring, turn to the next page. That baby thingy seems to be getting bigger.’
‘I’ll data check… it’s growing.’
‘Why?’
‘It doesn’t say, just that they grow quickly.’
‘Keep going, oh it’s standing up, I wouldn’t want one of those things clinging to my leg.’
‘Look, here’s the front of our house, more flowers, lots more people, wonder how many lived here?’
‘Strange clothes, next page… they have put those baby things in boxes with wheels, our cats wouldn’t put up with that. Last page, what on earth is that great big green thing? I’ll data check… a Christmas tree, a tree chopped down and put indoors, no wonder there aren’t any trees left outside.’
‘Right, it’s time we went to check if the cats have finished playing with the humans.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own Mum with Dad in the Antarctic?’
‘Everest base camp.’
‘Wherever, I know it’s somewhere cold and far away.’
I was of course looking forward to the peace and quiet. Naturally I had the normal worries about Amy going off to Australia for her gap year, but I was sure she had inherited her father’s adventurous but capable spirit. She was going with Lizzy her sensible best friend, inseparable since nursery.
The first week it was strange, but friends at work suggested a few outings, glad to have a break from their own husbands who showed no inclination to leave Ealing, let alone go on adventures broad.
I had always had Amy and Ben keeping me busy when Kit was away. Now Ben was grown up, in theory at least and teaching English as a foreign language somewhere nearer to Everest than Ealing.
The new girl at work was very quiet, but apparently she was highly regarded down in packing, where I used to work as a part timer when the children were in primary school. She was dexterous and quick and could pack anything. The company specialised in delivering high quality food in designer biodegradable boxes. We would source and deliver any request from romantic ready dinners to Tower Bridge birthday cakes.
I had progressed to tasting and testing and then upwards to the busy office, where we would source unlikely ingredients and make sure no delivery was ever late. I don’t think Kit or the children ever appreciated what a high powered and stressful job I did, especially in the last half a dozen years with all the world’s troubles affecting supplies.
Our boss likes to look after his staff, it’s why I have stayed so long. I was the first to agree we should hang on to Flinty, the new girl. What I didn’t expect was to become a foster mother.
When the boss said ‘You have a spare room now you’re an empty nester?’
I replied ‘…sort of.’
Flinty had never revealed much about her life and everyone in packing seemed to have heard a different version. Her family lived up north, her mother had gone off to Spain to find herself, her father had just gone off. She was house sharing with uni students, she was house sharing with drug addicts, she was living with her boyfriend’s parents, an aunt had taken her in.
Whatever the truth, it now seemed she was not living anywhere and there was no longer a boyfriend. All she needed was somewhere to sleep for a few nights and HR were going to look into finding her somewhere. She came home with me that evening.
I wasn’t sure how to be a landlady, was I in loco parentis or was she just a lodger? I made us both dinner, thinking of the cosy TV meal I had planned for myself. While it was in the oven I rushed up to Amy’s room and grabbed her personal things and some of the clothes in her wardrobe and stashed everything in Kit’s office that had one been Ben’s bedroom.
Flinty was happy with the room and approved of Amy’s décor. I was thankful I had persuaded Kit last year we should absorb the box room into our bedroom and create an en-suite shower room. Flint was very happy to have exclusive use of the family bathroom.
The next morning we established she would help herself to breakfast, especially as she started work earlier than me. She also assured me that she did not expect me to cook for her and she would ‘sort herself out’.
Over the next few days I realised this meant endless ready meals, mainly eaten in her/Amy’s room. She really wasn’t too much trouble, except for the bin filling up with the ready meal packaging and the washing machine being on when I was in bed. It wasn’t for long, I consoled myself and I only had to call the police once.
I don’t know how the angry ex boyfriend found out where she lived, but she was not pleased to see him, hysterical in fact. The poor neighbours wondered what all the shouting and breaking glass was about and also called the police. We were quite impressed how quickly they turned up. I think old Audrey next door had mentioned guns. The main thing was they took him away and I made coffee for the three of us as the nice woman police officer stayed for a good while. Strangely she had apparently met Flinty before and was surprised I did not know ‘what was going on.’
Flinty retreated to bed as soon as the officer had left. The next morning she sat eating her cereal as if nothing had happened and was soon out the door and off to work.
I checked my phone, not expecting any messages yet from Kit. It was long agreed that I would only hear if there was an emergency when communication was so difficult, so I got a fright when I saw a text message home tonight, broken ankle, don’t worry.
Kit had a charmed life, no harm ever seemed to come to him. At least he wasn’t in hospital and an ankle was hardly the end of the world, but what a time for it to happen. I messaged back to get some idea what time he might arrive, then I had to get myself off to work.
No mention was made of last night’s adventure, if Flinty had told them down in packing, the gossip had not made it upstairs. I got one text from Kit and decided I could just get home before he arrived back.
As I walked up my garden path the front door was flung open, it was not Kit, but Amy.
‘Mum, we’ve had burglars, my room!’
Before I could explain I saw a police car come round the corner followed by a taxi. It was the police woman from last night.
‘Nothing to worry about, this is just a welfare visit.’
Kit was hobbling up the garden path behind her.
Flinty disappeared, she did not return to our house and was never seen at work again. Somehow that made it harder to explain to Kit and Amy what had been going on, when it was as if she had never existed.
The police officer questioned me as if I was hiding her and questioned Amy and Kit as to whether they were involved in ‘all this business.’
Kit questioned Amy as to why on earth she was back so soon. It transpired that she had realised she didn’t like travelling, especially when Lizzie met a chap in the first week and decided to cross the Nullabor Plain with him in his camper van.
The other kids called him The Sponge because of the effortless way he soaked up information. His parents had thought he might meet his match at the large senior school, no longer top dog as he was at primary school, but he was soon a legend. Far from being an awkward genius his quick wit and sense of humour attracted friends and the fact he did their homework for them ensured a loyal following.
Mr and Mrs Nardo had followed family tradition of naming first born sons Leo. By the time he was four they had realised he was far cleverer than them and his younger siblings just took it for granted that Leo knew everything. They were not quite as clever as Leo, but their parents continued producing babies, considering it was their duty to contribute to the gene pool.
At school the teachers played down his abilities. As he appeared to have no syndromes, nor be on any spectrum they were not eligible for extra funding to get university professors in to keep Leo challenged. Instead, an afterschool club was started, for children with ‘extra interests’, it was not to be suggested that the little group were clever or cleverer than all the other pupils.
Leo was soon running the group and showing off his party tricks such as writing normally with his left hand and writing back to front on the other side of the paper with his right hand at the same time. He said it was easy, but nobody else in the group could do it. Parents were persuaded to contribute so the group could buy Lego and chemistry sets and all sorts of items that inventors would need. A teacher was present merely for health and safety reasons.
Dinner time at home was always lively and Mr and Mrs Nardo tried to make sure all the children got a chance to talk about their day, but somehow by the time they were eating pudding Leo had an intellectual conversation underway.
‘I was thinking it would be impossible to work out who the cleverest person in the world is, because nobody else would be clever or knowledgeable enough to understand how much that person knew or understood.’
‘Or she’ butted in his sister’ why can’t the cleverest person be a woman?’
‘They could be’ said Leo ‘but I was thinking it would be me, but how would I know?’
His parents sighed.
‘I don’t think it matters,’ said his father ‘all you have to do is use your talents for good, not for power or money.’
‘Yes I’ve already considered that. I will need a good deal of money for all my inventions, but I could get investors for that. I thought I could save the whole planet.’
‘Rather ambitious, but an excellent idea’ said his mother. ‘Will that be after university?’
‘No, soon, I’ve already written a book about how to do it. I just need to publish it. You can read it if you like.’
After dinner his parents sat at the state of the art computer they had given Leo for Christmas and started reading the word document of 300, 000 words. There were only about thirty words they understood.
‘The first few chapters are about metaphysics’ said Leo airily ‘I want readers to keep an open mind about the universe.’
His father hoped they would not be expected to proof read it and suggested as a joke he self published on Amazon first. Leo thought that a good idea and persuaded his father to open an account, then leave him to get on with it.
By Sunday evening he had borrowed his mother’s Kindle and showed the family his new book. By Wednesday a box arrived from Amazon with his weighty tome in paperback. He took a few copies to school.
The head of the science department was surprised and impressed with the cover design and happy and not a little amused to accept a signed copy as a gift, promising to start reading it in his lunch break.
In the afternoon science lesson Leo asked him what he thought of it so far. He responded by asking Leo what his parents thought of it.
‘Well to be honest, I don’t think they understood a word.’
The teacher was relieved as he grappled with the right words of encouragement.
‘Ah, I am managing to understand it so far, well the introduction at least…’
She had heard her mother talking to Aunty Lucy, a throwaway remark. They were in the garden, it was her tenth birthday party.
‘Of course poor Arabella has no imagination whatsoever.’
They were watching her younger sister Anastatia organize Arabella’s friends in some kind of fantasy adventure. Anastasia was playing the bold princess while Arabella was supposed to be a peasant girl hiding from the dragon and destined to be eaten.
‘Anastasia’s just like you were at that age’ said Aunty Lucy to Arabella’s mother. ‘We always knew you would be on the stage or become a writer.’
‘Or both’ twittered her mother.
‘I expect Arabella will take after Justin’ said Lucy unconvincingly.
The girls’ father was an artist, successful in several fields from high class book illustrations and theatre designs to proper paintings that people wanted on the walls of their homes.
‘She’s very good with her hands,’ continued Lucy ‘knitting and that little tapestry she made me.’
‘Well she has a logical mind, just following patterns…’
Thirty year old Arabella closed her eyes on the memory, closed her eyes to the television screen, then opened them long enough to press the off button on the remote control. It was Jack, her husband, who had reminded her that her mother and sister were appearing on yet another intellectual arts programme. Her family were always on television or radio, though not often together.
‘Have I missed it?’ Jack came bowling into the room.
‘No, or rather you haven’t missed much.’
She picked up her comforting knitting.
‘Is the baby asleep?’
‘Yes of course.’ Arabella laughed. ‘Just like me apparently, my mother used to say I slept through the night from two months old, always needed my sleep, then it was a shock when they had Anastasia. Mother reassured herself that the sleepless nights were because Anastasia had an overactive brain, highly intelligent.’
‘I am glad we have our ordinary little chap, heaven forbid he should turn out like your sister. I like our serene life and I am lucky to have you both.’
It was true thought Arabella, they were happy in their own little world and would snuggle up with a nice nature programme tonight, then turn over in time for Big Ben and welcome 2025. No wishes or resolutions, just thankful for what they had. Though as the bells chimed she couldn’t help wishing she had a little bit of imagination, just enough to know what it was like. Perhaps she would invent bedroom scenarios for her and Jack, she had read in magazines that couples did that. Or make up stories to tell the baby later on.
The next day they went to the big park for their traditional New Year’s Day walk, the baby safely strapped to Arabella and cosy inside her coat. A young child on a scooter whizzed by and she suddenly had a picture in her mind of the child hurtling off, hitting the bitumen head first and being attacked by the big dog she had just spotted. No sooner had this thought entered her mind than Jack suddenly bolted ahead, telling her to stay put.
A small crowd hid what was happening from Arabella’s view. Then Jack emerged with a firm grip on the dog’s collar. Several worried adults were rushing over, it was hard to tell who belonged to the child and who to the dog, until Jack handed the dog to someone waving a lead. He trotted back to his own family.
‘The poor grandparents couldn’t keep up with her…’
‘.. and she ran into the dog and fell off and seeing the creature lying on the ground revived the dog’s ancient hunting instincts and he went for her throat? And you’re a hero.’ Arabella concluded.
‘Not exactly, the dog was licking her face and she was crying because she hurt her knee.’
On the way home they passed the New Year fairground at the other end of the park. They looked up at the big rides.
‘Be a while before we take our chap on those rides’ said Jack.
‘Thank goodness, imagine if the big wheel got stuck when we were at the top’ said Arabella.
‘I’m sure the council makes sure all the rides are safe.’
‘I still wouldn’t take the chance.’
When they watched the local news that evening the fairground appeared on the screen.
Fire rescue teams were called when the big wheel stopped and could not be started. In view of the below zero temperatures, the difficult decision was taken to bring people down from the top on the fire ladders.
‘Oh I can’ t believe it, just what I imagined happening’ said Arabella.
Arabella was beginning to wonder if she had been granted imagination, was this what it was like, making things happen. She dismissed the thoughts from her mind.
The next day was an outing to the pantomime with Jack’s sister and family. Arabella thought the baby was a bit young, but had been reassured that it was a special calm performance for autistic children like Jack’s nephew or deaf children, or anybody that didn’t like screaming and shouting on stage or off.
‘Sign language, subtitles and miming, the baby will just sleep through it. We’re at the back of the top circle apparently, in case we do have to take the baby out.’
Arabella had not realised just how high up they would be in the top circle.
‘Thank goodness we’re at the back, I wouldn’t like to be in the front row and those steps down are so steep, if you weren’t careful you could go hurtling over.’
As soon as her words were uttered a small child flashed by running and whooping down the steps, ignoring his frantic mother who was yelling at him to stop. There was a collective gasp from others getting settled in their seats. Luckily the child was shorter than the barrier wall and collided with it, but the momentum his mother had picked up propelled her straight over. Any hope of calm had evaporated.
Debby paused with the kettle in her hand. She had seen a flash of red in her smart grey and white kitchen. There it was again, she must hurry up and make that appointment at Specsavers. She took her glasses off, polished the lenses then put them on again, only to see a flash of green and red. Blinking she looked around the kitchen and that was when she saw it, sitting on the mug shelf, one of those ghastly elves that parents moved around the house in December to spy on their children. Now she had her own Elf on the Shelf, but how on earth did it get there, she had taken a bone china mug down seconds ago to make her tea and it wasn’t there then. They had baskets full of them at the garden centre, but she hadn’t bought one. Her grandsons hadn’t been here for a week and it was hardly likely the girls next door had sneaked in when they came to retrieve their netball from the back garden. Well he might as well stay up there till Fergus and Hamish came round tomorrow, she would tell them the elf was watching over to make sure they behaved. Not much hope of that working, but worth a try. She wasn’t allowed to call them naughty boys, according to her daughter they just did naughty things occasionally, especially when she dumped them round at Debby’s. Rather ironic that Debby had been delighted to have a daughter, easier than bringing up boys she assumed and not thinking that a daughter might produce boys she would have to get involved with.
As she sat and relaxed with a cup of tea in the lounge she could not believe what she saw when she looked up from her newspaper. The elf was on top of the curtain rail. Perhaps she needed a brain scan as well as an eye test. Or was she an unknowing participant in a reality television show, her reactions being filmed, but who could have sneaked in here ahead of her. She could not reach the elf to see if it was battery operated. The best thing to do was go in the other room and catch up with her emails and other stuff on the computer, maybe look up elves or practical jokes.
The only practical joke was played by the elf as he suddenly leapt onto the screen from behind. This time Debby could see him all too clearly, not a stuffed toy, or battery operated. His eyes blinked, his lips parted and his cheeks blushed pink as he chuckled in a tiny voice.
‘Hello, what’s your name?’
Now she was really going mad, talking to him, did he say Alf or Elf? Before she could say anything else to him he leapt down and used the desk lamp cable like a zip wire. She soon lost sight of him. This was worse than having a mouse in the house, far creepier with no idea where he might pop up next and who did one report infestations, elfinfestations to?
Debby started looking up myths and history of elves, but could not believe she was seriously considering that elves were as real as any other creature on the planet, but where did any myth originate from, a kernel of truth surely. She imagined herself being on an intelligent Radio 4 programme, the first person to discover a live elf. Debby did not see him again that evening and carried on with her normal routine; perhaps she had imagined it all.
When she woke up in the morning and saw Alf Elf sitting on the pillow she stifled a scream. Too close for comfort. Debby shook herself and recalled she had once imagined being a naturalist; she should observe not frighten the poor little chap away, though he did not look scared at all. How did one get hold of a scientist, that one on her favourite radio programme perhaps. But she had a sinking feeling as reality struck. How on earth would she explain to her daughter, she would think she had early onset dementia.
Everything was ready for the grandsons’ visit, breakables put away, the least annoying toys out and she had read the instructions for the junior Christmas decoration creating kit. All that was left was to explain about the elf, would her grandsons be excited, impressed…
‘Bye Mummy’
‘Love you.’
Why did modern parents have to say that every time they went out the door, she was only leaving them for two hours thought Debby.
‘Hamish, Fergus, I have a really big surprise for you today, well not big, very small actually…’
They weren’t listening and had already disappeared to search for the Lego. It wasn’t long before she heard the familiar arguments.
‘I had that piece first.’
’Granny, he pulled my head off.’
Where was the elf, she was suddenly worried for the poor little chap’s safety. She crept along the hall, into the dining room, no sign of Alf, then into her little sun lounge, the only room where Lego was allowed. And there he was, playing Lego with the boys, who were so fascinated they had stopped arguing.
‘Granny, you’ve got a real elf, I’ve never seen a live one’ said Hamish.
‘I told you elves were real’ said Fergus.
‘Be very gentle with him, he’s so small.’
‘Can I take him for Show and Tell?’
‘Oh no, I think school would be far too scary for him, in fact I think we better keep him secret.’
