Pace

I was standing at my office window a few hours ago and I saw a man walking hand in hand with his little boy, who couldn't have been older than about three. The man was very tall, but he had to walk at a slow pace, because his son had to be able to keep up with him. The awkwardness with which the man held himself upright, the angle of his shoulders, suggested that he wasn't used to walking so slowly.

And I realised that I'll never have that experience with Jessica, that sense of being slowed down, of having to meet her rhythm.

And I can't decide if that makes me feel relieved or desperate with grief.

Visit

Now I wish I'd been a bit more vocal when they were deciding where Jessica was going to be buried. I haven't been to my Mum's grave for months... precisely because I haven't been to Jessica's grave for months... because the two graves are practically side by side. I don't expect anyone's been to Mum's. I certainly don't think Dad has. Probably all the cleaning I did last year has been undone completely.

Will I ever be able to visit the grave?

Why didn't I when the first anniversary of Jessica's death came around?

Easter break

I've got a friend with a child who's old enough to go to school... which means he's also old enough to be off school when the Easter hols are on.

The other day I met up with my friend for a coffee and, naturally, her son had to come along. And when I sat down and looked at the tables around me, I noticed that there was a child sitting at almost every single one of them.

Needless to say, I saw children everywhere for the rest of the day.

Guilt

I've been struck lately by how much of the advertising around us works on pushing child-related guilt buttons.

Take cars for instance. So many car adverts seem to feel the need to feature children, especially if the car isn't especially child-friendly. The other day I saw an ad for some flashy sports convertible (I think it may have been a Jag) which showed a young-ish, clean-shaven man gripping the steering wheel tight whilst twisting around frightening bends in a Mediterranean-style setting. And then he pulls up outside his house and his wife and child come skipping out of the front door and they both jump in the car and Daddy takes them for another spin round the cliffs.

'Don't feel guilty about buying this car for yourself. The kids will enjoy it too.' That seems to be the message.

Perfume adverts are using children more too, usually in the form of some curly-locked cherub leaping up into her mother's arms, brushing her hand across mummy's oh-so-beautifully scented cheek and then nuzzling into her chest.

I'm not convinced, though, that people do feel guilty about spending increasingly large amounts of money on luxuries for themselves. If they did, we probably wouldn't need the guilt-button-pushing adverts.

Visitor

Someone brought a baby into work yesterday. I can't remember the exact reasons. It was her grandson. Something had just happened to the baby's Dad and the Mum couldn't look after it because she had to be with the Dad, so it fell to the Nan to take care of her... so she had to bring her into work.

As soon as I heard that a baby would be with us, in the office, for half a day, I started wondering how I should behave. Should I pretend I'm not feeling well and go home? Should I call an urgent meeting at another location? Should I snow myself under heaps of paperwork? In the end I to,d myself to stop making a fuss and to act normal.

But my rendition of normal made me turn myself into a complete fool.

The moment the baby arrived, I walked over to him, told his Nan how gorgeous he was, tickled his cheeks, made gurgling noises... and then I took him in my arms (did his Nan look petrified when I asked her if I could do that?) and I paraded him up and down and the office, showing him off to everyone, and they all made polite noises in return, but it was when I'd been doing this for about fifteen minutes - having visited almost every office on our floor - that I detected a change in the looks people were giving me. Slowly, their polite noises become shorter and more strained. They made less eye contact with me. They found they had piles of important paperwork on their desks. And the baby picked up on this and started becoming restless.

He was sobbing when I handed him back to his Nan.

And I pretty much locked myself in my office for the rest of the day and made sure everyone had left the place before I went home.

Abort

I've been thinking I should write about this for a fortnight or so, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do it.

A short while ago, an American woman was on the news for having successfully given birth to the world's 'most premature' baby. She was less than 22 weeks old, so - not surprisingly - her arrival was greeted with screams from the anti-abortion lobby.

And even though I've experienced what I've experienced, and even though I know people who've had abortions and later regretted it, I sat there watching the news, watching some anti-abortion woman ranting and raving about how abortion should be banned outright, and I just felt like throwing something heavy at the screen to make her shut up.

It's when I get into these moods that I think that if someone were to turn around and say, 'So you think you've got the right to kill your baby?' I would turn around and shout, 'Yes, I do! And I certainly don't think you've got the right to stop me!'

And I seem to be in these moods so often at the moment.

Wear

I've noticed that one of the clothing trends for the summer is a top with a very high waist - just below the boobs - which makes it look as though you're pregnant. I'm wondering if this means I'm going to spend the summer surrounded by women who look as though they're in maternity wear.

I refused to do the whole maternity clothes thing with Jessica. Well, I say 'refused' but that only worked up to a point. Seven months down the line, I didn't have much choice. But I hated every minute of being in these clothes which I felt had somehow been 'imposed' on me. Actually, I seem to remember hating school uniform for exactly those reasons. I don't think I looked at myself in the mirror very much when my bump got really big. I didn't realise it at the time, but I suppose I just didn't want to see it. I remember there were times when Martin wanted to touch it, to rub his hands across it... and I never actually told him to stop doing it, but I suppose my looks and my silences made it clear that I didn't appreciate the attention. So he soon got the message and stopped doing it. And I remember that after I gave birth, I was just more determined than I'd ever been about anything to get back into my jeans. Nothing was going to stop me from yanking them right up to my waist. I think I did myself some damage the first time I tried them on, but I didn't care. Getting that button to go through the little eye in the fabric became a mission. It was the most important thing I'd ever done.

The other day, I went into a shop and tried on one of those new tops. I took off the blouse I was wearing and slipped on the one I'd taken into the changing room. It was covered in large, retro-60s black and yellow and olive green splashes. As expected, it hugged me just below the boobs and then billowed out, right down to around my hips. As expected, it made me look as though I was concealing a tummy.

And I just stood in this changing room looking at myself in the mirror. And I ran my hands down my reflection, feeling the touch of cold glass where once there'd been a bump. And tears started falling down my cheeks. I didn't even realise it at first. But before I knew what was going on, the reflection before me became blurry and indistinct until it almost washed away.

And when I'd got the tears out of myself, I took a deep breath, put my own blouse back on and walked straight out of the shop, without saying a word to anyone.

Birthday

I was driving today and suddenly my entire body was covered in a cold sweat as I realised I couldn't remember Jessica's exact birthday. I just couldn't recall if it was the 8th or the 9th of the month. I think I actually went into a state of paralysis for a split-second as the shock of the moment entered me.

Within another instant, I remembered exactly which day it was, but the fact that I'd forgotten it - even though it happened for less than a moment - shook me up completely.

After I parked the car, I sat in it for ages before getting out, just trying to gather my thoughts and calm myself down. I felt like phoning Martin to tell him what had happened and I started getting his name up in my Contacts list on my mobile, but I changed my mind. I don't know. Maybe I was too embarrassed to tell him I'd forgotten the birthday. Maybe I thought he wouldn't understand why my memory lapse had terrified me so much, albeit briefly.

Then I got out of the car and... got back to work. Everything just always seems to be about getting back to this or getting re-acquainted with that. Is it worth the bother?

Is this what things are going to be like now? Will I gradually start forgetting things to do with Jessica?

Am I making too much of a brief blip?

Titles

I keep hearing titles of films which make some reference - explicit or implicit - to children. I haven't seen the films, but as soon as I hear the titles, I create narratives in my head. And all the narratives somehow return to deaths of children.

Little Children - a woman spends her life trying to cope with the fact that she will never have a relationship with a child older than the age of 4 because none of her children seem to be able to live past this age.

Children Of Men - a woman loses her children in a horrible accident caused by her irresponsible, immature husband.

The City Of Lost Children - a fable in which young children are whisked away from their parents to a place where their souls are used to feed the world.

Au Revoir Les Enfants - the story of a support group set up by people trying to cope with the deaths of their children.

Children Of A Lesser God - a family tries to deal with the loss of a child who was accidentally killed by a priest.

Is this becoming too morbid?

Letters

Ages ago I read a book by a woman dying of cancer. I think her name may have been Ruth Picardie and I think she was a journalist. The point is that at the end of her book, she included copies of some letters she'd written to her children which she wanted to them to have as a keepsake after her death. The thing I remember most about the letters is that they included details about what the children were like at the time the letters were written, tiny little facts like, "Your favourite crisps are salt and vinegar," or, "You have two sugars in your tea."

If things had been the other way around and I'd been dying of some disease and Jessica had been aged 1, what would I have included in a letter to her?

"Your Daddy and I always fill your room with the smell of lavender, because it makes you sleep better. We even wash your clothes in a special lavender water. Your skin always has a faint, delicate scent of lavender.

"Sometimes, when you can't sleep, Daddy takes you for a drive in his car, with one of his Philip Glass CDs playing very quietly. That always seems to do the trick. A few turns round the block and you close your eyes and start breathing gently. Then when Daddy parks outside the house, he sends me a text message to say he's back. I open the front doort as quietly as I can and he brings into the house, carries you up the stairs and into your room.

"Most nights, you sleep right the way through. I think you've been quite kind to us, really. I've heard all sorts of stories of babies wailing all the way through every single night for months and months, but you weren't really like that. We've had our sleepless nights, of course, but less than our fair share, I suspect.

"There's a look you sometimes get in your eyes which makes me think you must be quite intelligent. Sometimes, your Daddy and I will be talking and then, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see you watching us with this fierce intensity. Your little head wobbles from one of us to the other. I can almost hear the cogs in your mind whirring away. For a moment, you look as though you're about to shock us with a perfectly formed sentence, but you just flap your arms about, give a little gurgle and smile. And then Daddy and I forget what we were talking about, walk across to you and cover you with kisses.

"I love making you taste new things, like lime juice or parsley or cocoa powder or a tiny sprinkling of oregano. The looks that come across your face are absolutely priceless. You wrinkle your nose and scrunch up your mouth and shake your head and squeal."

Would I have filled the letter with such lies? Would they have been lies had I really been dying of a disease and been filled with the knowledge that I was about to leave the world much sooner than I ever thought I would? Why wouldn't I have written the truth?

"It took me a long time to decide if I loved you. I sensed from Day 1 that I was very protective of you, but somehow that feeling was quite separate from any sensations of love. I often resented your presence. I sometimes wished I could forget you were there - so that I could just pop out somewhere, unencumbered - but I could never quite manage it. You were this constant PRESENCE. At least you were generally silent.

"And why was it always your father who took you for a spin in the car to get you to fall asleep?How did I get relegated to the role of 'door opener'? I used to sit there sometimes, staring at my mobile, wondering whether to put it on silent, just to make it difficult for him to bring you back into the house. I never did it, of course. Not sure why.

"I didn't really like the fact that the word 'mother' was now one of the words making up my identity. I remember once at Uni we were asked to put together a list of all the words which, in one way or another, described our relationships with the various people in our lives: words like, 'woman', 'sister', 'cousin', 'girlfriend', 'white', 'aunt', 'student', 'flatmate', 'patient' etc etc. Not a single one of us wrote 'mother', of course, but the lecturer did, and I remember finding that pathetic, somehow. It was also interesting how few of us in the group wrote 'son' or 'daughter'.

"I had no idea that I would scream and rant and rave and bellow and wail the way I did when I lost you. If someone had told me that that's what my reaction was going to be, I would have sneered."

World

I was listening to Radio 4 the other day. That book programme was on, the one hosted by Mariella Frostrup. I don't have anything in particular to say about the programme: a statement made by one of the guests on it set me off on a train of thought. There was a female novelist and she was recommending a book set in the world of well-to-do New York socialites (I think it may have been called The Nanny). One of the reasons why she thought this book was so good was because it evoked its world in a totally compelling manner. It was full of telling details. It knew everything there was to know about it milieu.

And I found myself wondering, 'If someone were to write a novel about me, what details would they use to try to bring my milieu to life? What makes my world unique? Or perhaps it isn't unique at all?'

And I decided I'd go into my kitchen to try to find things which could exist only within the context of Me. We keep our carrier bags in one of those dispenser things. I took out some of the bags: they were mostly from Sainsbury's and Waitrose, although a few were from Tesco. There weren't any from Asda or Morrisons. I suppose that must say something about Us. I suppose the fact that we've even got a carrier bag dispenser also says something about Us. In the fridge there were - amongst other things - a half-empty pot of creme fraiche, some unopened Boursin, some left over Chinese takeaway (sweet and sour duck Hong Kong style), two bottles of white wine, some ground coffee in an airtight tin, half a pint of organic semi-skimmed milk. Does all of that say anything about Us? Next came the larder: a few packets of pasta, flour (self-raising and plain), Marmite, strawberry jam, three tins of tuna (one in brine, two in oil). Surely none of this really says anything about Us. Doesn't everyone have Marmite, jam and tuna in their larder?

Or is my world really nowhere near as unique and notable as the kind of world a writer would choose to immortalise in a novel? Is my context mundane and banal? Are the things that have happened to me not the sorts of things people out to be reading about?

Sounds

I heard that wailing again last night.

It was exactly 2:48 am when the sound forced me out of my sleep. I felt my whole body go tense.

"Martin," I whispered, "Martin, can you hear it?" I reach across and rubbed his shoulder. He moaned slowly. I think I may have heard him say, "What?"

"I can hear it again," I said. "Listen."

He shuffled around slightly and pulled the blanket up over his head.

"Martin," I hissed, allowing my voice to become louder. "Wake up. You can hear it clearly now."

The wails were filling the air. I was sure I wasn't imagining it. I think I actually heard the sound of a car going past the house at the same time as I heard the baby's crying, which sort of proved to me that I wasn't making it up, because if I could hear one 'real' sound, then surely the other one must have been real as well.

I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. I looked at the clock by my side again. Yes, I'd seen the time correctly: it was 2:49.

I cleared my throat. "Martin, you've got to get up." I pushed his shoulders again. "Martin, please!"

His voice emerged, thick and sleepy. "Oh, for God's sake, Pauline, what is it?"

"Listen!"

He turned to look at me, his eyes blinking. We remained silent for a while, looking at each other.

Suddenly, the sound was gone. Everything around us was silent.

"I just heard it a second ago," I said.

"Heard what?" he asked, lying back down again.

"You know what!" I pushed the blanket aside and walked up to the window, my feet cold on the carpet. "It was loud and it was clear. If you'd woken up ten seconds faster, you would've heard it too!"

He began pulling the blanket over himself again. "Pauline, please just let me get some sleep."

"But I heard it!"

"Yes, okay, you heard it. Now just get back to bed."

I walked over to his side of the bed and pulled the blanket off him. "No! I want you to stay up so you can hear it too!"

He looked into my eyes for a few seconds. Then, with a sudden release of tension, he bolted out of bed, grabbed a pillow and began walking towards the door. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and turned around. His voice was low and rigid. "No! YOU can stay up. YOU can spend another night listening for this fucking baby! I am going to get some sleep!" He slammed the door behind him.

I turned to the window, straining my ears.

No more sounds came. After about ten minutes, I got back into bed and tried to get to sleep.

Luck

I've been thinking about luck coming from unexpected quarters, ie blessings in disguise, the silver linings of clouds, all that sort of thing. Not in a general sense: specifically in relation to the death of a child. To put things very bluntly - and today I'm in a frame of mind which prevents my finding any reasons whatsoever for NOT putting EVERYTHING bluntly - I wonder if the manner of Jessica's death was 'lucky'.

Given that she had to die, given that Martin and I had to lose her... was the way in which she died a blessing in disguise?

I suppose what's brought this on is a forwarded email I received today about a child in a Third World country who has a rare form of cancer. His parents are trying to get people from around the world to donate money so that they can pay for a particularly expensive form of therapy which may well save the boy's life. [This is a digression, but I didn't make a donation. I suppose I'm just too suspicious of how real these emails are. But that's besides the point.]

The point - for me, anyway - is: if you've got to lose a child, then would it be better for the child to die of cancer or for the child to be plucked away from you suddenly and inexplicably, like Jessica was? Children die every single day, don't they? They must die in their thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. They must die in all sorts of different ways, some of which I'm sure must be so unusual or awful as to be scarcely believable. Are some of these ways 'better' than others? We talk of the elderly as having 'good' deaths, don't we? Why can't the same distinctions be applied to children?

When I take everything into account, I sometimes feel I have to concede that Jessica's death was 'good', as far as deaths ago... and as far as one can put aside the age of the person who has died. She wasn't in a horrible accident. She didn't have a terrible illness or disability. She didn't commit suicide. [Of course, she was too young to have been able to do that anyway, but I've discovered that children not much older than she was take their own lives every single day around the world.] She didn't have her life taken away by somebody else.

I must stop myself from dwelling on these things.

Jam, continued

I asked the milk/sugar question. Yes to both; two spoons. I handed her a steaming mug. "Oh, I love the smell of coffee, don't you?" she said.

I smiled and nodded.

She looked around the kitchen. "This is a lovely house. Have you been in it long?"

"Oh, thank you. Yes, quite a while, I suppose. Just over three years. We haven't..."

"Oh my goodnes, that DOES make me feel ancient! You're calling three years a long time? I won't tell you how long Simon and I have lived over the road!"

"Why, how long have you lived there?"

She shook her head and looked away, as though embarrassed. "Twenty-three years last October!"

My mouth opened in surprise. "Oh my God! I don't know anyone who's lived in the same place that long! You must be really happy there, though."

She sighed and took a sip of her drink. "Yes, I suppose we are. But it's not just that. We couldn't possibly bear to move anywhere else, not even if we wanted to. We did talk about it once, but..." she began laughing again, "that was about fifteen years ago!"

"Oh, right!"

"No, we do like it here, really. I mustn't sound ungrateful. I think travelling and seeing the world and living in all sorts of different places must be wonderful - and there have been times when I've wondered what my life would've been like if I'd been less of a home body - but I think there's also a lot to be said for staying in one place for a good long while and really getting to know it."

"Absolutely."

"Travelling doesn't have to mean covering great distances, does it? At least not geographically."

I wasn't sure where this conversation was going. I found myself wondering why I'd invited this woman in, why I'd offered to make her a coffee, why she felt it was all right to come round to my house. "No," I said, dragging the word out.

"Have you done much travelling?" she asked.

"Me?" And why should I tell you if I have or I haven't, I thought. "Umm... no, not really. Just the usual. You know, skiing trips to France, beach holidays in Portugal."

"Portugal sounds lovely. The skiing's not my cup of tea, though. I prefer to leave that sort of thing to people less allergic to physical activity than I am."

Again, I couldn't help laughing briefly. "It's not as difficult as people make out, you know."

"Oh, no, no, I'm sure it isn't. But... well, each to their own."

There were a few moments of silence.

"Do you have any special plans for today?" she asked.

"Umm... no, not really. I just need to take care of a few things here and there. You know, a bit of cleaning. All that kind of thing."

"But the place is spotless. I wish my house were as clean as this."

"I seem to remember it being very clean when I saw it."

"That's because you only saw the porch!" She laughed again. "I make the most public areas as tidy as possible... but it's probably accurate to say that the cleanliness of each part of my house is inversely proportional to how frequently it's seen by friends and guests... and neighbours."

I had another sip of my chocolate. It was quite cold and tasteless by now. "Well, I'm sure that applies to everybody, doesn't it?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose so."

From where I was sitting, I managed to look into her mug without her realising. I saw she'd almost finished her drink. "Well, you really needn't have brought us the jam," I said, "but I know Martin will appreciate it very much. And I'm sure he'll enjoy trying it."

She looked alarmed for a fraction of a second. She placed her mug back on the table and stood up. "No, you really mustn't keep thanking me. It's a pleasure." She began walking towards the door. "And I'm really sorry to have barged in on you."

I smiled and followed her into the hall.

When I opened the front door, she turned to me and whispered. "You know... the reason why yo came to see me and my husband the other night? Do you... do you still hear the noises?"

I looked into her eyes, and although I saw nothing that should have given me cause for suspicion, I decided all I wanted at that moment was for her to leave my house. So I lied. "No. We haven't heard them for ages. In fact, we're pretty certain we must have imagined them. It was probably a fox or something, like you said."

She nodded and looked right into my eyes for a few moments. "Oh, right." She turned away and stepped outside. "Well, thanks very much for the coffee. You know you're more than welcome to pop in again for a drink and chat."

"Thank you." I began shutting the door. "And thanks again for the jam. Bye now."

"Bye bye."

And I shut the door, perhaps more firmly than I should have.

Jam

I was sitting in my kitchen the other day. Martin was out. My hands were wrapped around a large mug of hot chocolate. I was considering whether to turn up the heating when the doorbell rang. I looked up at the clock: 10 am. The postman had already been. I certainly wasn't expecting anyone. I thought I'd just ignore it, but a few moments later I heard a voice calling out, "Hello! Anyone in?"

I couldn't place it exactly, but the voice was familiar, so I put my mug on the table and walked across to the front door.

I opened it and was greeted by a smiling, elderly woman. "Oh, you are in. I'm not disturbing you, am I?" It took me a few seconds to recognise her: it was the woman from the house across the road, the one from which Martin and I think we can hear the baby's wailing.

"Oh, hi," I said, clearing my throat. "It's... Mandy, isn't it?"

She nodded, her smile widening. I noticed she was holding a carrier bag. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? Only, I thought you might like these?" She held up the bag.

I smiled back but couldn't think of what to say.

"Home-made jam," she continued. "I remembered your husband said he loves home-made jam, so I thought he might like to try some of mine."

I saw two large jars inside the bag. "Oh... thank you. That's really kind."

"Not at all. I made too much, I've still got plenty left over." She opened the bag. "You got some marmalade here, with real Seville oranges. This is the time of year for Seville oranges, you know. And the other one's blackberry. I have to say, I usually make blackberry jam in the summer with blackberries I've picked myself in our garden, but these were bought in a shop." She pushed the bag towards me. "They've made a fairly decent jam, though, if I do say so myself."

I found myself reaching out for the bag and taking it. "Oh, well, thank you. I don't really know what to say. You... you shouldn't have."

"Not at all. I hope you enjoy it. And I'm really sorry if I disturbed you. I don't make a habit of popping up unannounced, I can assure you."

"Oh, no, I wasn't doing anything at all. Just... sitting... having a hot drink..."

We stared at each other for a few moments. Her smile didn't fade for an instant.

"Would you...." I started. "Would you like to come in for a coffee?"

"Oh, I'd love one, to be honest!"

"Oh, well, please, come in." And that was when I realised that I was still wearing my dressing gown. I ran my fingers through my hair: it was in a complete mess. I pulled the dressing gown tighter around myself. I showed Mandy into the kitchen and said I'd be with her in a moment: I just needed to go upstairs "for something."

I ran up the stairs, threw the dressing gown on the floor, pulled on some jeans and a black T-shirt, brushed my hair and walked downstairs.

Mandy's brow furrowed as soon as she saw me. "Oh my goodness, you didn't need to get changed on my account! Oh, now I feel bad for just turning up."

I walked over to the kettle. "Oh no, no, it wasn't on your account at all. I was just about to get changed anyway. Tea or coffee?"

"Are you sure you don't mind my staying?"

I couldn't help smiling. "Absolutely. I wouldn't have invited you in otherwise."

"Well then, I'd love a coffee. And I promise I'll make it a quick one."

I opened the carrier bag which I'd placed on the table and pulled out one of the jars. "You really didn't have to do this, you know. It's very kind."

She smiled and shook her head. "Why don't you just try some. I'd love to know what you think of it."

I opened the jar; it was the blackberry. It certainly looked okay. "Ooh, smells lovely," I said. I looked up and saw her face beaming back at me.

"Have you got a scone by any chance?"

"Umm... no. And to be honest - and please don't take this the wrong way - I'm not really a jam person. I hope you don't mind. I never have jam. It's Martin who's really into jam. I'm sure he'll love it when he comes home. Do you mind if I... if I don't have any?"

Her smile flickered for just one moment, but she brushed my words away with her hand. "Don't be silly. It was mainly your husband I was thinking about anyway."

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all."

I turned away to face the kettle. I was sure my cheeks were burning red, but there was no way I was going to try some "home-made jam" from some woman I barely knew who'd suddenly turned up on my doorstep.

Train

A few years ago, I didn't notice most of the mums and dads and kids around me. Now I seem to see them everywhere. I suppose this isn't surprising, really.

The other day, I had to go up to London on the train. I was sitting reading a newspaper and the train stopped at Haslemere, or it may have been Godalming. A family got on board: mum, dad, girl of about 7, boy of about 5. The woman caught my attention. Her face had a hard look, but she'd covered it under a layer of quite skillfully-applied make-up. Her hair was blond and arranged in a neat, recently-cut bob. She wore a black, wool coat and tight, shiny knee-length boots. The overall message seemed to be: "I may be a mother, but that doesn't make me a lost cause."

She plonked the kids in a pair of seats and sat across the aisle opposite her husband. He opened his green and red 'I'm a hiker' rucksack and pulled out two smaller cases. Each of the kids received one case, which they proceeded to open to reveal... portable DVD players. Up came the screens, out came the DVDs (Japanese anime), in popped the headphones. And that was that: the sum total of the parents' interaction with their children. I couldn't help myself from staring at them. It says a great deal about the mother and the father that they didn't seem to notice that the were being stared at almost all the way to London.

The children didn't speak to each other. The parents didn't speak to the children. The parents hardly even spoke to themselves. The woman pulled out a magazine from a handbag. The man got stuck into a paperback.

I suppose in a way I shouldn't find cause for complaint in this scenario. At least they weren't being loud or obnoxious or disruptive or rude. But in a way, that's what made the whole thing worse. The entire 40-odd minute trip to London was a lost opportunity. The parents could've interacted with the kids in so many ways. They could've pointed out the sights the train went past. They could've talked about what they were going to do when they reached their destination. They could have read a book together. If they absolutely had to watch a DVD, at least they could've watched the same one together. But no: the family trip was obviously meant to be conducted by four individuals who happened to be in the same family. Each person in their own cell and a cell for each person... a rechargeable cell at that, with Bluetooth headphones and wifi Internet access.

And then I think about myself and wonder if I would've been any different if I still had Jessica. It's easy for me to stare from a distance and pontificate, but I'm sure one of the main reasons why I feel the way I do at the moment is because I have experienced loss.

If Jessica had lived until she was 5 or 7, and Martin and I had decided to take her up to the Natural History Museum or the V&A, who's to say that I wouldn't have bought her a portable DVD player or a Nintendo DS or an iPod just to keep her 'happy' (ie quiet)?

One of my colleagues at work is the father of a two-year-old boy and the other day he was telling all of us how pleased he was that he'd managed to teach the boy to use the DVD player in his room.

"This way," he explained, "he doesn't have to wake us up on a Sunday morning. If he gets up before we do, he can stick his Thomas The Tank Engine DVD on by himself and so Cathy and I get to have a bit of a lie in."

Everybody laughed, but afterwards, in the loos, there were several muttered grumblings: "I'd like to see what THAT boy's going to be like as a teenager..."

Haven't parents always tried to find clever ways of keeping their children occupied? Colouring books, musical instruments, puzzles, physical games... But then I suppose the 'technology' which was needed for those activities wasn't quite so incisive. It didn't cut off all interaction between the person carrying out the activity and the parent/guardian/cousin/sibling/friend.

I can see I'm slipping into 21st century cliches now. Maybe in a few years' time babies will have Bluetooth headsets implanted into their skin at the same time as they get their measles injections. And maybe some scientists will work out that baby talk is actually a complex language and babies will use their headsets to communicate with each other - telepathy-style - and there won't be any need for them to learn languages like English or French and, within a couple of generations, the planet will be overrun by baby-talk-babbling, wired-up adults sitting still in their individual rooms in their individual houses.

I think next time I go on the train, I need to take my own MP3 player with me, shut my eyes and listen to my music.

That's if I ever listen to music again.

Wall

I've been drawn away from writing about the party. I'll finish that particular story some other time.

I've been thinking of the consequences of the weather we've been having. A two year old boy was killed whilst out for a walk with his childminder. A wall collapsed onto him.

That's set me off thinking all sorts of thoughts, most of which I'd rather not be thinking.

Would that have been a better way? was the first question I asked myself. Would that have been a better way than Jessica's?

I've been trying to imagine how the parents would have been informed. I suppose my social diet of films and TV programmes is partly to blame, but I keep picturing a scenario in which the childminder walks into the house - trembling with fear - and sees Mr and Mrs Parent engaged in some hideously cuddly domestic activity, like making their own jam. Mrs Parent immediately senses that something's wrong. "What's the matter, Natasha?" she asks.

At which point Natasha falls to her knees, throws her arms around Mrs Parent's legs and screams, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I tried to save him, there was nothing we could do."

No, I think it's safe to assume that the reality was rather different.

At what point would the parents have come to know about what had happened? Which of them would have been told first? I expect it was the mother. Would it have been a phone call from the childminder? Was she in a fit enough state to make a call? The news reports are sketchy on details of her injuries. I suppose she would've called an ambulance first. And then what? Apparently someone on the scene gave the boy mouth-to-mouth.

What would it have been like to have been the mother of that boy, getting a phone call from the childminder.

"Hello."

[bawling, weeping] "Oh my God, Mrs Smith. Jakey's hurt. He's badly hurt. Oh my God!"

"Hello? Natasha? Is that you?"

"Mrs Smith, you've got to come quick, it's Jake." [a deep breath to compose her thoughts and control her crying] "He's just lying there. He's not moving. The man says he's not breathing."

[the blood's drained out of her voice] "Natasha, where are you? What's happened?"

"The wall. It was the wall. We were just walking and... [sobbing] oh my God, oh my God, I'm so sorry, Jakey, Jakey..."

"Natasha! Please, calm down! Where are you? What happened?"

[responding to the urgency in Mrs Smith's voice] "We were walking. Jakey and I. It was windy. You know, the storm. We were walking past this wall. He was holding my hand. There was this sudden gust of wind. And then next thing I knew, I was lying on the pavement, covered in bricks. And I looked around. But I couldn't move properly. And I saw Jakey's hand. It was sticking out from under... under a pile of bricks... and... and... oh my God, Mrs Smith, he's not moving, he's not moving."

"Where are you? Have you phoned an ambulance?"

[focussing again] "Yeah, yeah, we have. This man, he helped me up. And I called an ambulance. And they're on their way. And he's giving Jakey mouth-to-mouth."

"Where are you?"

"We're... we're near the Post Office in the Co-op. You know, just near the crossroads."

"Right, I'm on my way."

How far away was she from the crossroads near the Co-op? What if she was nowhere near home on that day? What if she was away on some business meeting somewhere in another county? What if she doesn't work at all, but hires the services of a childminder every now and then so she can have the ocassional girls' day out with her friends? What if she was in a bar enjoying an early marguerita, nibbling on olives and cheese straws?

When does she phone her husband? Before she gets in the car? During the journey?

"Something's happened to Jakey. I've just had call from Natasha. They were out for a walk and a... she said a wall collapsed on him."

"What??"

"And she's had to call an ambulance 'cause he's not moving. How soon can you get there?"

"Where are they?"

And so the vital piece of information is conveyed again and another person begins to speed towards the crossroads by the Co-op.

What's Mrs Smith thinking during her drive? Does she put on the radio to drown out her thoughts? Something loud and brazen. Does she hold onto the steering wheel so tight that her fingers feel sore for days afterwards? Does she feel a tear falling down her left cheek and then fling it away, biting her lips, determined not to lose control?

No, she's probably on the phone to Natasha all the way during the journey. She keeps checking her mobile to make sure she's got enough battery left. She tries to remember when was the last time she charged her Bluetooth.

"Is the ambulance there yet?"

[her voice now more rigid] "No. I phoned ages ago. I don't know where the nearest hospital is."

"Is he breathing."

[to someone else] "Is he breathing yet?" [back into the phone] "No, no he's not. The man says he can keep going with the mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance comes. [pause] It's Mr Smith on the other line again. What shall I do?"

"No! Don't hang up! I need you to stay on the line to me!"

[This will probably be the point about which they will argue for weeks and months. It might even be the thing that leads to their divorce.]

"But he keeps phoning!"

"NO! I've told him where you are. I'll call him myself in a minute."

[pause] "They're here! They're coming. The ambulance is here."

Mrs Smith can hear the sirens. Her stomach churns and squeezes tight. She thinks she's going to be sick but she pushes down the accelerator and keeps going. She hears car doors slamming. She hears voices shouting, Natasha talking, explaining the events again.

Was that a red light she just went through?

Suddenly, she realises Natasha's calling her again. "Mrs Smith. Mrs Smith, you there?"

"What? Yes, yes, what is it?"

"They're taking Jakey to... [speaking to someone else] Where? [back into the phone again] They're taking him to... [and she gives the name of the hospital]"

"Is he going to be ok?"

"They don't know. They've gotta take him to hospital."

"You go with him, Natasha."

"Yeah."

"Keep your phone on."

"Yeah."

"I'll start heading for the hospital."

"Yeah, all right."

Mrs Smith goes through a quick route-change in her head, makes a sudden left turn and is on her way to the hospital.

Natasha again. "Mr Smith's calling."

"No!"

"But... don't you want to tell him which hospital he's got to go to?"

"What?" [a pause] "Okay, I'll call him. But then I'm phoning you write back! Don't switch off your phone, even if the ambulance people tell you to!"

"Yeah, ok."

Mrs Smith phones her husband, spends about thirty seconds telling him the name of the hospital and the reason for Natasha's failure to answer his calls. Then she hangs up without telling him if Jakey's breathing. She tries Natasha's number, but there's no answer. The ambulance crew have probably told Natasha that the mobile would interfere with their equipment.

And then she really is left with her silence. Does she phone her husband? Who knows. I think I probably wouldn't have.

And then the rest of the story will probably be dominated by people in uniforms. Mrs Smith will arrive at the hospital and sprint into A&E. She'll see Natasha sitting on a chair, hands clasped together, eyes staring into the distance. She'll scream at the woman behind the counter: "Jake Smith!"

And then a small troupe will gather around her and she will be whisked away and a few minutes later a man in a white gown will use words like "head injury", "sorry", "sustained" and "nothing more".

And will Mr Smith be by her side at this point? And when will they get a chance to see their little Jakey?

And after they've heard the story again from Natasha, will they ever want to speak to her again? Will they grow to hate her? I don't even know her, I don't even know if she's real, but I hate her just the same. I hate the fact that she chose the route she did. I hate the fact that she was walking on the outside of the pavement. I hate the fact that not one of her limbs has been horribly mangled, that she doesn't need serious medical attention.

Maybe that's the one good thing about all this: today, I'm not too numb to hate.

Meeting, continued

A few days later, I was walking back home from a day’s lectures and as I turned the corner into my street, I saw Martin emerge from my house. He cast a quick glance in my direction, but I’m nor sure he recognised me. He looked a bit worried about something, turned away from my front door and began walking away in the other direction.

I stepped inside the hall and saw Zoe sitting in the lounge, watching television. “What was up with Martin?” I asked. “He seemed totally preoccupied by something.”

My question had obviously caught her by surprise, because she wasn’t able to suppress a quick giggle. She hugged a cushion closer to herself, trying to cover her mouth with it. “Nothing,” she squeaked.

I laughed and shook my head. I knew I didn’t need to ask again. I walked into the kitchen and started making myself a cup of tea. Sure enough, after a few moments, Zoe bounced in behind me. "You're evil, you are," she said, jabbing me in the back with a finger.

I was doing my best not to make eye contact with her. I knew that was the best way of encouraging her to talk. "Why?"

"'Cause you've just made me be really mean to Martin."

I gave her a brief, quizzical look.

"You know the other day, yeah," she continued, "when you told Mike that Martin fancies him?"

I nodded.

"Well... I just told Martin that Mike fancies HIM!"

I couldn't stop myself from laughing briefly. "Why?" I asked.

"Oh come on! You said it'd be a good laugh. You should've seen his face. He looked so... so upset, like he'd hurt somebody."

I tried to put my most disapproving look on my face. "Zoe! For God's sake! You shouldn't go mucking about like that, not when someone really IS gay!"

"But he's not!"

"How d'you know?"

"'Cause I asked him."

"What, you just came out with it and said, 'Are you gay?'"

"Well.... yeah, basically." Her brow was beginning to furrow now. "He was totally okay about it. I just told him that Mike really likes him and I said something like, 'Is there anything I should tell Mike?'"

This time, I couldn't stop a loud guffaw from bursting out of me. "Oh my God! You didn't!"

"Well, yeah, I did. And he just said, 'Well, I'm not gay, if that's what you mean.' And I think that's when he started feeling a bit uncomfortable, so he made up some excuse about why he had to go."

"God, Zoe, you've probably traumatised him or something."

She laughed briefly, but then looked worried again. "Shall I... shall I give him a ring afterwards and tell him I was joking?"

"No!" I shouted. Then I lowered my voice. "No, there's no need for that, is there? I mean, if he really isn't gay, then no-one's being hurt by any of this."

Zoe was staring into my face, waiting to see what I'd say next.

"I reckon we should just leave things as they are," I said. "It's only a practical joke, isn't it? If we never say anything about it again, then it'll all just go away."

But of course, it didn't go away. Over the next few weeks, whenever we were with Mike, we teased him about the heart palpitations he was giving Martin every time his name was mentioned. And every time we bumped into Martin - which seemed to be happening more and more - we'd throw in the odd comment about how Mike was sorry he'd missed him or how Mike really liked his new trainers or how Mike was wondering if he'd seen the latest Almodovar.

Looking back on it all now, it all seems... well, 'childish' somehow doesn't even begin to describe it. Odd word, childish. I mean, is this the kind of thing that children really do. Maybe we tend to use the word 'childish' to describe such behaviour because it's a way of kidding ourselves that actually, 'adultish' would be a much more accurate word.

Anyway, we kept teasing and passing comments and making eyes and hiding behind giggles, until finally we decided to have a house party and to invite both Mike and Martin.

Meeting

I've been thinking a lot today about how Martin and I met. I've got a friend who reckons she can pinpoint the specific moment when she decided that she would marry the man who later did become her husband. [In fact, I think I may have written about her in this blog already.] But I've been going over and over this question in my mind all day today, and I don't think I can identify a similar moment for myself. [In fact, now that I stop to think about, I think I may have written about this very subject not long ago. It's obviously playing on my mind at the moment.]

Put simply: Martin and I met at Uni. We were both in our second years. He was studying architecture. I was studying psychology. He was a friend of a friend. He may even have been a friend of a friend of a friend. I'm not sure of the exact number of the levels of separation that existed between us at first. I didn't find him in the least bit attractive. In fact, I think I thought of him as a bit of a pathetic hanger-on who always seemed to need to be around other people who were doing interesting things.

I remember he had a very annoying laugh. I suppose what I didn't like about it was that I found it nervous. And I was quite unforgiving in those days. Nervous meant insecure which meant pathetic which meant 'Sorry, haven't got any time for you in my life.' Even now, there are still moments when he can be a bit goofy-looking, but for some reason, that was the only side of him I noticed when we first met. His hair's quite curly, but he wore it quite long then, which meant that his eyes were nearly always covered by these ridiculous ringlets which he kept pushing across one side of his face or the other. He liked to think of himself as being a bit 'indie' when it came to his sense of dress, so I never saw him in anything other than tattered trainers and orange-and-brown-striped jumpers. He's always had a nice voice - gentle without being unmasculine - but I didn't realise that at the time either.

One thing I do remember was that the first time I met him, I was convinced he was gay. As I said, he was introduced to me as the friend of a housemate. I walked into the kitchen one day and there he was, having a cup of tea with Zoe. There were no sparks, no instant fireworks. "Martin, this is Pauline. Pauline, this is Martin." That was the sum total of Zoe's introduction. I nodded, said Hello, made myself a cup of tea and walked out again.

I remember that whilst I was waiting for the kettle to boil, the two of them were chatting about some film they'd been shown during a lecture which contained some of the best footage of the buildings of pre-war Berlin, or something along those lines.

After he'd left, I marched back into the kitchen, looked Zoe straight in the eyes and said, "Another one for your fag harem?"

She opened her eyes wide. "Who? Martin?"

I smiled and turned away, pretending I'd only walked into the kitchen to get some milk. Zoe laughed. "No! Come on! D'you really think he's gay?"

I looked at Zoe again and shook my head knowingly.

Zoe opened her mouth and laughed again. "But..." she said, "but, there isn't anything in the least bit gay about him... is there?"

"Why, d'you fancy him?" I asked.

She looked away instantly. "Oh, please! I hadn't even asked him to come round. He's just a friend of En's. En told Martin it would be all right to pop by and borrow a book off me. We're on the same course."

"Yes. I gathered that from the intellectual conversation you two were having."

"Oh my God, tell me about, what a load of bollocks! I didn't understand half the things he was going on about anyway."

At this point, I felt like I'd done my bit, so I just smiled again and turned around, ready to walk out.

"Hang on, P, wait." I stopped and looked at Zoe. "D'you... d'you really think he's gay?"

I laughed and walked out of the kitchen, calling out "What difference does it make, anyway?" as I went.

---

Later that evening, Zoe and I were sitting in our lounge watching TV, together with another friend of Zoe's, Mike.

I stretched out my leg and tapped Mike's knee with my toes. "Has Zoe told you about your new admirer?"

Mike smiled. "Eh?"

Zoe turned to look at me and I managed to give her a quick wink. "Haven't you told him yet?" I asked.

"Umm... no, not yet," she said. "I was gonna... I was gonna do it later."

Mike furrowed his brow. "What admirer?"

I turned to Zoe. "I can't believe you haven't told him yet."

"Well..." she said, "why don't you tell him, then?"

My smile widened and I turned to Mike. "Zoe's got this new friend, right?" Mike nodded. "He's called Martin and he's on the same course as her. Except that she can't quite work out why he's tagged on to her, 'cause all he ever seems to do is keep asking questions about you."

"Eh? What d'you mean?" Mike asked.

I nudged Zoe with my elbow. "Go on, tell him."

Zoe nodded and cleared her throat. "Yeah, yeah... it's a bit weird, really. He keeps asking how you and I met and are you enjoying the course and what are your plans after you finish Uni and are you into Spanish cinema, 'cause if you are, he's always on the look out for someone to go to the CineHouse with him."

"You're fucking having a laugh," Mike said, leaning back in his seat and scratching his chin.

"No, it's true," I said. "He keeps asking when you're going to be around here, but Zoe keeps putting him off by telling him she doesn't know."

"Well... what the hell does he want from me?"

I raised my eyebrows. "What do you THINK he wants, Mike?" I paused. "He's gay and he fancies you. Simple as that."

"What? Is he really?"

Zoe turned to look at me, giving me a steely stare. I ignored her. "Oh yeah," I said. "But don't worry, he's completely okay about and everything. He came out when he was 13. He was telling Zoe about it the other day. He obviously just finds you very attractive, that's all."

"Bloody hell," Mike muttered, shaking his head.

"I'm surprised Zoe's not told you this already," I said.

Zoe's voice became an undertone. "Yeah... can't imagine how it could've slipped my mind..."

"Anyway," I said, "it's no big deal. He fancies you and that's that. It's not like he's gonna get anywhere, is it, so there's no point thinking about it." I turned back to the television.

When Mike wasn't watching, Zoe reached across and pinched my arm. I managed to turn my squeal of pain into a loud cough.

A few hours later, after Mike had gone home, Zoe turned on me, demanding to know what I'd been playing it. "Oh, for God's sake, it's just a bit of fun," I said. "It's not like anyone's getting hurt, is it?"

Walk

I went for a long walk yesterday: 45 miniutes one way to get to my nearest town. There was no particular reason for why I wanted to walk. Martin offered to go with me, but I said I preferred to be alone and he didn't argue. [During the walk, I wondered to myself if I'd wanted him to argue, but that's another story.]

"Are you taking your phone with you?" was all he asked.

I nodded, kissed his forehead, whispered, "See you in a bit," and walked out the back door.

I think, at first, I was slightly annoyed by the fact that it was a nice day. It wasn't as cold as it could have been, although I had wrapped myself very well in a thick, knee-length coat, leather gloves and a long scarf wound round my neck several times. There were barely a few wisps of cloud in the sky, which was bright and blue. The air smelt fresh. The roads were fairly quiet. The whole atmosphere felt too... too conspicuous at first, as though it demanded me to notice it and admire it. But I put on my dark sunglasses, pulled up the collar of my coat and decided to concentrate on the paving stones under my feet. After a while, I felt comfortable enough to raise my head a little and notice some of the things I was walking past.

I tried to think about nothing in particular. In fact, as I said, most of the time, I preferred to count the paving stones. I'd look up and choose a marker in the distance, like a pillar box or a particular house. And then I'd guess how many paving stones stood between me and this marker. And then I counted them all the way.

At first, my guesses were way off. But they got better and better as I went along. I had no idea how many thousands of paving stones marked the path between my house and town.

Eventually, I got to the small shopping precinct. Some of the bigger shops were open and I went into the large Waitrose.

Until recently, I'd never really noticed other people with prams or toddlers, but of course, now that I make a conscious effort to look away from them, I see them everywhere. After a few seconds spent walking down a Waitrose aisle, I realised that maybe my Sunday walk hadn't been such a clever idea after all.

What is it about some parents who feel they need to do their Parenting at full volume? It seems like such a blatant appeal for some kind of external validation or affirmation. It also seems like the height of arrogance to me. So many parents seem to think that the best way to discipline your child is to let every single person around you hear that you're doing it, almost as though the effectiveness of the discipline is proportional to the volume at which it's being delivered... which would also be proportional - as Martin would no doubt point out - to the child's embarrassment.

This one Waitrose Mum was a case in point. Actually, I say she was a Waitrose Mum, but she looked and sounded like anything but. Yes, this is incredibly snobby of me, but then I am a snob about these things. It felt as though she'd been looking for an Asda, but hadn't found it, so she decided to nip into the nearest supermarket she could find.

She was dragging some poor child behind her, a little boy who couldn't have been more than 5. He had the remains of some red sweet smeared all around his lips and on his hands and his threadbare white T-shirt. Even though he was young, his eyes and skin already seemed to have the same rustic poor look that set his Mum apart from everybody else in the place. And I couldn't hear exactly what the boy was saying, but he was clearly trying to whine his Mum into submissions, constantly attempting to pull her back to the aisle they'd just left.

And then suddenly, as though the boy had been annoying his mother for nigh on three months of the most incessant, insufferable brat behaviour imaginable, she wheeled around, loomed over him, jabbed a finger towards his face and in a voice so loud that plenty of the customers at the nearby checkouts turned around to look, barked, "Now, look here Jordan. I've fuckin' had enough of this. You are NOT gettin' no fuckin' sweets no more. Not today. You had yours and you ate 'em. And you ate some of Marley's too. So fuckin' pack it in, all right?" And with this she turned around and began walking towards another aisle.

Not surprisingly, little Jordan, left standing there by a mother who, to all intents and purposes, was walking away from him, began bawling even more loudly... except that his outburst went along the lines of, "Get me some fuckin' sweets NOW!"

If I'd seen a similar scene on television, I would've dismissed it as some hopelessly misguided attempt on the part of a scriptwriter to show an awareness of the reality of the life of this country's working classes. Even though I saw and heard it all happening in front of me, I couldn't quite believe it.

And on the way back home - with the weather taking a turn for the worse - I also realised that no-one seemed interested in doing anything to deal with what was going on. I presume none of the customers complained, which allowed the management not to have to do anything about it.

And then I asked myself why I didn't complain. And if I had complained, what would I have complained about? The mother's behaviour or the child's?