We're in this together

With a number trending in excess of 130 women committing suicide in London each year, and 180 poor souls in the South East, suicide is by no means the exclusive preserve of men. Especially since these numbers are on the rise. But, that said, women do account for a significantly lower proportion. In 2010, 500 men over the age of 15 and living in the South East took their lives.

Looking at the macabre news history for the popular city drinking hole and former-Conran restaurant, Coq D'Argent, the statistics appear to be borne out. Four recorded deaths in 5 years. 3 men. 1 woman. All city workers. The most recent, Nico Lambrechts, 46, an Investment Analyst, married father of 3.

Indeed, suicide is, nationally, the biggest killer of young men (15-44) - well ahead of better-publicised knife crime or smoking-related disease. On a national scale the statistics again trend - of the 5,608 people who took their own life in this country, 75% were, again, male.

Jane Powell, the founder of the much-needed and well-subscribed suicide prevention charity, CALM - Campaign Against Living Miserably - says, "men aren't supposed to talk about stuff, so it can be hard for them to know where or who to go to for help when life gets on top of them". And in the context of today's announcement that UBS  will cut 10,000 jobs as they restructure their business, life is not going to get any easier for our male-dominated city workforce. Academic studies on suicide behaviour certainly demonstrate clear evidence between suicide rates and economic recession.

It leads you to consider whether a new inequality is emerging. High expectations, lack of support.  As professional women have been developing ever-greater life choice, supported often first and foremost by their partners, but also by growing empathy and structural reform in the workplace, the law and the media, are men's requirements failing to be met?  

Look into popular culture at this year's chart topping album, Lana Del Rey's appropriately titled 'Born to Die', and the message is clear. In fact, it's really the only theme running through an otherwise narrative-free album. Despite everything we have achieved, women still want men to be winners and to be strong. "Money is the anthem..of success, so before we go out, what's your address? God, you're so handsome, take me to the hamptons, money is the anthem of success." I pick this light-hearted example but the options were endless.

Duh! Equality applies to all. If we are opening every possible opportunity for women to fulfil their professional ambitions, then we also need to ensure that men have the opportunity to fulfil their own, whatever they may be. That means their partners supporting them in their life goals, potentially at the expense of the house in The Hamptons, and employers, the law, and the media extending the same courtesy of empathy and structural reform across the board.

We are starting to see a structural shift with the advent of government initiatives such as paternity leave, where men are now entitled to up to 6 months un-paid parental leave, but take up is ludicrously low. As pointed out, "most men wouldn't do it for fear of repercussions to their career". 

As they say, 'depression is not a sign of weakness. It's a sign that someone has been trying to be too strong for too long.'  Until we figure out how to ensure that men, as well as women, feel comfortable and supported to define and deliver their personal life ambitions, these terrible tragedies will continue to plague the city.

4 in a van

Sweetbreads to you, Pig. We win.

We knew that 9 days with two children under 3 in a VW camper in Cornwall would be a challenge, so, before it all kicked off, we treated ourselves to a weekend of luxury at the Pig hotel in the New Forest. A huge extravagance - a 2 bedroom 2 bathroom family suite.

It would be wonderful; good old-fashioned family fun during the day in the New Forest, a babysitter and romantic night in the renowned restaurant - "we pride ourselves on foraged foods and mismatched cutlery" - congratulating ourselves on our effortless parenting, and topping up the feel-good family time with a happy roam of the breakfast bar the next day. JC would love to select his own pastries, baby Meg would love to suck the pastries, we would love to watch our darlings eat the pastries.

It didn't really go how we imagined. That said, we still won: 9 gives to 8 takes.

The thing is, luxury hotels are not designed for people with children, with them. Are they designed for any basic human needs? Miniature marble sinks are not designed to wash baby bottles.  Retro alarm clocks are not designed to be left in a child's bedroom, to go off one hour after children fall asleep, for them to never sleep that night again. Hotel mini-bars are not designed to hold baby food, and left over quiche, and yogurts. Children are not designed to roam freely on breakfast buffet bars - they don't chose wisely. Cutlery is not designed to be mismatched - it's silly.  I am not designed to deal with tantrums, 4 hours sleep and the world's worst latte.

But we still won. We worked it out. The tantrums, and the sleepless nights, and the alarm clocks and the tantrums only counted to 8 takes. The two kids washed and beautiful sitting together on the King size bed watching telly and laughing together, Jack's delight at walking in a kitchen garden where he could pick and eat anything he wanted to - basil, strawberries, mud; the whole family on the giant swing. All the gives counted to 9.

Ha! Got to do better than that Pig. We win.

Ground Zero

The kids could not have been more perfect on the 4 hour drive to Cornwall for the start of our camping adventure. Despite several illegal trips into the back to make sandwiches, and shake rattles at 85mph, we arrived safely to a beautiful sunny evening in Perranporth. Ah, Perranporth.  For many a deeply unfashionable, deep-fried British seaside resort. For us, destination young love kite-surfing 2006 pre-children. We thought it would be best to come somewhere that we knew.

Cruelly ejected from our 'tents only' field of old, we pitched next to the other vans - cool Vintage VW's alongside white beasts complete with sun deck, satellite dish and outdoor toilet tent. We knew which side of the portable privet we belonged to.

Camp building. Everything had to come out of the van in order to put everything back in the van, but in a slightly different order.  The trouble was that it was 4pm,  JC desperately wanted entertainment, Meg deliberately filled her nappy, twice, and we were against the clock before the 'run-in'. 'Run in'... Dinner, bath, bed.  

Dinner, which we had no accessible facilities to make; bath, which there was none; bed which had yet to be built. And that's just us, we had the kids to worry about too.

A word on the layout: Meg in a stretcher bed running across the front two seats, JC in the den (essentially the boot), us in the pop top roof.  The boot needs to be empty to be a den.  The van needs to be stationary to pop the roof.  The seats need to be facing forwards to drive, obviously, inwards to eat dinner and forwards to carry the stretcher. 

It's sunny, way too sunny.  Meg is burning. And too windy. The gazebo that we are trying to put up is blowing away and the wind seems to be driving JC a bit mad - it does do that to dogs in windy places, I have heard.  We decided on a corner pitch with a stunning view over the sand-dunes.  Matt notices a crows nest - he looks at it nervously, clearly thinking, 'they are just crows, should I listen to the voice telling me to pitch again elsewhere?'

We finish pitching. Matt takes JC to the on-site animal farm that we certainly never noticed back in 2006.   I'm left to make dinner with Meg - easy. Another nappy change - come on!  Chicken pesto pasta. Easy. I put the pasta on in the van. Meg is in the van. It feels dangerous having Meg and pasta cooking in the van at the same time. Not that I was actually cooking Meg, but I feared I may do, inadvertently.  I build the buggy. Pasta cooking in the van, Meg in the buggy. What about the chicken? Do I cook in the van? Feels dangerous cooking chicken in the van. I get the portable stove out. Pasta in the van, Meg in the buggy, chicken outside. It's a kitchen planner's horrendous triangular nightmare. Boiling, screaming, spitting, and that was just me.

I get it back under control, the boys return and it looks as if I have been twiddling my thumbs. 

Next, bath. I take both kids as we have decided to move the van, away from the wind and sun and crows. One in arms one on shoulders across the mud. Toddler in arms, baby on shoulders pulling my hair out. Looking back I see Matt starting on Bed out, Chairs round, Roof down, again. 

Kids are angels in the camping bathroom. JC in the chilly shower, Meg in a little provided baby bath. I had forgotten the soap and washed them in moisturiser. I had forgotten the towel and used my jumper. I had forgotten a hair brush, they didn't seem to mind.

Then, the first moment of joy; watching JC skipping across the field in his camping jumper, holding his toothbrush, elated at the change to his routine.  Meg happily drinks her milk and slips off to sleep on her stretcher bed in her mini sleeping bag. JC the same in the boot, sorry, den (it's empty now). 

We are shell-shocked. That was tough. Really tough. Tougher than anything we have attempted with the kids. We manage to wash ourselves, feed ourselves, and rearrange our camp, almost in silence. The scale of challenge hits. 9 days of this holiday.  It's phenomenally hard, for someone who has had so much, and so much order, to suddenly manage in a tiny space with none of the usual aids and props. Pathetic really.  But we can't help it. Wondering, are we being unfair putting the kids through this, for what? Our own vanity? Self assurance that we are still young and capable? 

We are terrified of going to bed. Of a Pig-like sleepless night again, in such a small space. The morons in the tent next to us keep us awake, I would have preferred the crows. We are up half the night, disturbed, worrying. Meanwhile the kids sleep. 12 solid hours.

That would be a tent. This is a van


We wake to the gurglings of Meg on her stretcher-bed below.  Peeping over the edge of the pop-top mattress, down into the van, we are greeted with a stunning smile and enthusiastic leg kick. "Can I get up now?" pipes up from 2 metres away,  accompanied by another head poking out of the boot. It's 7.15am. "Yes!" We love you more when you sleep. Fact.

So, Meg in cockpit, Matt in pop top, JC in boot. How to make a bottle for Meg, now crying rather than gurgling? The gas needs to be switched on. The gas is  under JC's bed. It's way too cold to go outside. JC can't be in the 'kitchen' with the gas on. Commence the 2 hour wake-up to-breakfast to-getting dressed run out. You don't think about it at home. The 'run out' is easy, it's the 'run in' that kills.  But, when your toddler is on top of the tap that begins the whole process, he's effectively sitting on your microwave saying.."oh no Mum, you can do nothing for Her until I have finished with you."

So, JC up into the pop-top with Matt to read stories. I'm so impressed with Matt for this as it's pretty claustrophobic up there at the best of times, let alone when JC is bed-mining with him. 

Toddler out of boot, gas on, kettle on gas, make bottle, feed Meg. Now what? Where do I put Meg while cooking breakfast? In boot? No, she doesn't seem to see the same excitement in that. Not back in her bed- the stretcher has now been removed to turn the chairs for breakfast. OK, Meg up into the pop top too. That's 3 of them up there. 

The next part takes an hour. Matt is definitely a genius, or mad.  How does he hack it up there? It sounds horrendous. They are crawling all over him and putting things in his ears and licking him. Meg is eating his hair. He says he likes it.

I have the easy job. I clear up the night detritus - sleeping bags, pillows, thermal window pads, our dinner stuff which we need for our breakfast stuff, old bottles, new bottles. High chairs in, porridge on, coffee on. Porridge is critical to give us the energy that we need to get us through until lunchtime. This is an endurance holiday, we need slow release.

And relax. For about one minute. But it's a really great minute. Really better than any breakfast minutes at home, "can I watch cartoons?" Delicious Colonna and Small's coffee through the aero-press. Meg kept quiet with a Ryvita - unbreakable by baby gums. We use the time to capture scenic photos of the kids seen through steam on the cold morning.

This has taken about an hour and a half. I'm running on pure adrenaline. No time to stop though, we need to be out in time for Meg's sleep, before she starts screaming again and can't sleep in her bed because it has been dismantled and is now a breakfast chair, but which needs to be a driving chair again.

It's ok though because, when camping, the simple things are so much more fun. I do the washing up in the communal washing up block and chat to the other campers - old and young. It's not as lonely as these jobs at home and they aren't never-ending. Walking back to the van with the bowl of clean dishes you feel a sense of accomplishment and enjoy the beautiful view.

We pack up the house and we are out again. In so many ways a tent would be easier to manage. But that would be a tent. This is a van. 

We manage to leave everything that we need for the beach at the campsite. We did just pop out for groceries after all, but ended up having a day in a stunning cove, rock pooling. We saw a clingfish and a star fish and a baby crab, which some professional rock poolers had found and kindly offered to show us. I dropped the crab and his arm fell off. "You aren't very good at holding crabs Mum." It was really embarrassing handing the deformed crab back to the rock-pooling children.

Back to camp. Back to the 'run in'. Easier today. We were less shell-shocked after the kids went to bed. We managed to talk a bit and eat delicious BBQ mackerel bought from the farmer's market, landed yesterday. 

Can't remember any takes today. Can't be bothered to count the gives. I'm too bloody tired.

The rain is coming


Sunday. Rain predicted and rain rained. Matt had been building it up for days, rocking gently on the spot and mumbling to himself: the rain is coming.

I was up half the night again as the whole family slept, worrying about the upcoming precipitation.  How would we manage? Would we survive? I'm a terrible mother! We had given up on the dream of owning a camper van one day. But, pressure off, I still couldn't sleep for thinking of potential things that could be worth worrying about. 

An important lesson: never underestimate the positive power of negative thinking.

After a challenging start, it turned out to be one of those days. One of those really great days.

One of those days where the museum was genuinely engaging, where the restaurant opposite the museum happened to belong to Rick Stein, where the beach we stop for a walk at is hosting the World 10th Annual Belly Boarding Championship, and where Matt gets the van stuck on a muddy hilly field, burns out the clutch and is advised by the old lad running the car park to "ease off...let the wheel's grip themselves."

One of those days. Really. The best.


I'm not the father I thought I was


So AL had done the first three nights bathtime for the kids.  She had done so with enormous grace and a smile on her face, helped admittedly by the fantastic campsite facilities.  She had had the luxury of a family bathroom equipped with everything you need to bathe simultaneously a 7 month old and a 3 year old.  The list of equipment included:

Shower

Baby bath

Child height sink

Baby changing table

Toilet

Step

We arrive at a new "family friendly" campsite and muggins here is nominated to take the two monkeys for a wash.  Honestly I tried my hardest to just put it down to inexperience but really I was managing with poor equipment.  The list of equipment I had was:

A bath

A (dirty) concrete floor

Not a fair contest.  I can't be funny about it.  There was nothing funny about it. Where the f@£k was I supposed to put Meg whilst I got JC out of the bath, dry and dressed?  

If anyone sees my sense of humour please let me know, I am pretty sure it is blowing in the wind in Cornwall.  As for JC, when I "asked" him to stop shouting, his response to me was priceless..."well, I just wont talk at all then."  Sorry chap xx


The upside


At some point you just have to accept the fact that it might, just, be working. Your plan may, against all odds, and in line with your greatest hopes, actually come off.

Five nights in. Five nights of zero-nonsense bedtime. Five nights of the toddler sleeping 12 hours. Five nights of the baby doing significantly better than she does at home. It genuinely seems to be the case that they don't seem to notice that they are sleeping in a boot and on a stretcher respectively. Or they don't care.

That said, last night was a tough one. Strong winds were causing the whole van to shake. M and I were woken by it before the kids were, so it was no surprise when they finally demanded some attention.  M went outside in the wind in his underpants (always a highlight for me), to bring in the awning. JC, Meg and I turned the torches on and had a bit of a drink of milk together. It was rather nice actually. None of this sush sush shushing, 'you are feeling really sleepy', no eye contact...Instead it was, 'oh how funny, Dad's outside in his underpants and we are all drinking milk together.' Fifteen minutes later we were all back to sleep. Not saying I would like that scenario on a work day but it certainly beat swearing at them both for disturbing my five star sleep in the hotel, then hating myself for it.

There are other reasons why we are starting to allow ourselves to believe that this might be working out.

My sister came to visit, camping a few pitches away from the mad house.  It was superb. What a treat for the kids to have Aunty Lucy rock up at breakfast time, knock on the window and start playing hide and seek. What a treat for us to have someone watch the kids while we went for a run, to bring us copious quantities of local beers and enjoy our first serious cooking - a dozen scallops on the BBQ. 

I began to notice that there were loads of extended families on the campsite - kids in school uniforms visiting their nomad Grandparents, girls meeting her future in-laws on a camping weekend. It's a leveller, really, camping, so it provides wonderful neutral ground for family get-togethers.

The location here in Gwithian is simply unbelievable. The beach is probably the best I have seen in the world, and we spent hours today looking through rock pools warmed by the sun, watching the distant surfers and puddle-jumping the remnants of high tide.

And then there is the van. It's far from perfect. We spend hours getting ready and unpacked and packed and unpacked and repacked depending on its purpose at that moment.  The campsites can be snooty or grotty or intolerant.  But all that is reduced to an irrelevance the moment you pull up outside a superbly cool beach cafe, pop your baby in the back to sleep for a couple of hours while you enjoy a leisurely lunch.


So, where does this leave us?

We feel pride for the van as we do a best friend, after only 6 days.

Like any great conversationalist, she has taken us away from our day-to-day humdrum and reminded us of the very finest things in life: gymnastics moves in pyjamas before bedtime (just Matt), family breakfasts, chatting with strangers.

We like to photograph her in every possible light, every scenario. In a car park. In the camp site. With a wetsuit on the bonnet. With Meg in her bed. With Jack hanging from the pop-top. With Matt sitting on the step drinking a beer in the evening sun. 

In the evening, when the kids have gone to bed, we find ourselves having a drink and gazing at the final rays glinting off her bonnet, rather than at the sunset itself.   It's a bit strange, though I have noticed we are not alone. Many seem to position their deck-chairs for the greatest possible view of their van.

And no wonder. She is such a mighty beast, so capable of so much.  She parks, and sleeps, and cooks, and stores, and offers seats, she plays music and provides lights and has a fridge which is permanently on and permanently offering chilled lager, or crabs, or scallops or baby food, or super-pudding. She is roomy and comfy and has a heater and her top pops up so fast, offering a second bedroom, along with the den, the kitchen-diner-breakfast bar-cocktail-lounge and stretcher-bearing cockpit. 

But she is a fickle friend. 

In the wind she wobbles and wakes us and the children. When the baby wakes, crying, it is loud, really loud, like someone has woken you from heaven's slumber with a megaphone. And you are powerless. You can't 'control cry' here. There is nothing to do but a bizarre swing from the top bunk down to the stretcher, dummy, into the den, hug, back into the top bunk, torch, back to the stretcher again, nappy, like a caged and slightly demented monkey hunting for a hidden banana. I am energised but I look horrendous.

She drinks diesel, and is long and won't fit under some Waitrose carpark barriers, as if to say, 'you are not welcome here, this was your old life.' 

So, should we blow our hard fought savings on our very own beautiful beast?

I asked JC whether he preferred the black car or the camper van. Resolute response. The Camper Van! Hooray! Why?

"The camper van has wheels". 

No closer to deciding then.


Final morning, final thoughts

We wake early to a beautiful sunrise. 

Truthfully, we wake early to Meg's crying, and then happen to notice the beautiful sunrise.

It's packing-up day. We did everything we could last night to be as prepared as possible, to be best able to gather 4 people's belongings in a tidy order, leave no mark of our presence and get on the road before Meg needed to sleep again at precisely 9.15.  We drank local ale out of a small keg to save rubbish. We ate nothing but blocks of cheese and ripped bread dipped in homemade chutney, to save on washing up. It was tough going.

I took JC off on an early morning walk to the beach to watch the sun coming up, and leave Matt free to tidy camp away, with just little Meg to watch.  Camping jumpers over pyjamas, coffee in flask, biscuits in pocket.  

JC walked confidently through the sand dunes, clearly excited about the adventure, fascinated by the footprints he was leaving in the dew on the grass.  No moaning or 'can I go on your shoulders'-ing. He stopped to have a chat with a chap getting his paddle-board ready. He ran away from a few dogs.  

We decided to go down to the beach, to eat the biscuits. Tide was on its way out, perfect. The freshly washed beach was tainted only by a few sets of footprints. The waves were populated only by a couple of paddle-boarders.  JC would have sat on a rubbish tip if it had meant he could eat a biscuit, but it was a really special morning together, all the same, a memory I shall treasure. The pyjamas and footprints and paddle-boarders and waves and biscuits, all before 7.30 am. If we had rented a cottage, maybe we would have done the same, but it's unlikely. Much more likely would be that we would have put JC in front of the TV to watch cartoons so we could pack up without bother.

Let me not paint too romantic a picture. This is a new type of holiday, but it is still reality.  JC needed the promise of a biscuit to get him out of bed and into his camping jumper. He needed another biscuit promise to get him off the beach and back to the campsite. The sea was cold, I cut my toe on the rocks. I carried him on my shoulders the whole way back. On arrival Matt was distressed. Turns out Meg needed a bit more looking after than I had imagined. The camp packing was no further along.  Matt had just missed out on the dew, and the dunes and the biscuits.

That's the thing about this holiday. The most special moments with the children that we have ever had. The children happier than we have ever seen them, but the moments are interspersed with a decent slug of hard graft.

Perhaps a better idea would be to rent a holiday cottage and take the van mentality to it...but then I'm almost entirely sure we would have slept through the sunrise, and the promise of a biscuit on a cold beach would not have held such wonderful appeal.

Choose choice

Watching Plan B's Ill Manors the other night I was disturbed by the depth of desperate depravity on our council estates. 

Pity the Plight of Young Fellows

The blanket of stars above their heads in the sky feels like a ceiling 

Slowly crushing down on them as the terror starts progressing

Impressional young children that never had a chance

Growing up in these manors most are doomed from the start

Because the minds of their peers are as ill as their hearts.

Choice came to mind. Or the lack of it. No choice. No real choice. No sensible array of options for analysis, optimisation, selection. Not really. 

We often talk about having too much choice.  It causes confusion, anguish, regret that we have perhaps selected the marginally sub-optimal route. It creates a cognitive burden on our weary minds. 

Watch Ill Manors and you may, like I, feel disgusted with yourself, loathe yourself, embarrassed at the gross extent of your privileged naivety.

Choice - the undervalued gift. A dream for the millions in this country standing with their backs against the wall, forced to select between bad and worse.

Barry Schwartz, in his book The Paradox of Choice, refers to two groups: the satisficers and the maximisers.  Satisficing refers to a known decision-making strategy, where the aim is to meet an acceptable threshold, rather than an aspired optimum. Maximisers make exhaustive efforts to drive the greatest positive result, anything short is mediocrity. 

When we feel pressured by the decisions that we need to make day to day, or when we perhaps feel dissatisfied with our selection, it's not a question of too much choice. It's more a question of constraining our satisfaction with unrealistic and impossible goals.

So many of us are maximisers, we want perfection, we want to make sure we have squeezed every ounce of value out of the choice available to us.

But, take the cost of maximisation into account; the time, the effort, the stress, the opportunity loss. Take instead the array of choice as the item to be maximised. Then you may see your success at meeting your life aspirations a little differently.