Lend me a tenner mate.

Social media is a slot machine. You put up a post, a blog, a tweet, pull down the handle and watch dry-mouthed hoping your readers go up as the comments roll around and around - till it all grinds to a halt on three lemons and a shower of interest and LOLs. You can stand there in the dark for hours playing it - man against machine. The souls of your shoes tacky against the nylon carpet. An almost empty pint glass in your hand, the dregs warm and flat. Hoping for a jackpot. An addict hoping for a hit. And the etiquette of it all is tough. Some people you like but there is never the time to get to know them properly. Others want stuff from you - a review, a signed book, or just to be your friend. What for instance is the done thing when someone who owes you money wants to be your friend on Facebook? Not that he owes me much. I can't even remember whether it was five or ten or twenty. I think it was ten and it was years ago. And it is not the money. It is just I can remember feeling stung as happening upon me in a cafe, this chap greeted me warmly, chatted loudly and effusively of how great it was to see me as he queued for coffee and a pastry, and then called to me as I sat at my table asking me to pay for his breakfast as he didn't "have the time" to pay himself. And the hungry, snaking queue of patrons heard him, watched me, as I was had. I remember thinking "Are you kidding me? You're standing there. At the till. Ofcourse you have the time." And he must have had the money because he was in a bakery buying coffee and a pastry - had joined the queue to buy them. And I'd liked this chap. And I'd felt let down and used up. But I paid for his coffee and his pastry and he left the cafe, calling how he would get the money back, and raised a hand in warm salute and I thought "I bet you don't. I bet you won't." Ofcourse perhaps that's why he wants to be my Facebook friend.

Diva

This is my London diva girl. Beautiful, of course as divas always are and glamorous. Glamour too is the diva's way of going on. But I call her "diva" not because of narrow, selfish ways, buffed nails or rhinestone studded shoes; rather, because she claims her life while others, I include myself, will watch their own pass by. She stands centre stage, not to own the spotlight which is hers by right, but to anchor the performance, give depth and meaning to the words of those who surround her star. Her fellow troubadours seem small from the stalls. She will turn her head an inch to whisper: "Stand tall. Move up to your mark." When they miss their cue and lose their place in fright at life, she will say: "Here, try these words for size." I blame her though, for setting such a high tide mark in friendship, leaving seaweed and stripped and silvered driftwood in its wake so that I cannot forget where she has been. For never failing me when darkness came around and sadness washed right through and over me. For being there when it would have been simpler and far cleaner to give me "space and time" and all those things that mean: "I don't know what to say." For sitting by and listening to, feeding me and all of mine, and pouring red, communion wine into my crystal glass. Which I then drank. I hold her thoroughly responsible for all her wisdom, gentle comfort, the ringing supper laughter and the kitchen bar stool smiles. I love her children as I love my own; if terrible things happened and terrible things do happen, the first to come around and pick up those that had been mine would be my London diva. Cue: applause.

The moving finger writes

I have done something to my back. I cannot quite stand upright. Periodically I groan a lot. I was squatting next to the children, pleading with them to chose something in a shop so I could go back to a cup of tea and a cheese scone in the cafe next door. I admit I was buying silence. I am not proud of it but I was desperate for the tea. As I stood up, I thought: "Oops." It was so bad, I was clutching at the shelves. The nice shop assistant came over. I said: "Having a bit of a problem standing up. I just need a minute." He was about 23; he thought I was 70. The car was parked up a hill. As we laboured up it, my husband said to the boys: "We'll have to roll mummy down this hill like a pig in a barrel." I was in a considerable amount of pain at this point, hanging on to my husband's arm with one hand and holding on to my six-year-old's shoulder with the other. I stopped walking in silent protest. My six-year-old said: "I don't think you look like a pig Mummy," I smiled lovingly at my child, "even if Daddy does." I did not smile lovingly at his father.

We were en route from the hospital where we were having the six-year-old checked out by a consultant paediatrician to see if he had some sort of falling down disorder. (He doesn't.) This was at the suggestion of the school after a series of incidents in which my son was hurt. As responsible and courteous middle-class parents, we took their piece of paper with its Google search results on dyspraxia, said "Thank you" and that we would "look into it". My suspicion was that as the incidents tended to involve other children (sitting on him, for instance) and he did not seem to fall over spontaneously at home, any official medical diagnosis of a problem with motor skills was extremely unlikely. If I was in the habit of swearing, which of course I am not, I would have said it was an absolute fucking waste of time for all concerned.

I know some people still consider the fact I blogged my concerns about what was going on beyond the pale. Others, however, are back on board. I liked one mother very much the moment I met her; she had no great need of my company but I felt we had interests in common and when she needed my help, I gave it freely. The first time she cut me dead, I thought: "She didn't see me." The second time when I could not move a car fast enough for her, I thought: "What's going on?" The third time, I sucked my teeth and shook my head in regret as I strapped the children into the car. Then I thought: "You know. I don't think so." I crossed back over the road to where she stood with another waiting mother. I said: "Would you call me?". I waited but she didn't call. Two weeks went by until she e-mailed.

She wrote: “There's so much I want to say and most of it focuses on the appalling attitude I have recently adopted towards you. I haven't phoned you as you asked me to do because I was afraid you wouldn't really want to talk to me. I have behaved terribly, like a stupid spoilt child, not to mention sheep - following suit, if you know what I mean. I have never meant to ignore you, snub you or act coolly towards you. It's something I've never done to anyone before and believe you me it's preyed on my mind every day since I first heard about your blog. I actually feel quite disgusted with myself. Please forgive my rudeness. I am truly sorry for being so pathetic.”

I thought: "Cor blimey." I replied: “Listen honey. Fret not... I respect anyone's right to hold a different opinion to my own. 100%. Truly." I went on a bit, but that is the kiss and make up gist of it.I was slightly gobsmacked when she told me later, over a cup of tea, that caught up in the feeding frenzy, she, herself, had not read the blog. I admire her bravery though; having the courage and making the effort to apologise in such a handsome manner. Knowing when and how to say sorry is a gift. I am hoping she will be a new marra.

To a few, I remain: "The Unforgiven". Northumberland, although a huge county, is a small world. I blog. My words do not go away. They hang around in cyber-space, witness to my awful mood, my anger, my scary desperation. I look at them, sometimes in the same way as I look at my children and think: "Cor blimey. Are they mine?" They are. I cannot walk away from them. They would cling to my leg and scream. But the words thing; that cuts both ways. Everyone knows everyone else. Maybe, not directly; face-to-face. But they probably know someone who knows someone, a cousin, a neighbour, a sister in law. I do not know everything, but I know more than I want to about those who still ramble on about the blog. I think: "Get over it." I have.

Alone on a wide wide sea

I am "interesting". Don't you think? I do such an interesting thing. Blog. Did I mention I have a book deal? That is interesting isn't it? Let me tell you about it. Let me tell you about blogging. Really. I am such an interesting person. You will never guess what I did this week. I sheared a sheep. Before I sheared the sheep, I chased a fox. Have you realised yet what an interesting person I am? Oh yes, I picked a fight and moved a house. These are the things you do when you are interesting. I could tell you a story or two. Oh yes, I could tell a tale of ghosties and goulies and things that go knock in the night. I could reach out for your hand and have you gulping down your sorrow, then traitor to your tears, make you laugh at my jester wit. If you listened that long. You would have to listen. To me. Me. Me. I am worth listening to. I might have to ask: "Have I told you this already?" Even if I have, you might not mind because after all, I am interesting. I haven't always lived here. Once upon a rainy days, I lived in London town. Did you know that? Do you read my blog? It is an on line diary. They are very popular these days. Mine is anyhows or used to be. And a book, I am writing a book if ever I find the time in my full and busy life. I sometimes ask myself: "How do I manage with the kids and all?"
But I do. I will tell you about it if you like. At length.

I have become a man. As a woman, I would have conversations. I prefer not to do that any more. As a man, I am free to lob my anecdotes in your direction and fully expect you to catch them. I have not yet become a character. I am as yet too young for that; doubtless it will come. As a man, I do not expect to have friends. They take up so much time. Time which I could spend being interesting. Time I could spend telling you about myself. A friend might disappoint. I prefer to avoid disappointment. I know people up here though, oh yes. Quite well: some of them quite like me. And I know more of them than I did. Not just my builders either. I have drunk tea with some, broken bread with a few. Obviously, I earned my place at table. "This is Wifey. She moved from London and she blogs." Cue my witty take on Northern life. But friendship, ah friendship, that is another story. Not mine.

Bud Stop

I started learning German yesterday as you do when you go to bed at between two and three in the morning every day and you are so busy you think your head might drop off. A couple of months ago, it seemed like a really good idea. One of my closest friends just moved to Germany at the behest of her husband (sounds somehow familiar) and I thought: "I will be going to see them regularly," (I have managed it once so far,) "I must learn German." I really like the idea of learning German and another mother from school agreed to teach me. Sitting at her kitchen table, I learnt: "Guten Tag", the word for tour operator "die Reiseleiterin" and how to say "Mein Name ist Hannelore Herzog" - ofcourse my name is not Hannelore Herzog but it might come in handy. Perhaps I will call myself Hannelore when I visit my friends. I had the lesson and walked back through brilliant morning sunshine to the house. I thought to myself: "How I feel right this minute is probably uncomfortably close to insanity." When I got back my husband asked quizzically : "Why are you learning German? You know there's no time for self- improvement." I growled at him, in German.

Later, we went up to school to discuss strategies to address our concerns about our son's various injuries and relationships. The meeting went well on a number of fronts not least the fact that I managed not to cry during it. Close run thing at one point but just scraped through. I do not think a parent is ever at their strongest in a staffroom, even with a china cup of tea in their hands. Part of you is thinking: "Should I be here?" and "Now I'm for it". I wonder whether teachers ever feel that way.

Thank God though for teachers who do not want to see an isolated child stalk their corridors and haunt their playground. The school is determined to stop the hurt. Among various proposals, playground buddies and a friendship bench were mentioned. I love the idea of a friendship bench. An honest place where you admit a primitive need. A bench on which to sit while you wait for someone to cross the painted asphalt and take your hand with its bitten down finger nails in their warm and grubby one. Someone who will say those magic words: "Come play." There is an idea for an up and coming politician. Pledge to buy a friendship bench for every school. Call it Gordon's friendship bench, or Dave's. Think of all those votes piling up in the future - talk about the Jesuitical "get them while they are young". How grateful would you be to a politician who gave you a friend to play with every time you were lonely as a child?