There was a smell in the air. A smell that I can’t describe – a freshness that adds a little smile to your face, a smell of snowdrops and birdsong that means you just know that spring is coming.

It was the perfect afternoon then for a half term outing.

Belle had a friend to play on Friday afternoon, so rather than just let them spend four hours taking turns to watch each other play on Belle’s DS, I decided to take them out on a spy trail. Now of course if I were a Proper Mummy I would have spent the night beforehand writing out ingenious clues and hiding them around Bristol, but fortunately we had a trail from Treasure Trails. View Post

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As Belle has moved into year six this September, over the next few weeks we have to go through the process of applying for her place at secondary school.

You might think I’d be an old hand at choosing schools, but actually I’ve never really thought about it much before. My choice of primary school has mainly been driven by things like a nice smell, or a particularly attractive male teacher, and when it came to choosing a big school for Bee, we were living in Bridgwater, less than a mile from the school that pretty much everyone in my family has been to, so not a lot of comparing of league tables went on there.

Now we’re in Bristol though, it’s a bit different. I know nothing about the schools, and although other parents seem to have known since birth where they want their little darlings to be educated, I’ve found it difficult to drum up any enthusiasm for the subject until recently. Even now ‘enthusiasm’ would be a strong word. ‘Obligation’ is probably more like it.

This week then, we went to our very first open evening at a local all girls school that has recently gone from being fee-paying to an academy.

“Do you think there will be drinks?” Bee asked Belle as we walked down the hill.

“Yes,” she answered decisively.

“How about cakes?”

“Probably…”

“No,” I interrupted.

“…not.” finished Belle, seamlessly.

If  ‘finding the entrance’ is part of the selection process, I fear we may have reduced our chances already, as it took us ten minutes and three attempts to even get in. When we did, we were greeted and shown around by a carefully chosen selection of wonderfully smiley and polite young girls in blazers. Rather too smiley in my opinion. A little bit Stepford Wives.

The school seemed fine. It had desks and chairs and everything, and far more computers than we had in my day obviously. Cue jokes from my children and Boyfriend about writing on slates and counting spearheads.

How do you know though whether a school is right for your child? It was the evening, meaning I couldn’t do my usual trick of judging the smell of the school dinners, so I was at a bit of a loss. It had everything a school should have facilities wise, but how do I know if it has that something that will ensure the right balance for Belle of fun, discipline, ambition and independence?

To add to the frustration, it’s doubtful that we’ll get much choice even if I should have a preference, as Bristol is well-known for being difficult when it comes to admissions. In that case, perhaps I should be focussing on the argument that says it’s support at home that’s what’s really important when it comes to achievement?

That sounds a bit too much like hard work for me though. Homework? Projects? Educational days out? I’d rather not. I quite like the idea that school is responsible for stimulating and educating her, and that I’m in charge of chillaxing. I always feel less guilty about her watching TV if she has been at school during the day.

Looks like boarding school it is.

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On this very day, exactly one year ago, we moved to Bristol.

It was an interesting day. Boyfriend was working in another city for the weekend, and Bee had a Very Important Party that she simply couldn’t miss, so the moving crew consisted of just me, Belle, and two removal men that Belle and I not-very-affectionately referred to as The Chuckle Brothers.

As a seasoned housemover, I was well prepared when they showed up at our door at 9am on moving day. Everything was packed, rooms were cleaned, we were good to go. What I was not prepared for however was just how many breaks The Chuckle Brothers felt it reasonable to take during the day.

They were about ten minutes in, and had loaded up the cushions from the sofa, when I thought I’d better offer them a cup of tea. This, it turns out, was to be a big mistake. I thought they’d take their tea, and have quick slurps between items, but no. Cushions loaded, although not the sofa itself, they clearer felt they deserved a break already, and took their teas, rolled cigarettes, and spent the next fifteen minutes sat on the floor of the van having a nice little chat.

Goodness, I thought, I shan’t be offering them any more tea! (This is my idea of cracking the whip).

Half an hour later though, and I wasn’t left with much choice in the matter.

“Would you mind sticking the kettle on?” Barry, (or it could have been Paul), asked.

A stronger person might have said no, get on with your work, but I’m not terribly good at being assertive face-to-face, so instead I sighed and got out the teabags. They did have all of my stuff literally in their hands – I didn’t want them getting annoyed and ‘accidentally’ dropping things or scrapping any more paint of the walls than was strictly necessary.

The pattern continued throughout the day, and it was several hours before we were ready to leave, and then another three of four hours of intermittent unloading and resting at the other end.

And then they were gone, thanks God, and Belle and I were left in our new house.

It was exciting, but scary.

I had been planning the move for so long, pinning so many hopes on it, as though moving to Bristol was going to be the solution to everything. ‘When we’ve moved to Bristol…’ I must have said at least 100 times in the two years beforehand. There was a lot riding on this move for me, not least the fact that neither Bee nor Belle thought it was a particularly good idea.

As you would expect, those first few months were difficult. When life didn’t immediately become full of new friends turning up on the doorstep, and invitiations to exciting new events and opportunities, I had a little* panic. What if it was all a big mistake? Had I really been thinking of everyone’s best interests? Was city life really the best choice, or was I simply running away from something? From myself?

We’d been living in Bristol for about eight months when I had one of those moments that tips you into a new way of feeling. I was walking to an appointment, and bumped into someone I knew, someone I had made freinds with since moving to Bristol. This doesn’t sound like a big deal I know, but this was the first time I’d properly just happened upon someone in the street like that. Until then, all my meetings had been planned ones, but this was the moment where I thought ‘Wow, I casually know people!’

I walked away from that chance hello with a smile on my face, looking up and around me at the buildings and shops that now had that familiar feel to them, and I knew I hadn’t made a mistake.

That was the moment that Bristol began to feel like home.

*Quite big

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Despite not even applying for olympic tickets, this morning Belle and I got into the olympic spirit and went to watch the torch relay as it came through Bristol. There were already hundreds of people lining the streets when we arrived at our spot, so we queued up for our free Cokes, in true commercial style, and set up camp with some friends from Belle’s school, who we had spotted on the other side of the road.

"Bristol olympic torch relay"

Rule Britannia etc etc

It wasn’t long before the crowd started getting excitable, as a series of police bikes approached, followed by an assortment of strange advertising buses. I was slightly confused, as there appeared to be a boy, dressed in white, getting off a bus and holding the torch at the side of the road throughout this procession. I didn’t think that was how it worked. Can you spot him?

After this initial surge of activity, the boy with the torch was still there, and we of course rushed over to touch it. Belle apparently is ‘never washing her hands again’. Any excuse.

"olympic torch"

Someone pass him a match?

Then though the excitement started up again, and it dawned on me that we were standing at a spot where the flame was being passed over, (I understand the relay concept now), and this torch boy was actually just waiting for the flame to come along. I did thing it was a bit weird that it wasn’t even lit. I am quite slow though sometimes.

"olympic torch relay"

Feel that Olympic spirit…

By this point, thinking the fun was over, I had kindly let an old lady stand in front of me, so didn’t have such a good view. Still, if you ignore that massive head taking up a lot of the picture, I think you get some sense of the occasion.

Hooray for torch boy!

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I have to make a confession. This isn’t really a very good A to Z. There isn’t even an A for starters, and there aren’t many of the other letters either, although I have two for C. Please do not use this post to help you find your way around Bristol. You will get lost.

So now you’re thinking aren’t you, what even is the point of this post? It’s a good question.

There isn’t one really, other than I found a street name that I thought was funny, and it made me wonder what other unusual street names there might be in the city. I had a look in a real A to Z of Bristol, and found a few more, and here they are.

Do let me know if you have any interesting street names of your own.

First off…

Battenburg Road

What no cake?

I got there, and guess what? No cake. Shocking.

And this one…

Cheese Lane

Just around the corner from Cracker Alley

No cheese either, surprise surprise. I’d learnt my lesson from Battenburg Road though, so I wasn’t so disappointed this time. Cheese Lane actually has some significance for me, as it was where I parked my car when I went for the job interview for my first proper job out of University. There’s a fascinating fact for you.

You next one is just childish…

Cock Road

*snigger*

I felt pretty silly getting out of the car to take the photo. I tried to look casual and slightly scathing at the same time, trying to create the impression to passers-by that perhaps I was taking the picture for a friend, against my will.

To balance that one, how about this for a street name…

Happy Lane

*stops sniggering*

That’s just nice isn’t it? If you had to choose a street to live in, Happy Lane sounds pretty promising.

And finally, at least I got one thing right…

Zed Alley

The end

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Welcome to week two of  ‘A week in tweets’. Thank you so much to everyone who joined in last week. This week, by popular request, I’ve added a linky, so you can come and share a link to your very own week in tweets. Remember they don’t have to be real tweets, they can be a retrospective reflection on the week, a complete fabrication – whatever you like.

This week I decided to set myself a theme.

I moved to Bristol last summer, and when I tell people, the first question is normally ‘where did you move from?’

“Bridgwater,” I say.

Reactions fall into two camps. Some people have never heard of it, and just nod and smile politely. Those who’ve been say “Ah, I see…” and make that sideways jaw movement you do to a friend behind a third friend’s back when the third friend has just introduced you both a her new boyfriend, who is clearly a moron.

I’ve wanted to move to Bristol for years, and thought now I’m here, I should celebrate the fact.

…

Monday – When people ask #whyImovedtoBristol, I explain that I used to live in Bridgwater. ‘But you look so…normal!’ says one new acquaintance. #nfb

Tuesday – Off to @The SteadyTable writing group to write, chat and eat cake. Must do Actual Writing this time. Not just tweet. #whyImovedtoBristol

Wednesday – Drive to meeting. Take the suspension bridge. Worth 50p if only to think to self ‘I’m driving to a meeting across the suspension bridge’ #whyImovedtoBristol

Thursday – Sat in traffic wondering #whyImovedtoBristol. See a man in shorts casually walking along playing a tambourine and singing. Remember again.

Friday – Planning weekend. Love having more choices than ‘go to Wilkinson’s’ or ‘go to another town’. #whyImovedtoBristol

Saturday – Stroll to the city farm. Cast cursory glance at goats then head for café that looks like Gaudi built a treehouse. #whyImovedtoBristol

Sunday – Arranged to meet @bishopstonmum for a coffee next week. Never spoken until today. Feel nervous. Like on a blind date. #whyImovedtoBristol

…

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I had a text conversation with Bee last week that almost brought a little tear to my eye.

She was staying with my mum back in Bridgwater at the time, and appeared to have had a moment of dawning realisation.

“Just walking along the street I’ve seen like 10 people, I feel so isolated like when people end up in a sinister town in a horror film. Even the water tastes distustinger than I remember.”

“Lol,” I replied, (I AM a cool mum), “is this Bridgwater? I told you all along it was shite :)”

“Yeah it is,” she replied, “I realise that now. I heard the advert for Gloucester Road gear boxes and I want to go home :( xx”

She wanted to come home! It was a very lovely moment. That feeling, finally, of my decision to uproot us being validated, reassurance that despite months of complaining, of emotional blackmail, Bee had finally seen the light.

Wanting to strike while the iron was hot, I decided to follow it up with a Folk House brochure. “Is there anything in here you fancy doing?” I asked, quite aware of Bee’s usual hatred for any sort of organised activity. “I thought I might do a hula hooping course, or there’s a Saturday workshop for making your own knickers out of vintage silk scarves?”*

I was expecting a look of disgust, or at best the funny face Bee does when I suggest silly things – a raised eyebrow and half smile, as if to say ‘really? And you are considered a grown up?’

But no.

Instead Bee took the brochure from me, and browsed with something akin to genuine interest. “I quite fancy doing beginners guitar,” she said casually.

I forced a similarly casual air, not wanting my excitement to put her off. “Sure,” I said, “that sounds like a good idea.”

Organised activities! Bee wants to do organised activities!

*takes deep breath*

Of course, the whole ‘living somewhere where stuff actually happens’ plan has the drawback of being quite expensive, but it’s a small price to pay. (Not literally). Yes I am having to work a lot, but everything seems to be working out ok, and I haven’t had to resort yet to cash for gold.

Besides, once we’ve finished at the Folk House we’ll be able to make our fortune with our guitar and hula hoop routine.

*These are both actual things you can do there.

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What makes your house your home? Is it the stuff we fill it with? The people we share it with? The street it sits on?

We are now at Moving Day minus eights days and counting. So far things are going well – roughly half our possessions are in boxes, a quarter have been dumped at the tip or the local hospice shop, and the remainder lie scattered about the house on various floors, ready to trip me up when I go to the toilet in the night.

I’ve always thought of myself as a seasoned housemover, and scoffed at people getting stressed by the seemingly simple task of packing. What’s not to love after all about the chance to reorganise your books? Every time I have moved house before, I have relished the opportunity to start afresh, with nice clean skirting boards and carpets, to be temporarily distracted from that permanent sense of mild boredom by the dilemma of how best to arrange the sofa and television. View Post

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