Meet the Parents

Last Saturday I reached another relationship milestone, possibly more important than a first trip to Ikea.

Meeting the family of your significant other is surprisingly nerve racking. Would they like me? Was I dressed appropriately? Would I say something stupid? Would they disapprove of me being Australian? And more importantly, would the boy decided halfway through that actually it wasn’t going to work?
My fears of course were unfounded, the family, were in fact lovely and normal, and if the conversation was at any time slow it wasn’t awkward.

One problem that may become an issue though is that I just couldn’t keep up with them. Whether it is just this family, or all Northerners, but by midnight I had well and truly had my quota of food and drink and would have liked to have retired quietly to bed. However, my bed for the night was Mr W’s sister’s couch, which at the time was occupied by a giant Rottweiler called Duke.

Despite feeling incredibly rude, I could not help myself and began to snooze quietly, somewhat hidden behind the boy to save face. Alas, I do fear that this may have lost me the all important seal of approval, but as Mr W said, “this time next year you’ll be able to keep up”.

Here’s hoping so!

Ikea Date

There hasn’t been that many times in my life when I have taken a step back and thought about how lucky I actually am.

I recently moved into a new home, and required a trip to Ikea to kit it out with essentials. Mr W, bless him, offered to drive me, and hesitantly I accepted, knowing that men do not like Ikea. My parents, for example, did not speak to each other for 3 days after one doomed trip to the homewares superstore.
ppily followed me around for 2 hours without complaint. That’s right, without a single complaint, shoulder shrug or exasperated sigh. In fact, he was actually enthusiastic about the display kitchen cabinets, bathroom storage and bedding. It was only when we got to the marketplace that his enthusiasm started to wane.

And so, I quickly wrapped up my purchases and got out of there, with a happy boyfriend, and a wardrobe full of coathangers. I am, in fact, a very lucky girl.

Our Darkest Hour

I have been genuinely scared only a handful times in my life.

Last night was one of them. Walking through Clapham Junction at 8.00pm, the smell of expectancy was thick in the air. Instead of yummy mummies with pushchairs, hundreds of hooded teenagers were milling on the streets, waiting for their chance to mindlessly destroy other people’s homes and livelihoods. Clutching my boyfriend’s hand, I felt nauseous and frightened as I overhead some boys, no older than 15 talking about doing over a bottle shop. I have never been so relieved to get in my front door.  

With London essentially a war zone, and the police ineffectual and powerless to take control due to policing by consent, I would like know how the parents in London have let a generation of children grow up with no respect for other people’s property.

London has a long and strong history or picking itself up after troubled times. It has survived a thousand years or plagues, fires, invasions, treason, and in our time The Blitz and terrorist bombings. And in all these times Londoners have stood together, side by side and carried on.

But this time, the threat is internal. Local youths are destroying their local shops. With the police powerless, and calls for curfews and the armed forces to be brought in, it’s hard to remember that these criminals are teenagers. Youths with no greater political or religious purpose, taking over the city suburb by suburb in the quest for flat screen TV’s and trainers.

I find myself thinking about the inspiring words of Winston Churchill during the war.. We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength… We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be… We shall never surrender.

I bet when he was telling this great nation to never give up, he never imagined that the threat would be coming from within.  If the acts of Londoners during the Blitz was our finest hour, then surely this is our darkest.