Let's get into physical

As I was taking the children to the Leisure Centre for their weekly bout of yelling, kicking and punching (martial arts are marvellous for instilling, er, peacefulness and respect), something odd caught my eye, out on the running track. It looked like… but surely it couldn’t be…? When the children’s officially-sanctioned combat had begun, I hastened out to check. Sure enough, the puffing, stumbling figure in a grey tracksuit was Hoxton Mum. I watched, fascinated, because I had only once before seen her move faster than a stroll: when Django, then a toddler, had been on the verge of tipping his smoothie into her Mulberry handbag.

Hoxie rounded the bend and came hobbling towards me along the straight. She clocked me watching and made a pitiful attempt to speed up, collapsing several minutes later at my feet.

“Am I red?” she spluttered, hacking up phlegm like a career smoker. She whipped out a compact from her pocket and scrutinised her face. “Gah, like a Waitrose baby plum tomato.”

“I didn’t know you owned a trackie, Hoxie.”

“Oh, you’re so hilair,” she sneered, insofar as a person hyperventilating can sneer. “This is in fact a Stella McCartney high-performance jacket-and-trouser suit. Sport is having a moment.”

“Is it?”

She swigged some water from one of those fancy circular bottles you can grip in the middle.

“It’s. The. Olympics. In. London,” she spelled out, as though to a dim child.

We sat at the edge of the track and watched the proper runners from Lewes Athletic sprint round. I realised with a start that the chap at the back was Born and Bred Boy. I turned to Hoxton Mum. “Did you see…?” but she had a faraway look in her eye.

“Not for the first time,” she sighed, “I’ve a teensy soupcon of regret about our move here. We could have been right at the very epicentre. Who knew, back in 04, that the East End would be hosting the Games? Our house might have had one of those big guns on its roof. Usain Bolt might have bought his chicken nuggets from our local Maccy D’s.”

I nodded sympathetically, knowing how she sometimes struggles with no longer being an UIL.

“Mind you,” she said brightening, “Lewes is a trés sporty place. It’s not just art shows and transition town socials, you know. I’m going to try all the Olympic sports: tennis, horse-riding, trampolining, zumba.”

“Zumba?”

Born and Bred Boy waved nonchalently as he went past, impressively swiftly considering the twenty-year collection of Harveys stored in his belly.

Hoxie stood up and began doing stretches as pioneered by Olivia Newton-John in the ‘Physical’ video. “Right – I’m ready for the second half of my training sesh.”

“How much more are you doing?”

“One lap,” she said, setting off at the pace of an elderly snail. “I’ve already done one, don’t want to overdo it.”

Beth Miller. Published in vivalewes.com and Viva Lewes handbook, August 2012

Baby, it's cold outside

Whenever I hear someone’s thinking of getting a puppy, I always ask if they’ve considered a toddler instead. There are similarities – boundless enthusiasm, weeing on the floor – but toddlers have the edge because they’re reluctant to go out in bad weather. They won’t stand by the door holding their reins and looking hopeful. They will resist vigorously, clinging grimly to inadequately earthed items such as crystal vases.

But though they object, pre-schoolers, like puppies, need to go out every day and romp off some energy. Where to, when it’s cold and wet?

Expensive:

Monkey Bizness. Massive cushioned aircraft hangar. Not dear in money terms, if you take just one toddler and stay all day. Costly, however, in terms of the toll on your sanity.

Lewes Castle. Marvellous dressing-up room in which to enact fantasies of being a thirteenth century toddler. Town model will hold pre-schoolers’ attention for just seventeen seconds.

Paradise Park. Unbeatable for indoor activities. Most toddlers are terrified of the implausible looking dinosaurs but the kind staff will let you bypass them.

Budget:

Library. The children’s section is very good. Not free, as your child will force you to rent a Pingu DVD which you will fail to return, incurring enough fines to have bought the damn thing outright.

White Hart. I’ve never tried this but am told that toast costs about 50p and you can watch swimmers in the pool below. The White Hart does not market itself as a ‘toddler hang-out’, so use sparingly.

Ocean Adventure at the Leisure Centre. Tiny, low-rent Monkey Bizness. Has a crèche most mornings so you can have a grown-up swim/quick nap. Hot chocolate from the machine is better than the tea.

Toy Library at the All Saints. Toys, biccies, tea, company. Only open on Wednesday mornings, no point banging weepily on the door at other times.

Toddler groups. There are enough of these in drafty church halls that you could spend your whole week lurching from one to the other. Terrific if you find like-minded parents. Beyond depressing otherwise. (LDC keeps a list.)

Free:

Wyevales Garden Centre. Much missed is the unfenced koi carp pond, but there are lovely wooden playhouses (boring people call them ‘sheds’). There’s a café so you might have to spend money at some point.

Inside Outside. New ‘creative playgroup’. Their website hints they’ll be outside whatever the weather, before admitting they have a nice big warm tent. Untried but it looks good.

Toys R Us. Before your child realises this a shop, tell them it’s a toy museum. Don’t buy anything or the gig is up.

Booth Museum. Only if you can face explaining the principle of taxidermy. Thing Two set off an alarm last time.

Grange Gardens. Technically outdoors, but on cold sunny days before the café opens the benches near the hatch are bathed in warmth. Toddlers, sprinkled with Grange magic, will play happily for ages. Thing Two and I are often the only people there, so keep it to yourself.

Beth Miller. Published in VivaLewes.com

Let's get into physical

‘Oh look’, I said joylessly, as we sat round the Christmas tree amidst a pile of be-wrapped, be-ribboned and be-wildering parcels. ‘My brother’s sent me a Davina Fit DVD.’

‘I wouldn’t describe her as fit, particularly’, said Man of the House, opening a gift of Lynx shower gel and tossing it straight in the Oxfam bag. ‘She’s a bit long in the tooth these days.’

‘How bizarre’, I said, ripping the paper off another present. ‘My mum’s sent me a beach ball.’

Man mumbled, ‘Um, it’s an exercise ball’.

‘It’s a WHAT? Damn, it’s too big for the charity bag. The kids can play with it.’

Things One and Two were sprawled on the sofa in their smart new dressing-gowns, jaws slack and stained with chocolate coins. They stared unblinking at something inane on telly, and didn’t even notice the change when I slipped Davina Fit into the DVD player.

‘I’ve saved the best till last’, I said, dragging Man of the House’s pressie towards me. ‘Ooh, it weighs a ton.’

He coughed and busied himself with some mulled wine.

‘Ah. It weighs a lot, because it’s weights. Thanks SO much.’ I grabbed the last mince pie, and slotted it into my mouth in one go. Indistinctly, I said, ‘I see everyone’s made my new year’s resolution for me.’

Man edged towards the door, whispering, ‘You aren’t in quite as good shape as you were…’

‘This is baby weight, you fiend’, I spluttered, spraying pastry.

‘Thing Two is four years old’, he mouthed, then fled as I hurled the exercise ball at him. Blimey, my arms ached after lifting that mother.

Let no-one say I can’t take a hint. So, as January dawned, grey and full of lack of promise, I limbered up and did some Google research. Turns out that Lewes is awash with Pilates and yoga. There are at least four gyms; there are sports clubs; you can play tennis and badminton till your socks fall down. There are more personal trainers than you can shake a rowing machine at. I was so wiped out after discovering this, I had to have a little lie down with a personal bar of Green & Blacks.

By next day I had devised my own training programme. I put on my sweatpants and trainers, did a few stretches, then set off at walking pace for the Leisure Centre. They have tons of stuff there: a gym, exercise classes, swimming pool. But more to the point, the centre is about a mile from my house. So going there and back constitutes a good solid constitutional. Actually, it was such a tough workout, because I dropped the weights off at Cancer Research on the way, that I got a cab home from the station. I didn’t want to overdo it.

But I reckon if I pop down there and watch all those crazies sweating it out on the treadmills every month or so, those extra pounds will soon fall away.



Published in Viva Lewes magazine, January 2010.

The only women makin' it are women who are shakin' it

Saturday morning in Nero’s with Aging Lad, who was being oddly enthusiastic about the carnival. All became clear when he explained that last year, it was more than tombolas and candy floss : pole dancing was apparently now a traditional event at summer fairs.

Crèche Manager sprayed a mouthful of coffee – iced, luckily - over Thing One. ‘Pole dancing?’ he spluttered.

Aging Lad nodded. ‘Shocking, it was. I made a complaint, and they said they’d sort it out for this year.’

I was impressed. ‘They agreed not to do it?’

‘No’, Lad said, ‘They promised to get better totty than the raddled old trouts they wheeled out last time.’

‘Maybe you oughtn’t take the kids to the fair’, Crèche Manager said to me, wiping his drink off Thing One’s head. ‘It doesn’t sound suitable. I’ll keep Lad company, make sure he doesn’t get into any bother.’

He was saved from my withering reply by the parade going past. Dozens of Carmen Miranda lookey-likeys weaved through the crowd, singing ‘ay-ay-ay-ay-ay I love you verrr-y much’ to the accompaniment of a steel band… oh no, hang on, that was the Rio Carnival on telly. Lewes’s street revelry was briefer and less culturally diverse, but the unsmiling teenage dancers going through their paces to the tune of Daydream Believer had a special charm of their own.

Rather like pole-dancing, perhaps, which seems to be trying to throw off the shackles (ha!) of its seedy origins and go respectable, as if Peter Stringfellow had decided to become an MP. Maybe not an MP. A bank manager? Hmm. Can’t think of a respectable occupation.

Aging Lad’s tale had made me feel slightly pole-axed. Who knew where else this floor show might turn up? Would the cashiers be pole-dancing in Waitrose next time I popped in for some extra virgin olive oil? Or the turnstile at Lewes Castle be replaced by a pole for visitors to wiggle round?

‘You’ve put on a bit of weight’, Aging Lad said, cutting short my disturbing pole reverie.

‘Pardon?’ I replied, as a float with belly dancing ladies wobbled by.

‘I have too’, he said hastily, ‘so I thought you might like to come to keep-fit with me.’

This was about as likely as Peter Stringfellow becoming a monk (note to self: check if monks have been discredited); Lad wouldn’t normally touch exercise with a ten-foot pole.

‘It reminded me, coming here’, he went on. ‘Lewes Leisure Centre’s running pole-dancing classes.’

‘But of course they are. And the All Saints Centre’s hosting a lap-dancing event.’

‘Is it? Brilliant. They’re not calling it pole dancing, of course’, Lad continued, ‘It’s pole “fitness”. Meaning it’ll be full of fit chicks. Be better if I show up with a woman.’

I shushed him; Thing One was listening attentively to every word.

‘She could do worse when she grows up’, Lad said. ‘Some of those clubs pay birds a fortune.’

By now the parade had passed by, along with any semblance of normality. Crèche Manager and I put our arms round the children, including Aging Lad, and led them gently away from the fleshpots of the Malling Fields.

Beth Miller, 16th June 2009. Published in VivaLewes.com