Odd One Out

That's me, you see. If ever there were three words that summed up most of my life, those are the ones. Odd one out.

I have mentioned before that my sister taught me to read when I was 2 and I could read by the time I started school. This marked me out as the "clever one". I was the only one in the family to go to grammar school, having passed my eleven plus, so I went to a different school to my sisters. I was the first person that I know of in our extended family ever to go to University.

That's me in the centre.

When I went to university, I chose a course at a separate, and much smaller, college some 10 miles away from the main campus. We were considered the oddballs by the rest of the University - country bumpkins, in fact, because were the Agrics. And because I didn't come from a farming background, and made a final year choice that had only ever been chosen twice before, set me out as different again. I was definitely the odd one out. Imagine 3 overlapping circles in a Venn diagram; I was the tiny bit in the middle where all 3 overlapped and everyone moved around me but not with me.

And so it went on. I was the odd one out as I went into accountancy and then IT after graduation. It has meant I had little in common with the people I studied with and haven't really kept up much contact, apart from a couple that I speak to occasionally. I've been odd one out in jobs by virtue of having to do a long distance commute - like to London from the Hampshire coast  - and therefore being "not from round here". That does have its benefits as you rarely bump into work colleagues outside work.

I even became an odd one out when I became a mother. I wouldn't change my kids for the world but there aren't many mums with children their age in their 40s. Monkey was born when I was 40 and Missy Woo when I was 41. Some of the mums of Monkey's classmates are more than 20 years younger than me. Most of the mums I know online too are in their 30s and a few in their 20s. And to top it all, 11 years ago this week, I moved to Lancashire from Buckinghamshire, so I am in exile and therefore a peculiarity to both the locals here and people from my hometown. My accent gives me away to both, unmissably southern with a few flattened vowels.

Being the odd one out is a recurring theme but I am undecided about how I feel about it. I made my choices, and I'm happy with them. I can hardly change a lot of them so I may as well get on with it, but I choose not to regret anyway. But suddenly, a comment - innocent and not intended to be hurtful  - will remind me that I am the odd one out and I feel like the the outsider looking in.

I've thought about this many times. Some of the things that mark me out as different just are - I can't change them because they are a part of me, of who I am, and makes me distinctive, perhaps memorable. Some of them are however related to conscious choices and I wonder if there is something within me that likes to set my own path in life, that likes to be a bit different sometimes and not to follow the norm - even though it is not wildly unconventional. I've hardly run off with a circus, have I?

But then, there is the part of me that wants to belong, that feels left out sometimes, and that doesn't know how to feel like I belong; if indeed, there is anything to be done. I'm guessing you would never know this if you met me as I hide it well. People say I appear confident and outgoing. I will join in but deep down, something within me is saying "Do you really belong here? Do these people really need you muscling in on their fun? Are they all mentally rolling their eyes at me?"

Getting involved with things has helped that sense of being left out. Becoming an NCT member has been so good, for me personally anyway. Most of the active members in our branch have moved to a new area and are lacking the support mechanism offered by close friends and family. They have provided the support network for me over the last 6 years, I've volunteered for them most of that time, and until Missy Woo started school, I felt like I belonged somewhere, and has rooted me to the community where I now live. However, we have little need of that support now that Missy Woo is at school. School itself is beginning to fill the void that will be left, but at the same time, I am conscious of taking on too much and getting involved with both at the same time.

So that's me, the odd one out. It is a part of my identity that has seeped through my life right from childhood, that has weaved itself into the story of my life. A lot of the time I love it, but sometimes I hate it and just want to be part of the gang.

What's your earliest memory?

So, it's a Bank Holiday weekend, the last big holiday of the year before Christmas. My children are away on holiday with their grandparents. (Well, actually, as I type this, they've not yet left but chances are, they will have gone by the time you get to read this!)

The children have been excited for weeks about it and no doubt, will come home with some lovely memories of a fun time with Granny and Granddad - more memories in the making possibly. It made me think about early memories of your life. I heard something on the radio a couple of weeks back that many people's early memories are false because it is impossible they would remember such things. Such "memories" develop from their parents and other family members retelling a story to them and the child developing the memory from their imagination, something that is particularly vivid.

I have two memories of early childhood. One of them has to be false. The other, I am fairly sure is real because it is something so insignificant, my parents would not have thought to tell me about it.

As a child, I had migraines. I remember these clearly because I suffered with them regularly into my teens, and then thankfully grew out of them. However, I have grown up to "remember" banging my head on a fence at a very young age (2 perhaps) because my head was hurting so much and I couldn't express the pain I was feeling clearly to my parents. As an adult, I realised I can't have remembered this and it must be because my parents told me that story many times. All I can think now is how worried they must have been.

My real early memory concerns the playgroup I attended. It was held in the church next door to the infant school I was due to attend. My one clear memory of it was playing outside there and looking through the fence at the children playing in the school playground. I remember wishing it was me as I was desperate to go to school and also thinking how grown up the school children were. On reflection as an adult, the oldest children would have been 7 so no age at all, but to me as a 3- or 4-year old, they were very grown up and I wanted to be them.

Of course, my time came soon enough. As I blogged earlier this week, I was not disappointed. I absolutely loved school from the moment I walked in the door. But that memory - of longing to be a child in that playground - has stayed with me throughout my life.

Now, I am going to throw it over to you. Tell me your earliest memory, whatever it might be. If you want, you can blog about it and link back to your post in the comments below. Or, just leave a comment. I'm doing this partly because I'm nosey but also because I'm fascinated by this subject, in the variety of memories and situations that are hopefully going to crop up.

Over to you....

The Gallery - A memory (in the making possibly).

This week's prompt for the Gallery over at Sticky Fingers was "A memory". Having had a busy few days (when haven't I?), I haven't had time to go back through the photo archives and dig out an old pic which evokes memories.

I decided instead to turn it on its head and show you photos that aren't memories for me, but are likely to be memories for Monkey. A bit of background first. I am a Preston fan, and my husband is from Blackpool. The teams are big rivals. It is not generally the done thing for the two to "associate". When Monkey was born, we decided he would support Barcelona - our Spanish team and something we can agree on.

One of my very first posts on this blog was about taking Monkey to his first ever live football match, at Preston. He's grown increasingly obsessed with football recently and wanted to go to a match. I chose an appropriate day, we went and he had a great time. It was a month off the end of the season when we went. Blackpool made the play-offs, and Monkey got very excited. The second leg of the semi final was in the evening so he had to go to bed reluctantly. His first words to me the following morning were "Did Blackpool win?" and when I said yes, his next words were "Can I go to Wembley to the final?". Before 8am, he'd rung Daddy at work to ask him the same thing and was told "Probably, but we'll see." Well, that was good enough for him. He went to school that morning and told the class and the teachers that he was going to Wembley with his Dad. I think the whole school knew.

Soon, it was organised that half of the family would go to Wembley and that a large proportion would go on the coach, and that side of the family is not small. I think I worked out that 20 of them on one coach were related to or associated with the family! This was good as it meant that there were several people to entertain Monkey on the trip. Anyway, here are the pictures of Monkey's day out - his first trip on a coach, his second ever live football match, and his first trip to Wembley.

On the coach! 

I think this is my favourite picture of Monkey ever. I just love the look of excitement in his eyes. They set off by car very early and were on a coach by around 7ish. It was a long journey and only just made it into the stadium on time. During the game, Monkey was apparently really good and was not afraid of the noise created by over 80,000 people.

We won, Dad!

This picture was taken in the ground after the final whistle blew and Blackpool had won a place in the Premier League. That's Daddy with Monkey by the way. Please excuse the trilby. I actually posted a link to this photo on my facebook profile and you wouldn't believe the furore it created. Someone (a Preston fan) took offence to it and then he got jumped on by lots of my friends after I pointed out he was dissing my family. It's a lovely picture, it's my family and I'll do what I want. He even got shouted down by other Preston fans.

Looking on....

The final picture is of Monkey watching the post-match celebrations intently. It looks to me like he is taking it all in, like he is storing it all away to play over again and again in his head at will.

The day was long. They didn't get back to Blackpool until late and they got home around midnight. Monkey was still very excited but was still well behaved and full of talk about the day. He went to bed one happy boy that night.

He's getting a season ticket for this season and going with his Dad whenever they can. I fear I may have lost him as a Preston fan - although he has Hamburg, England and Barcelona tops to wear and bought Manchester United pyjamas last week, so there is still hope. 

These may not be my memories but I have looked through the eyes of a boy at an age where first memories stick. Your second live football match and a winning trip to Wembley is a pretty memorable event at any age, isn't it?

This is my entry for week 23 of The Gallery at Sticky Fingers. If you can, please visit the page and visit some of the other entries. I just love looking at people's different takes on the same prompt.

The Hat Lady

I think about you, every now and then. Probably not often enough. You deserve better.

I first saw you on the platform at Southampton Parkway station. It was early morning, you were waiting for a train, and you were wearing a hat. Not just any hat or a cap - one of those tricorn style hats made fashionable by Diana in the 80s, white with lots of feathers and a bit of netting. I think I sniggered. It looked incongruous for the time and the place; some of your fellow passengers stared at you. They couldn't help it. It looked like you were off to Ascot or somewhere else on the social circuit. I came to know you weren't.

I soon came to realise that that is what you did every day. You wore hats. In my twenties, I thought it was ridiculous but now I'm older, I understand. Wearing hats gave you pleasure, so wore hats you did.  You had the confidence of maturity not to worry about the opinions of others. You wore hats every day and it marked you out. The regular commuters didn't stare, they were used to seeing you. I didn't see you every day, but every time we got the same train, there you were, with a hat, always slightly over the top, feathery but not outlandish - just different. It stayed on whilst you were on the train. To the regulars, you were the Hat Lady. I didn't know your name. I am not sure anyone did. Long distance commuting is often more sociable but I don't think you ever spoke to anyone.

And then, one cold December day, I wasn't on the train but at home. I was listening to the radio when there was a newsflash. A crash between two trains at Clapham. Our trains went through Clapham! After a while, as more information became known, I worked out that one of the trains involved was one I could have been on, that stopped at our station. Some of my commuting friends would be on that train. It was impossible to get information quickly as it was before mobile phones were commonplace. I had to go away on business without knowing if they were OK and it became apparent there were many fatalities. The pictures on the news and in the papers were terrible, awful. That particular service was always an old style train and the trains involved just crumpled like concertinas.

Later that week, I received news of my commuting friends. Lots of them were on different trains, behind or ahead of the crash. Two women that I knew by name died on the train, in the buffet car. The person that told me also said "And remember the Hat Lady? She was a victim too". You had gone. I can't imagine the horror of those moments at the point of impact nor do I know whether anyone suffered. I hope that you didn't. I hope no-one did.

Dying gave you a name other than Hat Lady. I still don't remember it exactly but I was looking at a list of the victims' names once and I could pick out your name, knowing it was definitely you. It may have been your name but it meant nothing to me and to many others. In my head, you are the Hat Lady, simple as. I can only vaguely remember what you looked like. Over time, you have come to resemble, in my head at least, someone else I know who has broadly the same features as you - slim, dark-haired, smiling.

A long time has passed since you died. They've even stopped commemorating the anniversary although there is a permanent memorial to the 35 people that died as a result of the disaster overlooking the crash site. I try to mark the date every year in any small way I can because you all deserve to be remembered. Against other tragedies, you feel pushed aside, forgotten. It seems unfair that your deaths seem to have counted for less. Hell, it made me angry when I read they were letting the memorial gardens get overgrown. So wrong and disrespectful - and ironically, by the people that let you down in so many ways and allowed it to happen.

You would probably be a pensioner now if you hadn't died. I don't know anything about your life, but I can imagine the happy retirement you could have had. Life playing with grandchildren, perhaps. Foreign travels to far-flung places, maybe. All topped off with fantastic hats. I like to think your taste would be more up to date now, but no-one will ever know for sure.

I knew nothing of your life, and I never spoke to you. I think we may have smiled and nodded once or twice, but that's it. And yet, to me, you are the symbol of the events of 12th December 1988, because of the expression of joie de vivre you exhibited by wearing those hats, plus the pointless and avoidable events that led to your death.

I think about you, every now and then, Hat Lady. Probably not often enough. As I said, you deserve better. But I know that wherever you are, you're wearing a hat, loving it and brightening the day of those around you.

(Note: this post was prompted by the 5th anniversary of the 7/7 bombings. Every time there is a big commemoration of a terrible event, I think back to Clapham because it was so close to me personally. Events to mark the passing of 20 years were held in Lockerbie, which happened just 9 days afterwards and somewhat overshadowed it, and in Liverpool to commemorate the Hillsborough disaster. And yet, they officially ended the public commemoration of Clapham after a decade. I wonder how the families remember their loved ones now - turning up to a memorial with overgrown gardens down an embankment left to run wild by Network Rail. It feels somehow wrong to me, that their deaths apparently matter less than others. We need to be reminded, both of the events and of those who are no longer with us.


And if you are too young to remember that day, you can read more about what happened here.)

This post was submitted to The Boy and Me's ShowOff ShowCase on 30th April 2011. Click the badge to see some other entries.