London North East One From a well-known unknown corner of London

Worst. Parents. Ever.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time

So it's Uncle Raja's birthday today. Raja Mama, as they say in an area of the world with vastly larger population than here, meaning that Mama is a more appropriate term than Uncle. Anyway. We thought, collectively, not apportioning any blame at all, that it would be a nice idea to send him a card with the boy's handprint along with the signatures.

"What shall we use to make the handprint?" we wondered.

"It has to be something safe" we affirmed.

After much rummaging amongst the staggeringly quantiful amounts of junk we seem to be hoarding, I came across the distantly-remembered set of poster paints. Sure enough, they seemed non-toxic.

Let me tell you, getting an 8-week old's head around the concept of a hand print is not an easy one. Making a fist of it, as it were, is something he's very good at. Flattening his hand out long enough to place it on a piece of paper without waving it around in an entertaining but otherwise paint-spreading manner? He's not so good at that.

It didn't take us very long to realise that this exercise was doomed to quite spectacular failure. I'm sure there are still patches of blue, lying quietly just waiting to be discovered, months possibly years down the line.

But Raja Mama got his card, with an indistinct blue blob at the bottom of it.

We'll try again one day. Probably.

Oh So Quiet

He probably needs burping again

I've just spent the last two hours trying to make the boy burp. I also have a job that'll take me through to Christmas with Channel 5. The two things are entirely unrelated, but are both notable in their own right. Apart from that, it's just a case of the three of us finding our way - relearning each other's needs and generally looking a bit tired. I had an odd experience walking somewhere or other some day or other ago (times and places seem to be a bit of a blur at the moment) where I suddenly realised that I wasn't surprised by the way he looked ... it was almost as if I knew he'd look like that, or I'd dreamt it or something. You could, naturally, put that down to lack of sleep and the zen like state I get into when I'm walking - the two things are a dangerous combination.

The traumas seem like a lifetime ago, but it's only been two and a half weeks. Since then I've been concerning myself with the never ending cycles of feeding and sleeping and bathing and nappy changing, constantly wondering whether we're 'doing it right' and then reminding myself there's no such thing - but we're doing it, and getting it all done, and beginning, gradually, baby-step by baby-step, to get some sleep at night.

I probably haven't considered my time management in that much detail, but this morning, when I was looking into my calm clean fed son's eyes all I could think was that I can't even consider leaving him for more than two or three hours at a time. That, obviously, is not conducive to a good business. However, for the next 10 weeks I'm going to be forced to, for at least three days a week, so I suppose we could consider this as the establishment of some sort of routine, if only for me.

Mrs D of course performed a miracle recovery, much to the surprise and delight of doctors and consultants and midwives - but I have to keep reminding myself to watch carefully. I don't want to stop her doing things she wants to do, but there is still concern that she'll overdo it. Two heart attacks and three complete blood transfusions have got to take it out of you (literally) and there is continuous concern in the back of my head that two and a half weeks is not time to even begin to recover from that, let alone appear perfectly healthy and normal - which she does.

Help is there if we need it, but we're both so stubborn and bloody-minded (a trait we now share with the boy) that we won't ask for it. Not yet, anyway. We're determined to do this our way, and the enforced input from midwives and health visitors is more than enough to be ignoring for now, without the helpful suggestions and comments of family and friends. Don't want to be rude or nuffink, but there's so much conflicting information out there ...

It's going to be all about time management. Something I've been very frivolous with in the past. But I crave normality, when I can go wandering again, and pontificate on the pointless. Soon.

Wright Family pt1

Lion Brewery, Bankside

I can't imagine anyone being interested in this except immediate members of my family, but it's my blog so I'll write what I want. This is the first in a series that'll detail the Wrights, Smarts, Silences and Noakes' on my Dad's father's side of the family, and the Ryans and Whatleys on my Dad's mother's side. Then there's the Gillingwaters (yes, Gillingwaters) and Carrs on my mother's side.

So what do we know? It starts in around 1765 with Thomas and Ann Wright in the village of Clavering, which is near Saffron Walden in Essex. Nowadays its claim to fame is something to do with Jamie Oliver, but back then a couple of insignificant, and very poor, farm labourers started a family. As was traditional back then there were plenty of them - Thomas in 1778, then Maria, William on March 18th 1785, and then James, John and Ann over the next 11 years. They all continued to live in the village as Agricultural Labourers. Some time in 1816 William married Elizabeth Woodley, from a big family of girls in the village. Their first child John was born on January 31st 1813, followed by William and Maria (named after one of Elizabeth's sisters.) On September 19th 1819 Charles Wright was born, followed by Thomas, James, George and Mary-Ann. At the age of 21, Charles was witness to the wedding of his sister Maria to Thomas Chipperfield, at the parish church in Clavering on 5th June 1841. The other named witness was Anne Dixon, who went on to be his wife. Ann was from a village about 5 miles away, as was Thomas Chipperfield - so I like to think that Charles and Ann met at this wedding. They were married a year and a half later in 1843, and their first child Jane was born in 1845, followed by Mary-Ann, John, Emma and Charles, born in September 1863 at Hill Green, the farm where they work. The exact circumstances of how and why their youngest, Charles, moved to London aren't clear. Ann died in the village in 1880, followed by her husband in 1887. There are burial records for Charles at the church of St Mary & St Clement in Clavering - he was buried on Boxing Day, 1887. His son John also married a Chipperfield - although I can't find a family connection or I'd have to mime playing the deliverance banjo like I do every time my wife mentions the closeness of some of her extended family.

So now the focus moves to London. It's clear that the harvests in the years 1878-1880 in Essex were not good, levels of poverty amongst farmers had been increasing, it's no coincidence that around this time a group of Essex farmers formed what is now the Royal Agricultural Benevolent Institution and it's no surprise that after at least 100 years in the village of Clavering, the family spread out. At age 16, in 1880, Charles is working as a Brewer's Labourer at 57 Shaftesbury Avenue - John is also in London in the Brewing trade. The address is now the Century Club, a place I've spent many meandering afternoons and evenings - but its key feature is the glorious view of St Anne's church. We can assume that Charles stayed in this area for a few years, as his marriage to Elizabeth Noakes takes place in St Anne's on 5th March 1885. Elizabeth lived just up Wardour Street, in 7 St Anne's Court - now redeveloped on the north side where she lived, but retaining the contemporary buildings on the south side. I've walked down this cut-through from Wardour to Dean Street a thousand times, never knowing that it was the home to my Great Great Grandmother. Elizabeth's parents were Steven and Ann - possibly my grandfather was named for her father, who would have been his great-grandfather. Because here the pace of birth and death, as was traditional in poverty-stricken London at the time, picks up.

From Soho, the family moved shortly after their wedding to 57 Huntley Street, which runs parallel to Tottenham Court Road. My great-grandfather Charles was born on December 17th 1885, just about nine months after Charles and Ann's wedding. Soon after this, we know that Charles senior is working at the Lion Brewery on the South Bank of the Thames. The Lion brewery was a grand place - demolished in the 1950s to make way for the Royal Festival Hall - although one of the stone lions was saved and now sits at the foot of Westminster Bridge. He dies at the young age of 44 in Lambeth, not having seen the wedding of his son, which takes place 2 years later on August 17th, 1910 in Waterloo, at St John's Church - which still stands on the south side of Waterloo Bridge.

Incidentally, both Charles and Emma Smart list their address as 15 Tenison Road, Waterloo - which is roughly about where the 521 stops nowadays, on the south-east corner of the roundabout. Their wedding is witnessed by Emma's father, Charles, a 'Master Builder' - Emma Wright, Charles' sister and George Ashurst.  After their wedding, they move to Date Street, behind the famous East Street Market, and live there until 1918. During this time, several children are born, only one of which survives - Lily, born June 11th 1911. Charles Edward is born on March 16th 1916 and struggles on for a month before passing away, and William George manages a whole six months from January 29th 1917 until June. During 1918 Charles, Emma and Lily move to 3, Ontario Street, and on the last day of the year Stephen Henry is born, followed by his brother Arthur on December 14th 1921.

There is much more to tell about his period - that will follow another time.