Writing First World War for children, part 2

Another reflection I made at the First World War symposium was that my grandchildren presumably don't know anything about it.

Of course, I didn't know much about it when I was a child, once again, because it was totally eclipsed by the 1917 revolution and the subsequent Communist coup that eventually harvested more lives than the Great War on both sides – but our history books didn't tell us about it. Our history books told us that the war was instigated by world imperialism, and it was a blessing for Russia that it finished off the Russian empire and established paradise on earth.

I don't know what my Swedish grandchildren's history books tell them about the Great War. Probably a short paragraph with a blurry black-and-white picture explaining that somewhere, far away, there was a war that Sweden did not participate in. Sweden had its own problems then. It was an impoverished country, and a third of its population had emigrated. That story takes many pages in the history books. I guess it's inevitable, because history is always written from a particular perspective, and what is major for one history writer is a footnote for another. Yet being a displaced hedgehog, I cannot help asking myself: can I do something to make my grandchildren aware of the Great War that did not affect their forefathers? And do I want to? Why would they care? And then I think about red poppies, and the war monuments by the Cambridge railway station and in our little village, and lists of perished soldiers in King's Chapel, and yes, I want my grandchildren to know about it, just as I want British children to know about it. And history books won't help. You need the power of fiction to get the message across. Or rather, get the feeling across.

And this is why I have sent copies of War Horse to my grandchildren and encouraged their parents to take them to see the film. And I will read the books that I learned about at the symposium and see whether I want my grandchildren to read them.

Most of all, I wish somebody would write a book about a Swedish child who by serendipity gets caught in the Great War. 

Nothing happened...

“You haven't blogged for four weeks”, Staffan points out. He is right. I haven't. When I don't blog for a long time, it can be for two reasons. 1) nothing has happened. This doesn't happen often. 2) far too much has happened. This happens all the time. When it happens I don't know where to start and let still more time pass and more things happen.

With reference to my account of imminent events, the viva went well, but I was so worn out when I came back that I cancelled all travel until Christmas, except Stockholm where I had too many important commitments. The Stockholm trip went fine. Staffan took me to Stansted. I was picked up at Skavsta by my oldest son who “happened” to be in the vicinity (which he has now admitted implies that someone dear to his heart lives close by). He took me to the place where I was staying, which is the International Writers' Guesthouse, in the very centre of the city. It is a small, but comfortable flat with three rooms and shared bathroom and living room-cum kitchen. During the week I stayed there, I saw a glimpse of my neighbours twice.

In the morning, I went down to a cafe for breakfast. It felt weird. The guesthouse didn't have wi-fi, only a USB cable, while I had brought my paddy. But every cafe with self-respect has wi-fi these days. Some of them have “coffee” for password. Then I bought some stuff for future breakfasts and topped up my travelcard. I had a long, pleasurable lunch with a friend, ending in incredible luck in a thrift shop where I found some remarkable dollhouse miniatures and spent more money I would be prepared to spend “at home”. But I wasn't at home, I was travelling, and then you are allowed to spend more. In the evening I went to admire how the youngest and his girlfriend had re-recorated their flat and to taste her famous and fabulous onion soup. The next day was also full of children and grandchildren, and that night I got horrendous neck pain. I often get stiff neck and know how to deal with it, but this was unbearable, and eventually I gave up and went to Emergency. It transpired that I wasn't a resident. “It will be expensive”, said the receptionist. “How expensive?” I asked. She named the fee. “Do I have a choice?” I said. So much for having paid taxes in my own country for twenty-five years. I got painkillers, and my clever daughter made me buy a wheat pillow, which is a bag of wheat that you heat up in a micro and put on your neck. I have now become addicted to it. I sat with it on my neck throughout the conference.

It was a very strange feeling because normally you go away to a conference, and although technically I was away, I also was kind of at home, but not really, since I didn't stay at home, but in a hotel. In the middle of the conference I escaped to attend a family crayfish party which was marvelous and far too noisy. It was also weird to travel back to Cambridge with the students (back home) and with my friend Kin (going away together) who was to stay with me for a couple of days. On top of it, Staffan was going to Stockholm the day after, but I won't go into more detail.

Kin and I had fun together when I wasn't busy with examination boards and crisis team meetings. We did all the necessary sights in Cambridge and around, went to Formal Hall (where I was obliged to say grace, as I happened to be the most senior at table) and even watched a movie. Then the pre-term business hit me: meetings, business lunches, early supervisions, arriving visiting scholars, a row of formal dinners with details I wish I could write about, but I shouldn't. And the next week it finally starts for real: PhD induction on Tuesday, masters induction on Wednesday, academic assessment meetings and meetings about the new Head of Faculty, more supervisions (I have four new PhD students), more formal dinners, various committee meetings, College Council, research seminars – all this in addition to teaching which I, according to my job description, am supposed to do “every now and then”.

Report from the celebration marathon, Day 3, part 2

Click for Introduction, Day 1, Day 2 and 3

Just before I went upstairs after the fabulous lunch I remembered to check the set-up for dinner, and I am glad I did. I had spent a lot of time on the seating plan. Ten years ago I learned from the lady who was doing my dinner that the object of celebration should by no means sit at the top of the table – which anyone would say was the most appropriate – but in the middle, because then you were just half as far away from both ends than if you were sitting at the top. So I had started there, and I wanted the cousins of matching age to sit together, because they don't meet as often as I would like them to; and I had to place a familiar adult beside the youngest children, and then the usual: alternate gender, don't place spouses together, pay attention to seniority. I had put a lot of thought into it, and it turned out there were two tables. Hence I spent most of the time between lunch and dinner working on a new seating plan. I am sure there is some clever software for this, but I didn't have time to explore. The little time left, I admired my festschrift and checked Facebook for birthday greetings. I know that Facebook prompts friends about birthdays, but you still need to make an effort of clicking on the link and writing “Happy birthday”, and most friends wrote more substantial messages and appended pictures and music. Small tokens of attention, but oh so much joy.

Then I finally put on the outfit I had bought for the occasion.

There was another party in the bar where welcome drinks were served, and I wonder what they thought when all my children and grandchildren started arriving, and there were noisy discussions about who wanted what kind of soft drink and who was old enough to have a taste of the real stuff. Once again, I had said “No presents”, but the kids had warned me that they wouldn't listen to this nonsense. So there were some presents, and there was another big surprise, of which I must tell in detail.

One bunch of grandchildren was discussing what to give granny for her birthday. The five-year-old suggested jewellery, blouse, skirt, scarf, shoes, handbag. The seven-year-old said firmly: “No, Granny wants a smartphone”. They looked at her with doubt, but she was adamant. “Have you forgotten? When we went to visit Granny in England, and she kept looking at the boys' phones and asking what they could do, and she said she wanted maps and star charts and bus timetables”. Isn't she a clever kid? The father consulted his little brother (who had been nagging me for years about a smartphone), and that was decided. Technical support was promised when Julia and Pontus came to visit us the next week. Don't misunderstand me. All the other presents were lovely, each in its own way, but this is such a sweet story.

The rest was more or less predictable, but still wonderful. Even the youngest grandchildren behaved well and enjoyed the special children's meal, and the older ones realised that they could talk to each other live rather than through their phones. The family chorus sang the song that Staffan had written for me, and the two sisters sang “When I am sixty-four” reading the lyrics from their phones. Between main and dessert we asked the waitress to take a family photo. Then we retreated to the bar for postprandials, and the youngest kids started dosing off which the parents completely ignored. And I thought how clever we were to stay at the same place where the dinner was. Because when everybody left we merely had to go upstairs.

To be continued.

What professors do when they are grandmothers

We always tell our children that they are welcome to visit us any time in any numbers, so there wasn't much I could say when Sergej announced that he was bringing four kids for half-term. I certainly prefer to meet them one at a time, not so much because I cannot cope with all of them (which I know I cannot, so there is no point worrying) but because I enjoy them more. Even a five-year-old can make a very interesting conversation when you have them on their own. But here they were, all of them, and here is how we spent the week.

They flew into Stansted on Saturday evening, but since they are too many to fit into a car, I instructed them to take the airport train to Cambridge and collected them at the station. Yes, they were still too many to fit into a car, but in the darkness we could hide one in the back seat. I thought they would be too tired to be hungry, but they weren't. They were hungry and too excited to be tired.

On Sunday I made a huge breakfast. Or so I thought. Two humongous cartons of juice were gone almost before we opened them. Since the boys didn't get up until noon, breakfast transformed into lunch, with a snack in between. Sergej and I sat outside and enjoyed the sun while the kids played croquet which the boys cleverly remembered that we had in the garage since their previous visit. Then we went for a walk in the park, fed the swans, explored the playground – I had had a vague feeling that there was a playground in the park, but I normally avoid it during my walks. We had ice cream in the park cafe – another place I normally avoid. Then we went home and did nothing special for a while until it was time to make dinner. After dinner we watched an old movie. The cat hid under my bed, but would emerge every now and then.

On Monday I took the kids to Linton Zoo while Sergej worked (he had no half-term! Neither had I, incidentally). The weather wasn't great, but we enjoyed it anyway. Lunch was unsatisfactory, but there were doughnuts waiting at home. The girls played with the dolls' house they were allowed to play with and were very good at seeing but not touching the ones they were not allowed to play with. The boys have their smartphones that keep them busy at any time. We watched another movie in the evening.

On Tuesday I dispatched them to Duxford Imperial War Museum while I had to go to work. I barely got back home to prepare dinner before it was time for me and Sergej to go to Homerton Formal Hall which just happened to be Harry Potter-themed. I wore a pointed hat, and like last year there we owls flying over the Hall. Between main course and dessert we were allowed to fondle the owls. It was another long-time dream come true, just in passing.

On Wednesday the boys went to London. On their previous visits I told them that there was no way I was going up on London Eye and they would have to do it another time with someone else. So now was the time. They took the train, and did London Eye, London Dungeons and what not, while I took the girls to town. Natalie had expressed a wish to ride a double-decker, and after three and a half years in Cambridge I finally took this ride which was the most boring sightseeing I'd ever done (you don't see anything from a double-decker squeezing through narrow streets). For the girls, however, the pleasure was in riding a double-decker, not in seeing sights, so they didn't mind the absence of sights. Then we went punting, and I enjoyed it thoroughly because it was the best punter ever, while the girls thought the swans and ducks on the river were fun, and a boat trip is a boat trip. Meanwhile they kept reminding me that the real reason we went to town was that I had promised them belated birthday presents, of the kind “you can choose anything you want”, knowing that at this age they would probably not want a diamond necklace. In fact, it was interesting to watch them go back and forth between kids' fashion and toys, as they realised that “anything you want” didn't necessarily have to be a toy. They have more toys they can ever play with. We left John Lewis with a box of kids' makeup and a pair of slippers, and I think they were perfectly happy. In addition, I discovered that the family toilet in Grand Arcade was very practical when you had two little girls who needed to pee. We watched The Dark Crystal in the evening, and they made some clever observations, especially given that they didn't understand the dialogue.

Thursday was my really busy day, starting with a studio interview for BBC and an afternoon meeting. In the morning, the girls wondered whether they absolutely had to go on another excursion or could possibly play at home, so their wish was granted, while I dropped the boys in town to wander on their own. It was fascinating to hear them report afterwards what they had seen and done, and why.

Viktor had a favourite Chinese restaurant in Cambridge where Staffan had taken him a couple of times. He had been looking forward to going there again and was very upset to hear that the place had closed down. To compensate, I had promised Chinese take-out, and that was our meal that day. The boys walked to the shop, with some cash and free hands to get whatever they wanted, and they made some very good choices. And guess what? We watched a movie.

During the whole week Sergej hadn't seen anything of Cambridge, and I thought he should at least see some landmarks, but he had more work to do, and the kids were playing happily in the garden, and finally we didn't go anywhere at all (except to Tesco to get more milk, but it doesn't qualify as a pastime since it was a routine). In the evening, Sergej went to see a schoolmate who just happens to live in Milton. I understand that they paid tribute to all local pubs, while we had ice cream and watched a movie.

This morning, they were exemplary in getting up at five to catch the train. They haven't left much behind: just a sock and a toothbrush. They are very nice kids. I wish they could be delivered with volume control.

Imminent invasion

It has been a long time since I had a large family. I remember only too well when we suddenly were out of milk, when I cooked a huge pan of pasta, when a fruit bowl was empty in seconds. It took Staffan and myself years to downshift when getting groceries, we were so used to massive shopping. Today I had a weird feeling when I went to Tesco in preparation for four grandchildren arriving tomorrow. I tried to remember what children like of elementary things that we never have at home, such as ketchup and strawberry jam. I had some nostalgic moments getting The Laughing Cow. I could not decide what youghurt they might prefer and bought several different flavours. I got both orange juice and apple juice, just in case. I got three sorts of cereal. I got all the dangeous carbos that we don't normally eat: potato, rice, couscous, bread. I even got some doughnuts with pink icing. I realised that I was beginning to be price conscious and look for value packs and family sizes and "Any 3 for £10".

At the till, contemplating the mountain of food in front of me, I happened to glance behind me and saw a woman with three four-liter bottles of milk. I realised that my two-liter bottle would perhaps last a morning.

On the way home I couldn't help thinking of all the things I had forgotten: toilet paper, kitchen towels, sugar, plain cheese, ice cream. I'll have to take another trip to Tesco tomorrow before they come.

Right now I am busy unpacking duvets, pillows and endless duvet covers and sheets that I bought yesterday. They must have thought I was starting a Bed & Breakfast. I think I have enough towels, but I'd better go and have another look.

Me and my teenager

Yesterday morning when our cleaning lady came I asked her to wait with the vacuum cleaner because I had a teenager asleep in the guest room. Her reaction, when I explained the circumstances, was perplexing: "So you are taking her shopping?" I decided I'd better not dicuss the plans I had for my teenager. But apparently it was a typical reaction since later the same day I asked a colleague with a number of kids of relevant age what a fifteen-year-old might want to do in Cambridge and got the answer: "Sleep and shop".

What we did yesterday, my teenager and me, was visit King's Chapel with a lengthy discussion of fan vaults, Christian motifs in stain-glass windows and the symbolism of the red and the white roses; we studied the architecture of Tudor houses and the advantages and disadvantages of half-timber structures; we visited Clare Fellows' Garden, we went punting where I learned some new stories (all punters tell different stories and assure you that they are absolutely true), and generally had a pleasant and mutually enriching conversation. In the evening we went out for a fancy meal.

I am not at all surprised - although I realise now I should be - because I was like this myself once upon a time in Stone Age. I was curious about almost everything and appreciated being taken around on trips. Don't misunderstand me now: I was also a normal teenager with horrible moods, rude and unhappy, and the only reason I didn't enjoy shopping was that there wasn't much to shop for when I was growing up.

Our further plans include Ely Cathedral, Anglesey Abbey and Lode mill, the medieval town of Lavenham, Shakespeare in the gardens and a highbrow movie. We will go shopping too. We are in urgent need of Philip Pullman's most recent book. But she also gets up late and spends hours in the shower, so I am not worried about her.

I am very proud of my teenager.

Christmas shopping

My GP thinks I have high blood pressure. I know that with considerably lower blood pressure my mother would be flat on her back in bed, and I am still running around. I have received a blood pressure tester from my surgery to take blood pressure morning and night for a week. It is, however, pointless to take blood pressure during Christmas season. It's bound to be superhigh.

I have just spent FOUR HOURS shopping Christmas gifts online. I had this revelation yesterday: rather than asking Anton to carry presents for his nephews and nieces on a Ryanair flight, and rather than going shopping in a mall and then taking the whole lot to a post office, I would shop online and get it all neatly dispatched. This, however, does not solve the big problem. Our grandchildren have everything. They have more toys than they can play with, and they have all the gadgets imaginable. I hate giving presents that will be admired for five minutes and forgotten among a pile of other stuff, I like giving an experience, like going to a movie or a theatre or a museum. But it is hard to explain to a four-year-old on Christmas Eve that she will get her present when granny is in Stockholm in three months' time. So it has to be a little something under the tree.

Last year we loaded Julia's suitcase with presents when she visited in the beginning of December, and the kids received them for Easter. It wasn't Julia's fault: they are all just too busy to meet up. Perhaps it was just as well; they got too much for Christmas anyway.

This year we will be clever and send the gifts from an online shop, dispatched to three addresses in Sweden... Do you see my blood pressure go up? First to find ten different reasonable gifts for five boys and five girls aged between two and fourteen. Checking with the parents that they haven't already got it. That the small girls still love glittery stuff and the middle boys still love building models. Sorting the carefully, lovingly chosen gifts into three bunches. Searching my non-existent electronic address book for postcodes. Filling in the addresses, only to receive the message: "We are sorry, we cannot accept your address". Bother! All over again. Shall I give up, take the car, go to the centre, wait an hour in line to park the car, negotiate crowds, browse five different shops - no! Back to the screen. Counting frantically, adding labels (once upon a time, when we sent gifts from California, Amazon mixed up all labels, so a two-year-old got a biography over the Pope and her mother Raymond Briggs' Snowman). No, I don't have a gift card. No, I don't have a promotion code. Yes, I want to use my very special unique Christmas discount for this particular order. Yes, I am quite sure that I want to send to these addresses. Oh, I see, I cannot use this card for these addresses. All over again? No, I don't want to send all these items to the same address. I have clicked "multiple addresses". Yes, I am quite sure...

Click "Place your order". Take a deep breath. Sorry, kids, if you get wrong gifts. By Easter, you may have time to meet and exchange them.

Cambridge entertainment

Two of the grandchildren are visiting. On Saturday, I went to Heathrow to pick them up. Remembering my experience of being stuck in a train for an hour, I have a wide margin, but this time half of the underground lines are closed. Not Picadilly line to Heathrow though, yet it does mean more crowds. The flight from Sockholm is half an hour early, so I barely have time to grab a cup of coffee.

Filip is an experienced traveller and has seen the major London sights with me. Viktor has never been to London and has some vague ideas of what is available. I decide to take a sightseeing bus to cover everything there is to see at one go. The guide comes with a lot of sophisticated jokes that are wasted on my companions. Eventually it gets boring, but by this time it is too late in the afternoon to go to any of the attractions (Tower or Madame Tussaud), so we take a boat trip under light drizzle, admire Platform 9 3/4 at King's Cross and make our way to Cambridge.

I have not prepared too well for the visit, but I know there is a fair on Sunday. We got a glimpse of it on the way from the railway station. Now, the boys are spoilt by the huge grounds in Stockholm and Gothenburg, and I warn them so that they aren't disappointed. But actually the fair is not bad. There are rides and games for all tastes (some are of the kind that make me sick by the very look of them), food market, flea market, ice cream, candy floss and a stage with very loud music. People have picnics sitting on the grass. The boys can do what they want - this is what grandmothers are for. I just remember to keep some change so that we can take a bus home. They get hamburgers and soft drinks for lunch. They win soft toys. As the very last treat, we buy a flea-market croquet set. This is a strike of genius. The rest of the day back home in Milton is saved.

Granny´s comeback

All of a sudden I find myself in yet another strange place. A place where the eight-year-old sits at table with inlines on and the two-year-old with rubber boots; where the four-year-old is convinced that it is allowed to have ice-cream for pudding because daddy says so, where you have to navigate between zillions of Lego pieces on the floor, and nobody ever wants to go to bed. The cat sleeps on my belly all night, and I wake up under a ceiling as tall as a cathedral. Everybody wants different sort of cereal for breakfast. Everybody is all over the place at once. The noise level is incredible. It is no more than six weeks since last, but it feels like ages.

Granny nanny

I am not a good grandmother. Anyway, not like some grannies among my friends who babysit twice a week or invite their grandchildren over every weekend and take care of them the whole summer. To be such a granny you need at the least to be retired or else a homemaker, and how many grannies today are retired or homemakers? Our oldest grandchild is twelve, so she is likely to have her own kids before I retire. And I am not going to babysit them. (That’s their granny’s responsibility).

Yes, I love my grandchildren. It is a joy to see them at our family gatherings. I remember well the thrill of holding a newborn, just a few hours old, knowing that my genes are now carried further. In a way, is was a greater miracle than holding a baby of my own. In my old country, in the bad old times, grandparents – and even fathers – were not allowed to meet the baby until the mother was at home, which most often took a week. So grannies in my parents’ generation never experienced this incredible sensation of just having become immortal.

When our youngest grandchild had announced her imminent arrival, our son woke me up by phone at 3 am, since I had promised to be available “any time”. I hadn’t counted on any time being 3 am. It normally takes forty-five minutes to drive to their place, but I made it in half an hour. Just as well, the baby was in a hurry to see the world. Meanwhile, the other children slept nicely except the oldest, who was a bit scared, crept up to me, as I collapsed, drowsy and shaky, into the parents’ bed. “Can I sleep beside you, granny?” “Sure, but I must warn you that I snore”. “Doesn’t matter, Mum snores too”. I was too sleepy to appreciate the dialogue then.

The reason for this flow of reminiscences is that yesterday I babysat the two youngest, two irresistible young ladies, three and one. For about eight hours, with short breaks for meals and naps, they jumped on a trampoline. I felt dizzy by merely looking.

Who knows when I get the next chance to babysit.