Balls

It’s our 22nd wedding anniversary and we’re ensconsed in Sandy Balls. (It’s the name of a holiday park, all right? Yes, I know it’s weird).

Other people go on romantic breaks to Venice, leaving teenage offspring at home. (I will admit this makes me jealous, but only until I think of returning to a house destroyed by drunken rampaging Facebook gatecrashers, then I’m not so bothered). 

Other people get dressed up, go to posh restaurants, and swing naked from the chandelier above a king size bed in a swanky hotel.

Other people aren’t us, though. (And, frankly, I’m not sure the light fittings in the caravan would take it).

Instead, we’re here on a family weekend with the PWSA UK (Prader-Willi Syndrome Association UK). With a load of familes who might be ‘other’ people  elsewhere, but they’re ‘our’ people here. We all share one thing in common: a family member with PWS. 

So far, there’s been arts and crafts, quizzes, some sneaky beers (for the parents, obviously), a trip to the beach, and we're just heading back to the holiday park for a healthy barbecue. There's been awkward, funny and loving little social interactions and shy smiles between the kids, who range in age from littl'uns to bigg'uns with fuzzy chins.

My grown-up husband with a fuzzy chin is here with me. Like he has been for the biggest part of my life. (There you go, love, that’s my anniversary present to you: telling you you’re the “biggest part” of my life *sniggers*).

I lucked out. I found him when I was just 17. I was an idiot when I was 17, but somehow, amongst all the things I got wrong, I got him right.

Six years later, in 1995, on a Saturday like this, we got married.

I stood there, feeling a bit of a numpty in a dress (anyone who knows me knows about the dress/numpty correlation). I put my best foot forward (in white, 16-hole DM boots), and walked down the aisle towards him. 

We promised some stuff. We danced to cheesy music at the reception. An extremely rude, battery-powered appendage belonging to Pete, the blow-up man from my hen night, reappeared (thanks, girls), was strung round my neck, and had to be quickly stuffed down my cleavage to be hidden from my nanna when she left. (Yes, yes it was a classy wedding).

We had to change bedrooms because my brother and uncle had removed every single item of furniture (including the bed, curtains and poles) and stuffed them in the bathroom. 

We had a blast.

Life may not be as carefree as it was then. But we still try and set the blast charges as often as we can. (I’ve just realised, you might be thinking this is a euphemism for sex, but it isn’t, I just mean having fun. Although I might start using it in the rude sense, because it’s making me giggle).

In a complicated world, we’ve got a simple thing going on. He’s who I want, who I need, who I love. Then, still, and always. 

Happy Anniversary. 

Song is: Sparks - Balls

Pitched

Today was one of those community days.

I don’t mean I had to don an orange jumpsuit and paint over graffiti - that’s every other Sunday, and I still insist I was provoked, officer.

No, it was one of those days spent with other members of the PWS community. This PWSA UK (Prader-Willi Syndrome Association UK) family day was at Thetford Forest, and proved as much of a grin-generator as previous events we’ve attended. And, as you may know, we’ve attended a lot. Once my daughter has got wind of a Prader-Willi meet-up - no matter whether the location is The New Forest, Manchester, London or The Lake District - I have to have a cast iron excuse not to take her. By cast iron, I mean basically a death in the family. Hell, no, immediate family.

So we punched in the postcode in the sat nav, entered into the usual Brexit-complication-level negotiations over song choices on the stereo along the way, arrived, parked up, disembarked, registered, and got our name stickers. (Incidentally, I’m thinking of standing as an independent candidate in the forthcoming General Election on the single issue of it being compulsory for everyone, everywhere, at all times, to wear a name sticker. I’ve essentially got to that age where my brain just has no more face-name neurotransmitters left. I've pondered over the cause of their destruction, and I've narrowed it down to over-consumption of gin). 

We spotted a few old friends from previous events, and made a few new ones. There was, as always, a mix of tiny babies (with parents with a tell-tale, slightly shell-shocked demeanour), wobbly toddlers, cute children, my own diminutive teenager, and a lovely 21-year-old chap with a charming heavy facepaint/light beard combo, who introduced himself to everyone at least twice, and was utterly thrilled as this was the first time he’d met more than one person with Prader-Willi ‘like him’.

My girl was adored at by adoring Polly, who has a strong track record of previous adoration. They wandered around hand in hand, stopping off for my daughter to throw a little adoration of her own at Polly’s new baby brother (see picture). And my PWS girl - you know, the one with the insatiable appetite - insisted on not starting her picnic like everyone else until Polly had finished having her face painted and could sit next to her.

My boy behaved impeccably (by his standards), which meant he only burst half a dozen balloons, which wouldn’t have been so bad if they hadn’t sounded for some reason as though they were filled with gunpowder as well as helium. (Actually, in all seriousness, he was remarkable, playing a mini football match with a PWS boy, which awakened in him hitherto dormant traits of patience and magnaminity. Unlike when I play him, and he rugby tackles me, feigns injury, and bursts into tears if he doesn't beat me by ten goals).

It was a sun-kissed day, and a meeting of families who are all on the PWS map. We may camp out most days in very different topographic areas, from the beginners field to the SAGA cruise ship harbour, but today we pitched up together. And it was pitch perfect.

Song is: Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Maps