tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361734692024-03-13T05:33:57.316+00:00Sally Writessallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.comBlogger171125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-37013834318317770622013-11-20T12:25:00.001+00:002013-11-22T08:31:14.882+00:00Empower!Of course, you should never say "never". Writing "The End" to anything is rather like a retirement speech from Frank Sinatra in days of old. The trouble with the words "The End" is that when you decide to make a comeback, you have have to make a <i>comeback</i>.<br />
<br />
The truth is, that however infrequent it may be, I think I need a place to write. A place where I can write my thoughts, in my style.<br />
<br />
So here I am again. One year and a bit on from the last time.<br />
<br />
Those in the know will know that life has changed somewhat in the last year for the Writes household. For one, I no longer foster children. Instead I am back on my old path of seeking my fortune. (Well, just enough to pay off the "still vast" mortgage will do.) Now the thing is, Dick Whittington left Gloucester to seek his fortune in London. We on the other hand left London to seek ours in Gloucestershire. I make an observation only.<br />
<br />
Hubby is now working in Hampshire on a daily basis, and makes occasional appearances at the homestead, ED is in Birmingham doing a postgrad, ESOS is at University in Cardiff and Sensible has left school, is working hard and not often in. This means that our once overfull household (at the peak it was up to thirteen, albeit for a few weeks, and twelve, for over a year) has become considerably quieter. I'd like to say "quiet and serene", but frankly that would simply not be true. There is no-one in the Sally Writes family who is remotely serene. When the world was created, anyone in our own personal gene line missed out on the bit of personality that said "calm", "serene" and "quiet".<br />
<br />
Other things have changed too. My brother Barrie has just become a best selling author, as of today. Well, OK. Slight exaggeration. He has written a book through and it is to be published next summer. I've added it to my favourite books list on my profile. Just in case he becomes REALLY famous, I can genuinely say "I read it first." It's very good by the way. It's called a "A Higher Authority", a spy story. Look out for it next summer...<br />
<br />
One thing that never changes though is Sally's dealings with customer service centres.<br />
<br />
Our current grouse is with an energy supplier. For the sake of their ever respected need for anonymity, let's say they are called "Empower". They have currently, in the last month only, spuriously found an extra £1200, just the £1200, which they have added to our gas bill for no known reason. And now they are sending out seriously stroppy letters, calling us and have even graced us with an agent visit. They nobly have charged us £10.50 for each phone call that we have made to try to rectify the matter, and another £23.50 for the agent visit, who visited, after they billed for him.<br />
<br />
I patiently spent an hour on the phone on Saturday, trying to explain that our bill was not as big as they said it was, and that we were paying monthly and were not in arrears. Unfortunately at every turn, the "computer said no" no matter how much I tried to explain that they have made a mistake.<br />
<br />
After forty five minutes the conversation was not it seems going anywhere.<br />
<br />
"The thing is Miss Writes" said the girl on the other end, "you are £2066 in arrears. So are you going to make that payment today?"<br />
<br />
I thought of correcting her view of my marital status, but then decided against that idea. I think that the call centre scripts must only have the words "Miss" and "Mr" written down. Someone really needs to add the word "Mrs" for when it is appropriate.<br />
<br />
"I'm really sorry," I said, "but I don't know your name."<br />
<br />
"Actually, I did introduce myself at the beginning of the call Miss Writes. It's Stacey."<br />
<br />
"Well Stacey, unfortunately, we don't have that sort of money spare in our bank account and our usage from June to the end of October for gas and electricity is only £900, so I really think you have made a mistake."<br />
<br />
"That was summer usage. And besides, you have arrears on the account, and you signed an agreement to say that you would never be more than a certain number of months in arrears.<br />
<br />
"But we weren't aware that there were any serious outstanding arrears. A month ago we owed £900 and we paid you £500. In a few days you will receive another £500. We have a standing order of £500 a month set up, which is more than out monthly usage for gas and electricity over the year. We have used £400 of gas and electricity since the start of October. This means that we are paying more than we use on a monthly basis. How can the bill be over £2000? It just doesn't make sense."<br />
<br />
"Well Miss Writes, if you refuse to make a payment I have to advise you that we have the right to enter your property and install a pre payment meter. And we can cut off your supply."<br />
<br />
At this point I saw red, used a very rude word and suggested that we ended the conversation and that I wrote a letter instead.<br />
<br />
That night, hubby and I got out all the bills (having carefully saved the PDF files to the computer, just in case they decide to change the bills after our date of writing), scrutinised every detail carefully, and deduced that they have indeed added £1200 to our bill for no reason. It seems that the outstanding balance, minus what we have paid, plus our usage, comes to £1200 more that the total <i>should</i> read.<br />
<br />
Needless to say it makes absolutely no sense.<br />
<br />
We wrote a long email, detailing all items and payments, and explained in no uncertain terms, that we weren't over chuffed with the visits, the letters and the phone calls, that we didn't owe them £2000 and that we wanted the matter sorted out "forthwith."<br />
<br />
On Monday morning the doorbell rang.<br />
<br />
It was an agent from Empower.<br />
<br />
Have you read my email? I asked.<br />
<br />
"What email? He said.<br />
<br />
I firmly, but patiently explained that we had written and that I wanted no further communication from them until they had read the letter properly and rectified the matter.<br />
<br />
"You have overcharged us by £1200 I explained. We do not owe you the money that you seem to think we do. And what's more, if you continue to harass us in this manner I may be forced to take legal action."<br />
<br />
It is now Wednesday. The silence from Empower is deafening.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-90093465810745521032012-06-08T00:28:00.002+01:002013-11-20T10:22:32.734+00:00The End<br />
It's been a long time since I wrote regularly, and from time to time I have promised, threatened even, to come back to live in Bloggerland.<br />
<br />
I miss Bloggerland. Bloggerland brought out of me the academic side that I never even knew was there. It brought out a Sally who read, wrote and who had opinions about matters far and wide. It brought out a Sally that was most particular about a certain writing style, a Sally who was sometimes witty, even funny at times. Not wanting to push my own merits too far you understand.<br />
<br />
In Bloggerland we have our own little community. A community where we admire each other's work, on a regular basis, give each other awards, on a very regular basis, laugh at each others jokes and even... write blogs.<br />
<br />
It is a very safe community. A community where we feel loved and cherished and where you never feel lonely. There is always someone to share with and to empathise with, There is always someone who can empathise with you.<br />
<br />
So if it is that good, why on earth did I give it up?<br />
<br />
There are many reasons. I discovered Facebook. I discovered the joy of watching TV on my laptop. I bought a laptop even. a reason usually for more blogging one would think, but not when suddenly one can see the many uses that a laptop can have, besides blogging. In particular I discovered the joys of watching "House". Hubby accused me of going to bed with Hugh Laurie every night, which in one sense I guess I did. Hugh didn't know anything about this of course. I was just one of his millions of fans worldwide who drooled over a guy playing a dysfunctional doctor, who for some bizarre reason managed to keep the masses hooked.<br />
<br />
Most importantly though I started fostering children. And this my dear readers is the main reason why my blog has come to a bit of a standstill. Because it is a seriously sensitive subject and not one that you can openly share with the world.<br />
<br />
And so, after spending the last four years of nearly but not quite writing, I have decided to write "The End" to Sally Writes. It is a sad moment to finally find the end to a piece of writing that has evolved over six years in total. But then, on the other hand, if this is a book, then all books must come to an end. And if you really love it, you can always start again at the very beginning.<br />
<br />
It is a booksworth in total and so,<br />
<br />
Enjoy....<br />
<br />
And thank you, all of you, for being my lovely loyal readers.<br />
<br />
But now this really is....<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">THE END</span></b></div>
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<br />
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<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-61967663621514944812011-08-16T00:23:00.011+01:002015-08-17T16:40:11.351+01:00The Plum Jam<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxycHXyREWdXW9uBnvXiU5UTczdTaa0G56e_8YzRqG7q1zxWSU1ilg1eaakf5V1iUn7jpTddWTsji9q4lQXEOSk8rhEyQafZD0WfMUI7hxCCcbwEOK7itAOH6OMKE0rdz8VzMgA/s1600/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641249429195212034" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxycHXyREWdXW9uBnvXiU5UTczdTaa0G56e_8YzRqG7q1zxWSU1ilg1eaakf5V1iUn7jpTddWTsji9q4lQXEOSk8rhEyQafZD0WfMUI7hxCCcbwEOK7itAOH6OMKE0rdz8VzMgA/s400/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" style="display: block; height: 299px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>
<br />It was that time of year again. Well that time of "two years" actually.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span">We have two plum trees, and every two years they produce prolific amounts of fruit. In years gone by I have eagerly helped to pick and de-stone said plums and then make huge quantities of "Sally Jam", only to give most of it away and be left with maybe a jar for us. The "children" complain bitterly. "Don't give it away Mum. You're too generous with it. You even give it to people we barely know... <i><span class="Apple-style-span">Grumble grumble </span><span class="Apple-style-span">grumble</span><span class="Apple-style-span">..."</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">But every "other" year it is the same. The joy is in the making and the knowledge that you can, even just for a week every two years be an Earth Mother type and create your own little cottage industry in your kitchen... Or something like that I think, as I run round the kitchen finding old jars, empty them hastily, get as much of the labels off as possible and stuff them into the dishwasher. Not quite Nigella I guess.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">This year though it was different. "We must get the plums" said Hubby. "Make the jam." "Yes" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">I kept saying. "Soon."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">He clearly wasn't convinced by my eager responses. Perhaps he thought that the mere triviality of having five "lively"* foster children aged eight and under, two of my own aged thirteen and eleven, my two big teenagers and twenty one year old and mad collie dog, all living at home, might put me off my stride. As if?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">So then he picked two bowlfuls and plonked them on the kitchen table. And, thinking that we didn't have enough, Gymnast, Tinkerbell Mushroom and one of the younger ones went out and picked some more.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">"Shall I de-stone them tonight." Said Hubby. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">I looked wearily on. "I was thinking of freezing them. I can make jam when everyone has gone back to school." "I'm not sure the fruit would be as nice." Said Hubby. He can drive a hard bargain at times.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">So that was how, with two of the youngest at nursery this morning and another at a holiday summer school and the baby in bed having a morning nap and my lovely "Help sent directly from Heaven" cleaning the house, that TM, Gymnast, one of the younger ones and I, sat down to de-stone the plums. That was after of course a mad panic on my part because I had lost the recipe that I always use. Hasty look in all the cookery books for slip of paper that recipe is printed on. No recipe. Quick look on Google to "re-find" it. No recipe. In the end I found a new recipe and adapted it to make it more like my original one. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">Then of course the doorbell rang and it was Tesco with an obscenely large amount of food. We do eat it of course. There is very little waste. And there are a great deal of people to feed in our house, so we need it.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">But <i>I</i> have to put it away in the cupboards...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">And so it was that by the time that I had done that, the plums had been nearly de-stoned. They left a few of the trickier ones for me to do, which I think is probably fair enough really. I had just enough time to throw sugar on them before the afternoon "pick ups" began.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">ESOS walked in. "Plum jam?" He said, looking on eagerly. "Don't give it all away this time mum." His two houseguests looked a little disappointed. Sensible, who was busy planning a results party two nights before the results come out </span><i>(Sensible is awaiting AS level results and ESOS is awaiting A level results)</i> asked me to go to the local supermarket to buy something for the party. (Tescos hadn't delivered enough.)<span class="Apple-style-span"> "Why isn't the party on Thursday" I asked. "Because it might be too depressing" said ESOS. "We'll have a pre results party."</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">Whilst I was at the supermarket Sensible made the kitchen look as sparkling "as you can get for old house in need of renovation, especially of the kitchen with broken drawers and broken other stuff..." And someone helpfully threw away the plum stones which could or could not have formed some of the recipe, but they did very much look like rubbish and I really should know by now how to give clear specific instructions.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">One of the children asked when we were going to make it into "actual" jam. Thinking that Social services wouldn't be best pleased if enthusiastic foster child got scalded by being part of some jam manufacture I hastily replied that I would make it when all others were in bed. "But that's not fair" said the little one. "We've done <i>all</i> the work. We should be able to make it." But, as the lion says, "sometimes..."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">I finally got it boiling. Once all the younger children were in bed. Once Sensible had had a driving lesson, and once the kitchen was vaguely clear again, following its nightly ordeal of using some of huge amount of food from fridge in the "cooked" version. The concoction needed a while... and some lemons too... which I hadn't bought from Tesco. So Hubby bought some lemons from our local late supermarket and kindly zested them for me and then, with jam boiling merrily, we sat down to watch an episode of "House" on my laptop, in the kitchen, while the jam was cooking. "House" is the de-stresser of the universe. Hugh Laurie, medical drama and pithy wit. What better combination could there be? ESOS got me into it and I'm hooked.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">It was a good episode which meant that the jam had even longer to boil, which it appears is the answer to success.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">And this time am going to put my new recipe on my blog, lest in future years I yet again forget its whereabouts, and especially as <i>this</i> recipe is really a "Sally's own", it having been adapted and combined with a few.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><b><u>"Sally Originals" Plum Jam</u></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><b><u>
</u></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><b>What's in it:</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">8 lb/3.5 kg Plums</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">6 1/2 lb/ 3kg Sugar</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">2-3 lemons</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><b>How to make it:</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><b>
</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">Split the plums and de-stone them</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">Place sugar on the top and mix in carefully</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">Leave for at least ten hours <i>(This allows the fruit to ferment a little and really makes a difference to the taste of the jam).</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">Put the fruit and sugar in a supersized saucepan, add the juice and zest from the lemons and boil. Keep stirring. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">(Optional) Place stones in a muslin bag and boil with the jam. And/or break some of the stones and add the kernel into the mixture.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">After fifteen minutes, lower the heat to medium hot and keep stirring from time to time. (<i>It can cook at a relatively high temperature without catching as long as you have a big enough pot to ensure that it doesn't boil over.)</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span">Cook for an hour and a half to two hours. The longer cooking time will allow the jam to develop a lovely mature flavour.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Grab newly sterilised jars from dishwasher.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Put jam into jars being careful not to splash any on the hand. If this does happen grab a leaf of handy Aloe Vera plant to cure burn. (As I did.)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">And there it is. "Sally Originals" Plum Jam...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">
</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">*polite speak for "challenging in the extreme"...</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-83879568252563396222011-04-06T23:24:00.004+01:002011-04-06T23:49:35.677+01:00The Alternative Bear Hunt and Shrugby now complete. Click here...<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-781584140655764682011-04-04T11:32:00.007+01:002011-04-05T14:00:00.426+01:00Time for tea? Get it right! (As posted on Chris Evans' blog on Monday 4th April 2011)<div>Dear Chris</div><div><br /></div><div>Firstly: Happy Birthday for Friday!</div><div><br /></div><div>Secondly, I wondered if we could start a (slightly tongue in cheek) campaign across the nation please?</div><div><br /></div><div>The thing is this: </div><div><br /></div><div>In no other Country do they get the names of meals confused.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Germany for instance, lunch is Mittagessen, evening meal Abendessen. France, lunch is Dejeuner, Evening meal, Diner. etc.....</div><div><br /></div><div>But in England we have great confusion.</div><div><br /></div><div>Surely luncheon or lunch has always been known the meal that comes in the middle of the day? This means that the evening meal must be dinner. Supper is something before bed, a light snack and tea is an afternoon meal, eaten around 4 p.m. with sandwiches cakes and scones etc?</div><div><br /></div><div>But no! </div><div><br /></div><div>We are so complicated as a nation...</div><div><br /></div><div>Instead we call lunch dinner, dinner tea, supper at some time during the evening. We do call dinner dinner, that is "dinner in the evening" if you are going out to dinner or having a dinner party. Ladies who lunch don't do "ladies who dinner". If you go out for afternoon tea you would certainly be eating tea and scones. Not to be confused with the tea that people eat for their evening meal.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course if you are really in the know, there is High Tea too, which is probably what many would call tea, dinner, evening meal etc.</div><div><br /></div><div>FOR GOODNESS SAKE!!!!</div><div><br /></div><div>Can we please sort this out Chris? As a man who can talk to the nation I am asking if you would please talk some sense into the nation:</div><div><br /></div><div>Lunch when it's light</div><div>Dinner when it's dark</div><div>Tea at teatime: 4 p.m.</div><div>Supper: Shortly before bed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you!</div><div><br /></div><div>Sally Lomax</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-27486193217618183572011-04-01T01:18:00.009+01:002011-04-07T08:22:53.592+01:00The Alternative Bear Hunt and Shrugby.It started off with mayhem.<div><br /></div><div>ESOS (who is in the 6th form and wears a suit for school) had given me his trousers to wash the night before. Suit trousers. Non washable. Took a chance and put them in the washing machine as the mud wouldn't come out any other way before the next morning. 7.00 a.m. "Mum, where are my trousers?" "Oh.......... bad words bad words...........more bad words.............they are still in the washing machine......" Went to see Hubby. Have you got a suit that ESOS can use for school today?" Hubby found a suit which thankfully fitted. Made ESOS <b><u>PROMISE</u></b> that he would not play shrugby* in Hubby's suit.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile Hubby went to get out the bread from the bread maker. For the first time in many years it was flat. Hubby was about to blame me, me having put the bread on the night before........... then we realised that the breadmaker had in fact died a sad death.... Phew. I was off the hook.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, Hubby, eldest four children and dressing up trunk piled into the Fiat Punto at 7.30 a.m. to go to Gloucester. ED is in a play this week and needed dressing up trunk as a prop. They must have been crowded in that little car, and of course it left me with just the six to deal with. </div><div><br /></div><div>My saint of a help arrived at 8.30 a.m. then burst out of the front door at twenty to nine with eldest foster child (EFC). But not before an unwelcome encounter with the potty and two year old foster child...</div><div><br /></div><div>Went back through the front door. Collected sandwiches, fruit and drink to go with the crisps that had been put into the lunch box. Ran her across the road to the primary school. Kissed her goodbye and ran back. Jumped into the car with Tinkerbell Mushroom (youngest daughter) and Pre School FC. (Foster child.) Drove to TM's school. Drove back. Remembered that we had left Pre School's book bag at home. In the tumble drier. Had been subjected to being dragged through the deep oozy mud the night before. Squelch squerch. squelch squerch. Went through the front door. Opened the tumble drier. got the bag. Retied on name label. Put book into bag. Got into the car. Round to the pre school. Back home. Got two youngest ready for my "three hours off a week" when I take both the youngest two to a day nursery for three hours and go out on the razz or something. Like supermarket shopping.</div><div><br /></div><div>In fact I had arranged to meet Sensible who was in need of serious "tlc" having not been selected to be Head Girl of her school.Whizzed into town. Went on a seriously therapeutic shop with Sensible: I needed to buy a sewing machine to make curtains... and Sensible helped me. Thank you Sensible.....Will buy you a nice coffee out soon... </div><div><br /></div><div>Pulled out of multi storey car park. Drove over invisible hump. Thought had damaged car. Apparently not, so drove on home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mayhem ensued for the rest of the afternoon, but peace was in sight as Gymnast and I were due to go the the theatre in the evening. Hubby was needed late at work to be very important, so Sensible offered to babysit until he got home. Finally escaped. Car wouldn't start. Has strange quirk where if it is parked at the wrong angle (i.e. on the pavement) and is only a quarter full it thinks that it is empty. ESOS helped me push the car off the pavement and I drove off happily across the road to the petrol station. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh....Not so happily. Car shaked and trembled. Shaked and trembled. Got out of car. FLAT tyre. Seriously flat. Seems that the invisible hump was far from harmless. Tyre had apparently been deflating all afternoon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Went back into the house. Threw down keys. "I can't go." I moaned. "Yes you can. Said Sensible. "Go in the minibus." The minibus, it transporting so many of us, seats seventeen and to say the least is a little on the big side to park in Cheltenham. "I can't park that by the theatre." I remonstrated. "Park it on the road" Said Sensible. "Go!"</div><div><br /></div><div>And then thankfully I had a brainwave. Called Hubby on his way home from Bristol. Arranged to swap cars en route. Got into seriously small Fiat Punto and did rest of journey.</div><div><br /></div><div>Got to the theatre a couple of minutes late. Not bad considering. Saw all but first two minutes of the play...</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day, ESOS, back in his suit asked: Is it possible that my trousers have shrunk? Yes indeed. Completely possible but I fear he will be wearing them until the year end nevertheless, and preferably without the Shrugby please!</div></div><div><br /></div><div>(*shoe rugby, a weird version of rugby played by ESOS and friends at school, which involves much mud and serious abuse of nice clothes)</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-39326550656601515062011-03-10T12:51:00.008+00:002011-03-10T14:15:28.028+00:00The HillbilliesLife is mad.<div><br /></div><div>We are probably known amongst our friends as "The Hillbillies".</div><div><br /></div><div>I always remember shortly after having baby number five, being left alone at home with baby number five only, whilst Hubby went supermarket shopping with the other four. Or something equally exciting. The exact details elude me. I seized the moment, baby asleep, and slumped in front of the TV. It was before the days of Sky in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Lomax</span> household and so daytime <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">tele</span> was uninspiring and dated at best, so it was no surprise when <i>The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Waltons</span> </i> made their appearance. Nonetheless it did give rise to a chuckle on my part.</div><div><br /></div><div>For many we were at that point the "Hillbillies" amongst our little social set. As my own mother had so pointedly said at the time of my pregnancy announcement "Nobody has five children nowadays Sally"......</div><div><br /></div><div>So when child number seven, eight, nine and ten arrived last July by way of foster children it was possibly unsurprising that many more of our friends started to steer clear. Invitations stopped - fear perhaps that this phenomenon was possibly catching and that by inviting us to parties they might too end up with ten children. And of course, there is possibly the fear that they might actually get a visit of twelve guests should they invite Hubby and me round for a cuppa. And believe me dear friends you would probably NOT want that. Some of our charges do not always have the sunniest of dispositions, putting it mildly...Visits from relatives and friends almost completely stopped - understandably, as the noise levels in our house do now reach unbelievable decibel heights. And sanity? Well THAT went out of the window long ago.</div><div><br /></div><div>The weight fell off though. I took the pills from the doc, but to be honest, given the number that I forgot to take due to ridiculous schedules, sleepless nights and tantrum ridden children to deal with, I am not really sure that they have been fully responsible. What is possibly more relevant is the lack of time to actually eat properly and the extra running up and down our stairs.</div><div><br /></div><div>The latest four children are in fact a sibling group, the eldest being 7 and the youngest a baby of just 1. (She was four months on arrival...) We already had one foster child in place with us, a little boy of seven who is severely developmentally delayed and doesn't speak. Actually, we had two other foster children in place for a few weeks, as, in their wisdom Social Services had arranged for the placement of "the four" on the day that the eldest foster child was leaving us. They didn't anticipate however that "eldest foster child" wasn't happy with his future plans and had got himself an advocate... who said that "he was NOT to leave the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Lomaxes</span> until a suitable alternative arrangement had been found." He was happy with us and, although he wanted to move on to live in independent accommodation it would not be until he was happy with the proposed plans.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was a busy summer...</div><div><br /></div><div>Eldest foster child finally left us mid September, leaving us with just the five and it was at this point that I was offered the opportunity to act in a theatre tour in December and a bit of January.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do it" said Eldest Daughter. "Where there's a will..."</div><div><br /></div><div>"We'll manage" said Hubby.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now luckily, I already had a saint of a cleaner in place by this time. I say saint because I am not quite sure how she can come in here as often as she does with a smile on her face and still have a smile on her face when she leaves. The mess that she encounters from our lot, the constant overturning of a day's good work sometimes only a matter of hours from her last visit must be demoralising, but still she continues to smile. And not only does she smile and clean, but it just so happened that prior to having her own little girl 18 months ago, she had worked with children "in care" who were SO challenging that they had had to be moved on to some form of institutional housing. So that is how the perfect babysitter arrived. Probably the only person in the world at the particular time in question, who would be mad and capable enough to help us out, happened to land in our lap via the cleaning agency.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so it was, we did manage. For a couple of months I did it all. Ten children and a professional acting tour.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not something that I can repeat too often of course in the current situation...</div><div><br /></div><div>Which is why dear friends my writing has come to almost a complete standstill of late.</div><div><br /></div><div>The future?</div><div><br /></div><div>We know not... there are talks of possible adoption plans for the children afoot. The courts will decide all that in due course. Until then they will stay with us until more permanent arrangements have been made for them. Meanwhile the baby and the two year old are becoming more attached to us by the day. The baby especially has had us as her parents from four months old and really sees us as the significant people in her life. It is going to be very hard on all of us when they are moved on.</div><div><br /></div><div>I suggested to Hubby that we adopt the baby ourselves.</div><div><br /></div><div>He looked at me as if I had gone completely mental. </div><div><br /></div><div>Social Services then asked us if we would consider adopting the eldest of the four - because of course to have three aged 4 and under adopted together is a more likely adoption scenario and would make their job more doable. But adopting a reluctant seven year old who is fully aware of where she has come from is not something that many would take on easily.</div><div><br /></div><div>So then it was my turn to look at the social worker as if she had gone mental.</div><div><br /></div><div>And in the meantime we live day to day in our little haze, juggling from one moment to the next.</div><div><br /></div><div>But thankfully we do have babysitters and very useful older children who babysit, so we do still try to accept invitations with enough notice. But not at Christmas and Easter and other major bank holidays.......</div><div><br /></div><div>And when out, we can still make ourselves look quite respectable, for Hillbillies.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-45788893303667164822010-06-25T11:45:00.006+01:002010-06-25T13:58:44.262+01:00ObeseI first heard the word "obese" from a doctor when I was fourteen, nearly fifteen.<br /><br />At the time I was not as skinny as some of my age, but I was certainly not fat. I wore size twelve and, as a modest and respectable type, did as my mother told me and wore things slightly big. Too tight was considered tarty...<br /><br />I was a teenager of course in the post Twiggy era. It was the late seventies. The "perfect" figure was some sort of straight up and down gamine type look. Boobs were definitely out, hips considered pure fat and waists were the bit in the middle of your body with no defined shape. Size twelve was big. Fourteen huge. Sixteen? Unspeakable. A size reserved only for grannies and spinster schoolteachers.<br /><br />The sizes were different too. A twelve then was more or less what a ten would be now. I know this because as an incurable hoarder I still have clothes going way back and can see the difference in sizes.<br /><br />So, when I went to the doctor, aged 14 and a 1970's size 12, but convinced that I was "fat" due to my "bust" as we called it then, no-one batted an eyelid, when (without weighing me) he handed me a booklet on " How to deal with obesity".<br /><br />Except me.<br /><br />"I'm not obese," I yelled to my mother! And of course, I seriously wasn't. I weighed under 9 stone with a small waist and a bust size that matched my hip size. Doctors knew best though then and so my already low fat diet became even lower fat. Everything was "fattening" in our house. My mother is the only person I know who considered grapefruit to be fattening. We never had biscuits. Crisps were only for parties and cakes for birthdays, Christmas and Easter. Unless we had visitors of course and then there was no end to my mother's culinary brilliance in the cake and pudding department. It was a mortal sin though to eat anything remotely fattening when visitors weren't present.<br /><br />I remember the new strict regime lasting a few days and then, my Dad, who never publicly disagreed with my mother about our welfare, invited my mother and I to meet him for lunch. I remember he took us to very trendy looking wine cellar brasserie type restaurant and told me to order some food.<br /><br />"I'm on a diet". I protested. "Well, you've not eaten much for the last few days, so now have a bit of a blow out" he said. On reflection, it was I believe my Dad's was of saying that I really didn't need to lose weight. That is a nice memory.<br /><br />Unfortunately though, the magazines of the day, the straight up and down models, the seventies and early 80's film stars all seriously influenced our generation for the next decade or so. It was such a strange era in which to grow up. Those who went ten years before us had flower power, mini skirts, glam rock and hippy fun. We had tweed skirts and high necked frilly blouses. There was a very brief interlude in about 1978 when tiered skirts and a little bit of girly prettiness and even "ra ra" skirts came in. But that was shortly followed by punk, grunge and for the less adventurous of us, "The Lady Di" look.<br /><br />And the need to be thin.<br /><br />Thin was pure beauty. We didn't even give it the nicer title of slim. We all wanted to be THIN.<br /><br />I look back on photos, and other than my ridiculous calves which have always been the bane of my life, I was thin. But I thought I wasn't. And the sad thing is that according to weight charts then I wasn't. Aged 22 after a heavy university year I decided that I was by now seriously overweight and so, in the summer holidays I went to Weightwatchers, I remember that, fully clothed and in the evening... I had crept up to a MASSIVE 10 stone 2lbs. God........ how <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> I sleep at night with all those extra pounds on my body? At Weightwatchers they told me that I should have been 8 Stone 11 lb as an absolute maximum, based on my height and age and so I had to lose 19 pounds.<br /><br />I followed that diet religiously. I did everything that it asked for to the point that when I accidentally tasted a cup of tea with sugar in it I went nearly mental with worry. And I got my self down to 8 stone 13 lb, in the evening, fully clothed. But I could not shift the final 2 lb, and so was not considered a success story by Weightwatchers and as such not by me either.I managed to keep most of the weight off for the next ten years however, despite three pregnancies, never weighing more than 11 stone even at 9 months pregnant. I then got myself a gold medal status at Weightwatchers between baby number one and two and after baby number two by finally managing to meet their criteria for being "THIN". I was so happy about it and never once noticed that I was looking seriously gaunt in the process... I thought I looked great.<br /><br />But then....it went downhill. After baby number three I got chicken pox shortly after giving birth. We all got it, including my then ten day old baby. (The one who later became "Sensible" in my writings.) She and I recovered together in her isolation ward in hospital whilst the others all recovered at home.....but that's another story.<br /><br />It was after that though that I really did put on weight. A doctor I visited when in my mid thirties offered me a skipping rope. As a mother of then four children aged 8 and under I felt a little cross that he didn't acknowledge that I was actually quite active. Well, very really.<br /><br />A few years later still I was finally diagnosed with an underactive thyroid, but not before my weight had crept up to a little over a shocking 12 stone. And that is where it is now. During this time of course I have tried EVERY diet that was ever invented: Some sensible. Some less. Cabbage soup, Atkins, the Hay diet and many variations on the same theme, Weightwatchers, Tesco Online Diets, Unislim, Rosemary Conley, Slimming World. I even bought some of that ridiculously expensive wacky tea and many may more. I can name most periods of my life by the diet that I was following at the time. Most recently I have been chewing the "Chew Chew" diet. Yes, well ...<br /><br />Of course the biggest irony in all this is that I currently still wear a size 12. Sizes being so much more generous than they were a few years ago have allowed extra pounds to arrive without the extra sizes. I have of course variously been size 14 and 16 over the years, but in recent years, my daughters have put me straight and put me into less baggy smaller sized clothes. and so now I wear a twelve again. Much of the time.<br /><br />But ... when I went to the Doctor about something unrelated in January he just "popped" me the scales. (It's a funny term "pop". Do you think that they teach Doctors that at medical school?) Ummmm he said. That's crept up a bit. ("Yes, I've been telling you that for years" I wanted to say...) "It really is quite dangerous of course," he said. "You are in the obese category."<br /><br />Such an emotive word. The very word "Obese" brings up images to mind of people who make my figure look more akin to Twiggy herself. It is not a word I associate with a size 12. Even a 2010 size 12. And I have muscles too. I'm not flabby I thought. Well ... apart from the baby tummy, and my horrible calves, and I have had five babies all together. Surely that allows for SOME flexibility on the scales. AND I have got an underactive thyroid... (See think bubble above my head and doctor on the other side of the desk.)<br /><br />"What you need to do", he said "is to cut down on your portion sizes. Eat less fat. More vegetables and fruit. And if that doesn't work, come back and we'll give you some diet pills."<br /><br />I smiled weakly. Inside I wanted to scream at him...<br /><br />I went home and ate for Britain that day...<br /><br />But, for the next few months I tried to be sensible, to chew my food, to exercise and to just eat properly. I have lost a few pounds but it really wasn't shifting enough. And to be honest, the ingrained "thin thing" is always there in my mind. Of course I am not looking to be 9 stone. I would look haggard, but I do seriously need to lose some. Well, quite a lot actually.<br /><br />So. I went back this week and accepted the Docs fab diet pills. Medical pills are the only thing that I haven't actually tried yet. It's another trick of course. Eating fat with them makes you so seriously uncomfortable that what you do is train your body not to eat any excessive amounts, ever again hopefully.<br /><br />So wish me luck ...<br /><br />And if you ever need a diet book writing...<br /><br />Let me know.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-64563662804025914032010-05-11T15:35:00.006+01:002010-05-12T00:16:44.482+01:00It's all down to "Feng Shui"It's all down to "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Feng</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Shui</span>" I said to Hubby.<br /><br />"Oh right" he said. With Hubby of course there is actually a continual subtext. As a sort of "nearly a proper actor, maybe someone will spot me one day" type I have over the years done quite a few workshops where you improvise the subtext of what the character is <em>really </em>saying. I always find those exercises quite easy myself. I just think of Hubby's subtext moments and "hey presto" we have a result.<br /><br />Of course, the subtext on this particular occasion was...." <em>Yet another <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">HBS</span>*. Smile sweetly and agree. She'll move onto something else quite soon."</em><br /><br />"We need to change the front door colour" I said.<br /><br />"Oh" he said. Subtext <em>"What <strong>is</strong> she going to suggest now"?</em><br /><br />"I've been reading up on it." I went on. "It faces west and a little bit to the south, which means that gold or white would be a good colour. Probably white. I don't fancy gold."<br /><br />At that the subtext moments stopped.<br /><br />"You can't change the colour of the front door" he protested.<br /><br />I looked at him. He was serious. And of course, he was right. We live in a Georgian house which is grade II listed. The "You must have a BLACK front door" has been engraved into the "<em>What you are allowed and what you are not allowed to do with your house</em>" book in the Forest of Dean council offices. And of course, added to that, it has always been black for over 200 years. Or currently a slightly off black <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">greyish</span> in need of a paint version of black. But black. Definitely black.<br /><br />I knew that I'd lost that one. The front door had to stay as it was however "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">un</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">feng</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">shui</span>".<br /><br />"The thing is" I went on "is that our house is a bit of a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Feng</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Shui</span> nightmare.<br /><br />It's not pronounced "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Schwee</span>" Mum. It's <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Schway</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Feng</span> "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Schway</span>" said Sensible. "Oh, right" I said. It's a nuisance being older sometimes. I get all sorts of things wrong. I like to call <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gok</span> Wan for instance <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gok</span> "warn" as in "arm", but apparently that is wrong too. It is perhaps a right of passage though to pronounce things wrongly. My mother is a expert at it. Everyone takes delight in her "pi<em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">ttz</span></em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">zas</span>" for example with her emphasis on the double "T" and she is of an age where she either doesn't hear or doesn't really care. Probably the latter. She has always called them <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">pittzas</span>. She likes to call them <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">pittzas</span> and even though the rest of the world calls them pizzas, she will continue to call them <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">pittzas</span>. Good for her. And when I get to the purple hat age, I too will relish being able to call things what I like and be too "deaf" to hear people correcting me. But right now, while I'm in the middle bit of life still I suppose I still have to try to conform.<br /><br />"OK then" I said. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">Feng</span> "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">Shway</span>" nightmare.<br /><br />And, according to the experts, it is.<br /><br />You see, the front door faces the back door, which to all intents and purposes is sort of another front door, it being a double sided house, which means that the money comes into one side and out of the other, which it certainly does for us. And then the staircase is in the right place for one door, but in completely the wrong place for the other. In other words it is directly opposite the back door, or the other front door, which apparently means that the "chi" goes straight upstairs, leaving the downstairs devoid of all the good stuff.<br /><br />Then there is the question of the doors themselves. The ideal is that you use one door for almost all of your outgoings and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">incomings</span>. Well ... that's great if you are one person with one job and nothing too complicated to manage. Try a family of nine residents, all with different missions, all with different reasons for entering and leaving the house, all at different ages and not one, or even two, but three very used doors. Some of the family catch buses from the front of the house, some get into cars, using the side door. Some just go and play in the garden, using the back/ other front door and some walk to places using any of the doors available.<br /><br />Oh dear...<br /><br />"Oh for goodness sake Mum. People were burnt at the stake for believing in such stuff not so long ago" said <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">ESOS</span>. "It's all <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">mumbo</span> jumbo."<br /><br />"O.K. then clever clogs", said I. "So why, since living in this house has all the money literally come in through the front door and disappeared out of the back, when before we lived here we were reasonably comfortable, for a little while at least?"<br /><br />Meanwhile Sensible came back into the room.<br /><br />"Mum? Why is your necklace hanging from the ceiling?"<br /><br />"It's a "crystal" I explained, to divert the energies. It will help the fact that at the moment they are all going from front to back, up the stairs and in my lady's chamber and stuff."<br /><br />"It looked nicer round your neck." She said.<br /><br />"Yes, well I am going to order a proper one for the purpose, but I thought that it would do for now."<br /><br />"I think it looks fine." Said Hubby. Subtext: <em>"She really has <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">gone</span> completely mental this time. Best not say too much. Just wait for the men with the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">straight jackets</span> to arrive."</em><br /><br />"Well, what we really need is a round table there" I said.<br /><br />So, today I got our white metal round garden table and plonked it in the middle of the hall. And I decided that I could actually put conservatory type furniture into that bit of the hall and make a feature of the fact that it opens onto the garden. In essence I would in fact make no pretence of the fact that I would be directly copying, with limited resources, my lovely friends in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">Effingham</span>, who have a tailor made very posh and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">stunningly</span> beautiful new garden room in their house.<br /><br />Gymnast arrived home. I explained my plan for my "sort of" garden room. "Oh, awesome" she said. "It'll look cool." One vote at least.<br /><br />"Mum, why is the garden table in the middle of the hall?" said Tinkerbell Mushroom. "It's <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">Feng</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">Shui</span>" I said.<br /><br />"<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">Feng</span> What?"<br /><br />I got one of those "Mum has really lost it this time" looks. And then "Oh...What's for dinner?"<br /><br />True to form, Hubby said nothing derogatory. He just smiled and said. "Yes. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">Feng</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-error">Shui</span>." Subtext: <em>"Silly old bat. Where <strong>are </strong>those men with the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">straight jackets</span>?"</em><br /><br />To which of course, my subtext was: <em>"Wait and see. Just because not every person in China is a multi millionaire doesn't mean that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">Feng</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" class="blsp-spelling-error">Shui</span> is a load of baloney. You never know just WHAT might be around the corner..."<br /></em><br />*<span style="font-size:78%;">Hair Brained Scheme</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-59395149132875020652009-04-07T17:02:00.007+01:002009-04-07T17:41:00.342+01:00Tonight"You're not going to like this," said Hubby. "How about tonight?"<br /><br />"NO!!" I said.<br /><br />It was one word, with serious feeling. And then I put the phone down.<br /><br />Hubby called again. I ignored it.<br /><br />And again,<br /><br />And again.<br /><br />Still I ignored it....<br /><br />How could they do that I thought? At the risk of being seriously prima donnarish, as opposed to just a bit, this was MY night. Eleven years after having got an Equity card I was finally getting an agent to come and watch me act. Anyone involved in the luvvy arty stuff will know that this is no mean feat. It takes a lot to get an agent to take you seriously, and even more to get one to travel as far as Cheltenham - a hundred miles from the big smoke - to come and watch you.<br /><br />But they were coming. Tonight. Now.<br /><br />I had had nothing else planned for the day. I was simply going to do a very simple dinner to leave for everyone and take it easy. It was my first night of my play and I was to say the least, nervous.<br /><br />Hubby on the other hand had taken a call from Social Services. They were desperate. They had to place someone forthwith, now. It was another asylum seeker and it turned out that he was in fact a thirteen year old, in need of a home.<br /><br />Hubby rang again.<br /><br />"Fine. I'll do the room." I yelled down the phone.<br /><br />I rang the social worker to find out a little more about the boy in question, including his name. I then rang the person that he was currently with to find out a little more.<br /><br />It seems that she was aware that this boy was to be placed with us three days before.<br /><br />But ...... no-one had remembered to call us, the people who they were planning to place him with for the next two and a half years. Nor had anyone remembered to to a "pre placement visit."<br /><br />Unfortunately his emergency 28 day placement had now run out and he therefore needed to be placed in a home by the end of the day or else the social worker would turn into a pumpkin or something.<br /><br />"Why didn't you just say no?" I eventually asked Hubby.<br /><br />"Well I did effectively. I said that it might prove difficult."<br /><br />"No." I remonstrated. "You said that it 'might prove difficult.' That means, in translation, that you will go back to 'Mrs Awkward', ask her, and then give an answer. If the answer is YES, then 'Mrs Awkward' has consented. If the answer is NO, then clearly she has acted awkwardly, and has put her foot down. Either way I look like a class one bitch with no feeling."<br /><br />Hubby agreed to pick up the new incumbent on his way home from work. I left for the theatre feeling cross and a little upset that I had to leave Tinks and Gymnast waiting for our new arrival with no other adult in the house. I pleaded with ESOS.<br /><br />"Would you mind just watching tele with them until Dad gets home?"<br /><br />"Oh Mum".<br /><br />"Please?"<br /><br />Grudgingly he relented and went to watch his beloved (not) 'Hannah Montana.' "Have you any idea how much I HATE, and I mean HATE this programme?" he complained loudly.<br /><br />As I drove into Cheltenham, I saw Hubby's car driving past me in the other direction. I called him.<br /><br />"Why are you just leaving Cheltenham? I need you to be at home with Tinkerbell Mushroom and Gymnast!"<br /><br />"It must have been some bloke that looked like me." He said. "Wasn't me."<br /><br />.........The flowers left at the stage door were very nice.<br /><br />And the new boy is very sweet..................<br /><br />But next time..................it would be very nice to have at least twenty four hours notice please Mr Social Worker.........................<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-56987242329508528382009-03-15T16:16:00.004+00:002009-03-18T11:50:43.333+00:00Time OutIt was a day off.<br /><br />I had arranged to go out with the girls in London.<br /><br />The "girls" of course, are also in their mid forties and are in fact my friends from school. I have known them over thirty years and to me we all look and act in exactly the same way as we did thirty years ago.<br /><br />Especially the "look" bit.<br /><br />Sensible had a Duke of Edinburgh bronze medal training day in Gloucester. Amongst other things they had to cook their own lunch. So I dropped she and her friend off en route with their walking gear and lunch ingredients and went on to park the car, so that I c<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ould</span> get the coach from Gloucester to London. This cost a stunningly low £11 for the return journey, including a mobile phone message with my ticket details.<br /><br />"What if I lose my phone though" I'd said to Hubby.<br /><br />"When have you ever lost your mobile phone." He said<br /><br />"Well what if it runs out of charge?"<br /><br />In the end, on his suggestion, I had <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">texted</span> the number to Hubby's phone, so that "just in case the worst happened" and I was left stranded in London without my phone I could grab a complete stranger on the bus, take their phone number and get Hubby to text them my ticket details ....................<br /><br />Quite what that would have made me look like is debatable, and it's probably even more debatable as to what it would have made Hubby look like...<br /><br />I got to Victoria Coach Station at 12.00 on the dot and tried to look for the bus stop. I mean of course the sort of bus that takes you around town, as opposed to one that goes from one town to bigger town. I must be getting a bit blind in my old age though, because try as I might I managed to walk to Victoria train station, a few streets away, before I found a suitable stop with the right number buses attached.<br /><br />So, I got my ticket and waited in the queue.<br /><br />Which is when the mayhem began.<br /><br />It seemed from the phone call that I received that ED <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">needed</span> some help sorting out a problem, fairly urgently. This was fine. Except... I was in London and Hubby was out at a kickboxing class on the other side of Gloucester. The other problem was that due to standing in a busy London street with buses and cars going past at twenty to the dozen, I couldn't understand a word that ED was actually saying to me except that whatever the problem was, it was URGENT with a capital U.<br /><br />"Text me" I shouted down the phone.<br /><br />And then, when that apparently hadn't been heard at the other end.... "TEXT ME" in an even louder voice.<br /><br />I started to get "looks..."<br /><br />So I smiled at the onlookers....<br /><br />The bar that my friend Jane had chosen was ... interesting. I hadn't been able to find it to start with and so had phoned my other friend Debbie, not having Jane's mobile number. Debbie was still on her train. "I think it's right at the bottom of the street." She said, "just by the tube station." If you can't find it, come up to meet me at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Charing</span> Cross."<br /><br />I eventually found it. From the outside it looked like a Cordon Negro bottle, and on the inside it looked like um ... a Cordon Negro bottle.<br /><br />I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">texted</span> Debbie.<br /><br />"I've found it. I think that it must be one of Jane's haunts from her journo days. Think Cordon Negro."<br /><br />I was desperate for the "ladies" but still needed to continue <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">texting</span> Hubby, about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Gloucestershire</span> logistics. He was due out of his kickboxing class any second and so could take over at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Gloucestershire</span> end, but it all needed quick action once he was back in circulation so to speak.<br /><br />"Whoops. Sorry..." said the woman who walked in on me in the loo.<br /><br />I shrieked, closed the door quickly and recovered my modesty. How <em>did</em> that happen?<br /><br />I found a nice table though, in a relatively lighter area of the bar.<br /><br />A waitress of about 150 came up to me.<br /><br />"You can't sit there." She said. "It's reserved."<br /><br />I looked to see how and where it said that it was reserved. There was no evidence of it., but being in a compliant mood, I moved.<br /><br />"You can sit here if you want." She said, showing me a very dark area of the room.<br /><br />At that moment my friends arrived.<br /><br />"This table's a bit dark isn't it?" said Debbie.<br /><br />I explained that I had tried to sit on the one on the other side of the room. "Oh I know said Jane. "I tried too, but that waitress over there said that it was reserved. I couldn't see any sign though. She's very old. I think that she probably worked here when I used to come here twenty years ago."<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Aahh</span>" I said, "so who did you interview in here then?" Feeling pleased with myself that I had "guessed" correctly.<br /><br />Oh no-one, she said. "I just used to meet friends here."<br /><br />Hubby called. The lack of reception down in the cellar meant that I needed to go upstairs to take the call. Hubby had though taken charge at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Gloucestershire</span> end. "It's all sorted." He said. "So just enjoy yourself."<br /><br />We had a brilliant afternoon.<br /><br />My friend Debbie treated me to a lovely lunch in a very nice Italian restaurant in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Covent</span> Garden. We could see each other in there too, which was a plus. On the downside, we weren't relying on nice dim candlelight to hide away the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">wrinkles</span> of the last twenty years. Candle lit cellar bars do have some advantages.<br /><br />It was over all too soon sadly.<br /><br />Back at Victoria Coach station I went to where the buses looked as if they were departing. The only thing was that I was unable to see how to get into the departure lounge. There seemed to be buses in the way, which were being sprayed with water.<br /><br />I looked around desperately for a door, and in the end decided that a bit of cold water wouldn't hurt, so walked through the shower.<br /><br />It was very wet. I was... a little soaked.<br /><br />I asked a man where I could find the bus for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Gloucestershire</span>.<br /><br />"Over the road Madam. This is the arrivals area."<br /><br />So that was why they were washing the coaches.... on their way IN to the bus station......<br /><br />Ping, went the phone. Message from Hubby, with the ticket details...... thank you Hubby.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Ensconced</span> on my coach finally with a nice cup of tea, I immersed myself in my book. It's good to have journeys every so often....<br /><br />Just before I got off at Gloucester I thought that I would use the coach "facilities", before my drive home.<br /><br />And then ................. the door swung open on me as we turned the corner ............and for a second time that day I had been "seen" in a somewhat uncompromising position. I walked back to my seat, averting all eyes..... and immersed myself in my book, once more.<br /><br />I finally got home. Sensible was back home from her rugged training day.<br /><br />"Was it good?" I asked.<br /><br />"Yes." She said. "The only thing is. You know the tinned tomatoes that I took to cook?"<br /><br />"Yes," I said.<br /><br />"Well. They weren't tomatoes. It was a tin of custard.."<br /><br />"Oh," I said. "Not so good on pasta then?"<br /><br />We <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Lomax</span> women have a way of doing things.........<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-72580932807397944552009-03-12T12:02:00.012+00:002009-03-13T07:49:09.211+00:00Big Dilemma!It's a dilemma.<br /><br />You see, I have been doing a maternity cover at a very nice comprehensive school in a very nice rural area. It started half way through the summer term last year and was due to last the best part of the year.<br /><br />It's been a mixed bag of course. Somehow I seem to have managed to end up with a seriously large proportion of bottom set teaching, which can be ... challenging, and the journey in is, at 38 miles each way... tedious.<br /><br />On the other hand, teaching does have huge advantages. Not many kids want to be taught in the holidays or after school, and as such you are usually free to be at home when your children are. Plus, as I am only working three days a week, I have time to do vital planning and preparation ...... on blogger and facebook.<br /><br />So when I found out last week that it would indeed be coming to an end half way through May I was gutted. Of course, there was a little issue of hurt pride perhaps in that no-one wants to be rejected... and the little fact that as a trained teacher who had previously spent very little time in formal classrooms over the last twenty years, despite much teaching and dealing with children by running theatre schools, I have had to put in quite a lot of effort, just to do the job properly so to speak.<br /><br />I moped.<br /><br />And I moped some more.<br /><br />In the end, Hubby could stand it no more.<br /><br />"I don't understand you he said. You can use the time to do more acting, to be freelance and to work around the family commitments more. That is what you have always wanted. Now that we are fostering, it means that you have more flexibility. So what is your problem?"<br /><br />What indeed? He had a point.<br /><br />For the first time in twenty years I could actually do what I wanted to do, and life would and could be better.<br /><br />I went into school on the Monday, feeling much more positive. Only eight weeks to finishing with a holiday in between. The end was in sight.<br /><br />Then the Head called me in... "Would I possibly be interested in more work in September?" Very unofficial as yet....... But they want me it seems.<br /><br />I am of course the girl who can't say no, so me immediate reaction was.. "Yes", "Great"...<br /><br />"Why?" Said Hubby when I got home...<br /><br />I went to Actors Lab in the evening. My acting class for the <em><strong>not quite made it, maybe they will maybe they won't</strong></em> professional actors.<br /><br />"Don't commit yourself" my friends said. Everyone loves each other at Actors Lab. And I love Actors Lab. "Do some acting. It's what you have wanted to do but you have too been committed previously".<br /><br />So ... I tossed and turned... and tossed and turned that night.<br /><br />And then I tossed and turned some more...<br /><br />If I took teaching seriously... maybe I could head up a drama department somewhere in a couple of years... I would have professional respect. A good salary...<br /><br />But on the other hand... may be I could act in something like Waterloo Road....<br /><br />Oh ... <strong>O.K </strong>...<br /><br />But I <em>could </em>do my workshops, role play work and voice overs and some stage acting...<br /><br />And I would have time to write.<br /><br />And as I would have large proportions of time not working, I would be there for the children even more than teachers are...<br /><br />But on the other hand... I could teach until I was sixty and then act..<br /><br />But then the parts are so LIMITED <span style="font-size:85%;">for sixty year old women...</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">So, maybe I would be better getting</span> <span style="font-size:78%;">established now while I'm still young enough....</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br />You get the gist.<br /><br />It's a BIG dilemma...<br /><br /><em><strong>P.S.</strong></em><br /><em><strong>Thank you for all your kind comments about Abdul. Sadly, we have now had a letter from the Home Office saying that if he turns up now he is liable for detention.... I do wish that Social Services would tell them the whole story before they placed them (as non English speakers) in families. He probably had NO idea of all this......</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>And ..... Very sadly Hubby's Grandmother died this week. She was 91 and at the end very poorly. But.. it was all very quick. She had been healthy only a couple of weeks earlier. So it was still a shock for all concerned and very very sad.....</em></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-88175384150663758822009-02-19T22:51:00.017+00:002009-02-20T10:11:20.695+00:00Somebody's Son.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcLUyyuYHx8oUADHUG_dXZNHKhoiUQRuXjJ9-a7oVAUYETNsoeynP-DYB5fF5mwh-Gqwrvm5_bpzJW9_jNpHgti-GPiBOGtPqEd1srkbTG-YfagAywliO68-qryC6kG_8XhmK4A/s1600-h/abdul.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304693718398307762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcLUyyuYHx8oUADHUG_dXZNHKhoiUQRuXjJ9-a7oVAUYETNsoeynP-DYB5fF5mwh-Gqwrvm5_bpzJW9_jNpHgti-GPiBOGtPqEd1srkbTG-YfagAywliO68-qryC6kG_8XhmK4A/s400/abdul.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>It had been a normal weekend. Until late Sunday afternoon.</div><div></div><br /><div>And then he didn't arrive home for our very late traditional Sunday lunch.</div><div></div><br /><div>"He's possibly just got tied up with friends and forgotten that the buses don't run late on a Sunday." Said Hubby.</div><div></div><br /><div>In the two months that he had been living with us as a teenage foster child, Abdul Qudoos had always managed to get home before the buses "ran out" so to speak. But not on this particular day.</div><div></div><br /><div>Arriving in England as an Asylum seeker hadn't come without its difficulties. It appears that anyone in danger, for whatever reason, can pay a "people trafficker" to get them out of Afghanistan. The service doesn't come cheap however and so it's not for the fainthearted. They pay something in the region of 12000 euros - to someone who is really little more than a criminal. And for all that money, with mothers often selling their dowries to ensure that their sons have a better or safer life, the families have no guarantee that their children will arrive safely in England, or anywhere else. </div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>All have a "suitable" birth date. This is always on the 1st of January of the relevant year that would make them just under 16. (They don't admit to knowing their actual birthday. They are possibly trained by the people trafficker to sell themselves as being under 16. This was they can be "looked after children", educated, and in with a better chance of asylum.)</div><div></div><br /><div>We are fairly sure that Abdul is probably older than 16. We cannot know for certain, but the signs would say that he possibly is. However, as someone pointed out to us, he is "somebody's son." If he were your son, you would I am sure feel differently.</div><div><br />It is a seriously precarious business. </div><div></div><br /><div>They travel via the underside of lorries, cars, trucks and anything else that you can think of, but not in any conventional manner or by any conventional form of transport. They arrive some months later in a very dirty set of clothes and no paperwork, to be picked up by the police. The lucky ones are then picked up by the Social Services and put into care - as is hoped for. From there they are usually put into emergency care for 28 days, and then onto a more permanent arrangement, such as our house. This is where we came into the equation, a month after Abdul's arrival. As far as we know he has been in England three months. A month with the first carer and then two months with us. </div><div></div><br /><div>The boys, having established themselves in a foster home undergo a number of interviews with the Home Office and over the course of months and years that follow, their fate as to whether or not they can stay in the UK is decided.</div><div></div><br /><div>Having put yourself through all that, it has got to be something seriously unnerving to make you risk everything and run away.</div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div>Back to that Sunday.....</div><div></div><br /><div>Our other Afghan boy, also being fostered by us, started phoning round their mutual friends.</div><div></div><br /><div>No-one had seen Abdul, so it appeared. Not since the day before.</div><div></div><br /><div>At 6 o'clock Hubby went in search and I called the police and Social Services. As foster carers we do not have full legal guardianship of our charges, although in practice it is clear that on a day to day basis we are the ones who need to do all the things that any caring parent would. In fact it wasn't possible to get hold of Abdul's social worker, but the police were happy to come round and take a statement, and of course search our house. I had often wondered what it must be like to be at the receiving end of police searching your house for evidence. Now I knew. Nothing was left unturned. I went back into Abdul's room and put the drawers back. The police were polite and kind, but I couldn't help but think that they could have put the drawers back. Maybe I am just fussy. Or maybe I hadn't expected that we were being treated as potential suspects.</div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div>The next morning hubby scoured Gloucester again. I rang the lawyer that Abdul had been due to meet. They had been planning on discussing his immigration procedure. The lawyer, also in Gloucester, clearly needed a bit of clarification. I rang Hubby. "I'll go down there" he said.</div><div></div><br /><div>Between them they deduced that possibly Abdul had become frightened about his story that he was going to present to the Home Office. It is a scary business telling the Home Office why you might want to stay in this Country, especially when your story isn't quite what the Home Office may consider a good case for political asylum. Especially when perhaps someone has maybe pointed that out to you. You may just be tempted in Abdul's situation to want to "tweak" the story slightly, to what you think might ensure that you <em>do</em> get whatever it is that you intended to get when you came to England.</div><div></div><br /><div>This is what we think happened. Of course, we don't really know. We hope and pray that he is not hurt or worse...</div><div></div><br /><div>Perhaps he has run away with a view to fixing his story and starting again as a "new" asylum seeker. Perhaps he intends to be "found" on a lorry. He possibly hasn't anticipated that the fingerprints that the Police took on arrival <em>can</em> be cross referred, and so even giving a different name wouldn't help.</div><div></div><br /><div>Or perhaps he is hiding with friends in Gloucester in the ever growing Afghan community, with a view to maybe re-emerging at some point as an adult asylum seeker. This really wouldn't be a good idea. He may have to be there a long time...</div><div></div><br /><div>Sadly, we really have no idea though, and we really would like to just know where he has gone. If he comes back soon, then we can help him. If he misses his appointment with the Home Office on Monday though, he will possibly be considered an absconder. His chances of getting asylum from then on in will be considerably reduced. And, of course he is almost certainly misguided if he thinks that he can restart the whole process again by being "found".</div><div></div><br /><div>In the meantime ... having turned over every stone that we can think of, asked everyone that we know to turn over all their stones and turned up nothing ... all we can do is wait.</div><div></div><br /><div>If you see him though, please ask him to go home to Sally and Derek's house. Soon.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-80549847948879147152009-02-12T13:03:00.017+00:002009-02-14T17:16:45.610+00:00Running the Country<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixXQUJ9r7srR7tODgfkXtDjoWDmzQSe-mkp2g27knTMgwpFb06MYGXg1ENQp3RbD5-h-1zQGSEZeXLo69MwkMU6RnfrB23OK3Qg2yIXTvFcivSwrUiPf6sl5ZCeWfS-dk7SbOjDw/s1600-h/Tinks+and+Gymnast+and+the+Snowman.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302693498085679202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixXQUJ9r7srR7tODgfkXtDjoWDmzQSe-mkp2g27knTMgwpFb06MYGXg1ENQp3RbD5-h-1zQGSEZeXLo69MwkMU6RnfrB23OK3Qg2yIXTvFcivSwrUiPf6sl5ZCeWfS-dk7SbOjDw/s200/Tinks+and+Gymnast+and+the+Snowman.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>"What they should do is use sea water," I said to hubby.<br /><br />"What for?" he asked, clearly quite bemused.<br /><br />"For the salt," I explained. He still looked at me blankly.<br /><br />"When you were on your submarine," I said, "you drank drinking water that was made out of sea water."<br /><br />Yes. Said Hubby<br /><br />"Well then, surely it must be possible to do the same thing and use the salt from the sea for the snow. Also, there must be a way of pumping it directly onto the Severn Bridge to keep the ice at bay."<br /><br />I was really on a roll. Buzzing from building snowmen and being out in the snow with the children sledging had seemed to make all my thoughts much clearer. The children had had a ball. The improvised sledges around the village were brilliant. In the absence of being able to buy a sledge when needed, we had used the bottom part of the slide, which, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">upside down</span> had worked very well really..... but possibly not quite as well as a real one. I put a sledge onto my mental shopping list for next year, despite hubby's protests that we get snow like this once <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">every</span> 20 years, and as such "what is the point of buying a sledge now?" We could always use it for our first grandchild I thought.<br /><br />The way that the snow had been managed by the County Council though seemed to be bizarre. I did wonder quite how they had managed to run out of salt when, even on a very "bad" <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">British</span> winter like this one, we have less than two weeks snow a year. I could certainly agree with the speculation that maybe that this was an excuse for the County Council not to spend, given that much of their spending power had been absorbed by Iceland. It was slightly ironic that they seemed to have given us a barter deal of some of their "weather" in exchange for our money.<br /><br />My friend Jane came round for a cup of tea. "What they should do" I said, is so simple, "they should have a shorter working day for all schools in the winter and a longer one in the summer. That way schools wouldn't have to close every time there was snow, but the children could go in habitually later during the winter and come home before it gets dark." Jane, having lived in Germany as a child, where they did just that, agreed with me. Between us we came up with a way forward for the next time we have snow which didn't involve parents skidding around in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">their</span> four by fours, or worse skidding around in non four by fours, just to get children to school by the start of day.... They would instead arrive once all the roads had been gritted, with the salt from the sea of course, all salt mines having been stripped bare by all accounts.<br /><br />"We should be running the Country." I said.<br /><br />"We'd probably get something done if we did." Said Jane.<br /><br />"It is very expensive." said Hubby.<br /><br />"What is?" I said.<br /><br />"Making drinking water from sea water. So it wouldn't be a cheap way of getting salt."<br /><br />Oh well. There go my plans for running for MP. And in truth, it is of course much easier to run the country from your kitchen table, over a cup of tea with a friend, than it probably is from Number 10.<br /><br />Just then one of our Afghan boys came into the kitchen.<br /><br />"I am going into Gloucester."<br /><br />"There are no buses." I said, and the roads are sheets of ice. That is why you are off school." He looked at me bemused. It clearly hadn't occurred to him that the reason that he was not at school was because of the snow. Perhaps he had thought that it was some sort of occasional day. He looked positively disappointed. No school and now no town. Coming from a Country where education is still considered a gift, they find our own children's rejoicing at having snow and missing school slightly strange. Nothing would have allowed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ESOS</span> to exchange a snow day for a school day.<br /><br />I had a sneaky look at my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Facebook</span>. There was a message from Sensible who was in Germany on a school exchange.<br /><br />"Brilliant" She had written to me.<br /><br />"The one time when everyone is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">actually</span> off school for snow and I am not in the Country. There's snow here too, and we are at school."<br /><br />My point exactly... They have twice as much snow in Germany, and they manage to handle their roads safely.<br /><br />Still....<br /><br />It was very nice having all those days off. And the snowman's good.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-75758216529996056632009-01-31T12:55:00.009+00:002009-01-31T16:11:04.046+00:00The day that I looked like a Cavoodle - A cross between a King Charles Spaniel and a Poodle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitbcJefZNQ5HIW5XxLgWpbftvHR5hHtyErWcvJsFbNmcdqv9jdf0VBGpf528zck5i5cmcdENmLaxKWxr6nlALVeLbFqxC_MyZ4ll21mm8aBCL47GZdjiCEvg0TDgJiKbowfnTYUw/s1600-h/moto_0027.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297442832169124866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitbcJefZNQ5HIW5XxLgWpbftvHR5hHtyErWcvJsFbNmcdqv9jdf0VBGpf528zck5i5cmcdENmLaxKWxr6nlALVeLbFqxC_MyZ4ll21mm8aBCL47GZdjiCEvg0TDgJiKbowfnTYUw/s200/moto_0027.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">The "Cavoodle" version of Sally ......Why did they think that I might want to look like this? </div><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyXbd88nXy_pVPYVgO9RC_qJMERyCBljdZpxpFJD3Bu3f8YhqwbqNXwvRqrHreCBWfuzLXYoHcGk-eUgx-3AL97e60X4oPuS76IzpP0vvMz-zDjk9STqujSg3LcRTXwrQ-dit6tA/s1600-h/moto_0035.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297442476788542754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyXbd88nXy_pVPYVgO9RC_qJMERyCBljdZpxpFJD3Bu3f8YhqwbqNXwvRqrHreCBWfuzLXYoHcGk-eUgx-3AL97e60X4oPuS76IzpP0vvMz-zDjk9STqujSg3LcRTXwrQ-dit6tA/s200/moto_0035.jpg" border="0" /></a> The Improved Version. (I think)<br /><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoAWfcEq8oUOzNDYmOefWA0UdczEo7CQZ2VIikeoqD2gfB1vvLekErYYxuW6KjFWDR0jou9ZGiURz4BPzCkHJovaRpUQM_JySu06X0VyeTGe8wp6YsoaPk60MgTxJzS8LcTsAYeQ/s1600-h/moto_0038.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297441960307970226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoAWfcEq8oUOzNDYmOefWA0UdczEo7CQZ2VIikeoqD2gfB1vvLekErYYxuW6KjFWDR0jou9ZGiURz4BPzCkHJovaRpUQM_JySu06X0VyeTGe8wp6YsoaPk60MgTxJzS8LcTsAYeQ/s200/moto_0038.jpg" border="0" /></a> The "do" </div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-71975181713233147662009-01-23T14:41:00.010+00:002009-01-31T13:07:07.202+00:00I looked like some sort of cross between a King Charles Spaniel and a Poodle<div align="left">It's hubby's Christmas do tomorrow night.<br /><br />Well... they are scientists, details such as it not actually being Christmas are not important, and anyway it's very nice to go to a "do" in the middle of January.<br /><br />So I booked a hair appointment. "Lucky you" said ED, "having a day off. I have to do 9 til 6 tomorrow at Uni." Never mind ED. One day you too will be a "desperately seeking to be a desperate housewife" and you too will get the odd day off to do little more than have your hair cut.<br /><br />Hubby always groans when I go to the hairdresser. "Just why do you pay them to do exactly what you don't want" he says. "I need them to cut it." I reply. "But you always hate it." He says. "Why do you keep going back?" "I like the cuts" I say. "And the colour? And the styling?" "You just don't understand" I always retort.<br /><br />He is right of course. Just why I spend money at these places is beyond me. That said, I do need my hair cutting properly and the wash in rinses did leave my hair in a dreadful state last year and grey streaks are just not my thing at the moment. Yet. Will never be.<br /><br />Roll forward, to today...<br /><br />Half way through having my hair done, my hairdresser says to me, "Sally would you mind if Jodie finishes off your hair, only I have another client waiting, and you are easier to ask than her.." "Of course," I said.<br /><br />Jodie took charge. "So, do you want it straightened?"<br /><br />"No thank you" I say. I have views on very straight hair. They come from having naturally dull drab and straight hair. "I am going to my husband's office formal tomorrow night. Do you think that you could make it bouncy please?" She starts to dry it. All seems to be going well. "Shall I make it spirally with the GHDs?" She says. I do <em>now</em> know of course that GHDs can make good curling tools, and so I accepted gratefully.<br /><br />When she got to the bit where I thought that she was going to use a comb to put it into some sort of style I sat back and relaxed. Instead though, she said "I won't use a comb, I'll just get the spray and that can hold it in place for you if you don't comb it between now and then." I half smiled. I looked at myself. I looked like some sort of cross between a King Charles Spaniel and a poodle. The top was flat and the sides looked as if my hair hair been curled with corkscrews, horizontally from the ears. She sprayed it.<br /><br />"Thank you." I smiled.<br /><br />"Ooh, very glam." Said the owner of the salon. I had been there ages. I needed to get home. Please don't anyone see me, I thought. Please don't let anyone see me. I walked home quickly, averting all gazes from oncoming cars so as to avoid seeing someone that I knew. Got inside, took a photo with my mobile phone, confirmed that I did indeed look like a corkscrew head and then went upstairs to adjust the damage. The back was beautiful and the curls can definitely be used tomorrow night and once I had changed the appearance somewhat, I was after all quite happy.<br /><br />I went to check my emails. There was a message from ASOS saying that my order for shoes had been dispatched and that my niece and nephew would be receiving them by next day delivery tomorrow, just in time for the ball.<br /><br />The only problem is that they are in Bedfordshire and I am in Gloucestershire and they are for me, not my niece and certainly not my nephew.<br /><br />It seems that the last item I ordered was dispatched to their address, being a Christmas present and, as such that for some reason has become my regular address... even though the billing address is my address.<br /><br />I am currently waiting for a call from the Customer Services Department.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-82908519394864249932009-01-14T15:14:00.006+00:002009-01-14T16:57:32.411+00:00I have a new Face!You need a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Facebook</span> Mum.<br /><br />"Why do I" I started to protest.<br /><br />"I'll make one for you."<br /><br />Before I knew it, Sensible had created a profile for me, put my picture on and brought me firmly into the 21st Century.<br /><br />"We'll get some friends for you." She said.<br /><br />"I thought I already had friends."<br /><br />"On <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Facebook</span>," she explained patiently.<br /><br />She then contacted all the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">people</span> in my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">hotmail</span> address people who <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">have</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Facebooks</span> asking them to join. That was fine.<br /><br />Then... She clicked on all the people who didn't ha<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ve</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Facebook</span>, asking them to get one too.<br />"What have you done?" I exclaimed. Do you realise who is on there?<br /><br />"People you email." She said.<br /><br />Oh Sensible, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">what</span> have you done? Who <em>did </em>you contact?<br /><br />Well... apart from the Managing Director of a company I no longer work for, who for various reasons should possibly not be invited to join my personal friends on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Facebook</span>, the tax office, every bank and building society that I am in email contact with, Next Directory, any insurance company that I have had a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">discussion</span> with over the years, somebody who we have been in legal dispute with........ well nobody really......<br /><br />I cringed with embarrassment as I thought of various people that possibly I would prefer to communicate with only on a professional basis ..... But it was too late. They were all invited. You too I expect.<br /><br />Not all accepted the invitation to be my friend. ED was reluctant to accept me at first, but has now become my best instant messaging friend. Her reluctance was possibly due to her not wanting me around her personal life which is fair enough really. What she won't know until she read this however is that due to a blip in the system, I discovered by accident that I was able to click on her profile, but not leave messages on her wall, prior to becoming a friend. She had always assured me that no-one can enter <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">another's</span> site without permission. Not so ED. Look again. If anyone sends you a message, and you respond, it seems you can in fact see <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">their</span> "wall".<br /><br />So there you go....I'm not such a dinosaur after all......<br /><br />and.... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Facebook</span> is great. You should all get one.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-88726000031571477352009-01-04T17:22:00.013+00:002009-01-04T22:57:25.085+00:00Guests from Hell....And so, after a very busy Christmas, where night and day and sleep and waking seemed to merge continuously into one long blur of chocolate, wine and turkeys, on 28<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> December we managed to get ourselves out early enough to drive over to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Bedford</span> for a 24 hour "family do" with one of my brothers and his family.<br /><br />Bravely they had invited all nine of us. My parents not wanting to spoil their nice relaxed Christmas memories of the 2008 Christmas, decided not suffer the chaos that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Lomax</span> family brings in its wake and escaped back to East <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Grinstead</span> before we arrived...<br /><br />Of course, "all of us" also means bringing the dog...So technically there were ten of us. She is however a reluctant traveller and so it took a while to gather her up and get her into the bus. Bus for once was the true definition of our mode of transport. Needing to transport nine of us, plus the dog, we had hired said bus from the local garage. They didn't have a 12 seat one available though, so the 15 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">seater</span> it was. Much to the kids delight....Children never cease to amaze me when it comes to what is and isn't acceptable in the form of transport. Somehow, ordinary space buses that seat seven are loser cruisers. And yet to have us all rattling around and being shaken from here to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Bedford</span> is just fine... "Cool" in fact. "Although possibly it is a bit of a loser cruiser anyway, but a cool one all the same," said Sensible.<br /><br />As we arrived, the bitches looked at each other. A faint growl escaped. Then, without further warning it was a full scale fight, collars, ears, fur and all. Lucy was put outside and both were seriously told off. This was not a good start to the day.<br /><br />We had arrived with plenty of Christmas goodies, but we sort of have this arrangement in the family where we don't buy actual Christmas presents for the adult children. Or maybe we do. Or maybe we don't...... Needless to say, when ED opened her very nice present, and our two Afghan boys also opened theirs..... I realised that I should have bought an actual present for my niece and nephew who are now 18 and 20. I cringed with embarrassment. It had been a bit of a rush, as with two new <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">residents</span> arriving just before Christmas, present buying had happened very late. In fact it had really happened in earnest when we had a Father Christmas type delivery of money, in the form of some pay for the boys, just a few days before Christmas. We then found that we could actually buy things at normal prices with normal paying methods. This was a new experience for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Lomax</span> family as previously, everything including barter with the dog biscuits was a normal form of tender. But sadly communication between my brother and me had failed somewhere....<br /><br />We sat down to dinner. My sister in law had cooked a gorgeous <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Nigella</span> style mutton stew. At least, it was gorgeous until her foot slipped as she was getting it out of the oven and the beautiful ceramic pot landed on the floor. We ate fantastically well non the less and we all pretended to those who had less command of the English language that the words that came from the kitchen were some sort of English <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">pre</span> new year ritual.... or something like that... Actually in true British style we all pretended that we hadn't heard anything.<br /><br />All was forgotten however as we all tunelessly ploughed our way through their Karaoke DVD, Tinkerbell Mushroom and Gymnast taking leading roles, and my niece actually singing <em>in</em> tune. Our Afghan boys looked on with what looked like a mixture of amusement and horror. Coming from an entirely different culture just a few weeks back, they must wonder about this very strange family that they have landed with.<br /><br />I went to bed very late. It was imperative that my sister in law and I put the world to rights before heading upstairs. So we did, and went to bed feeling very pleased with ourselves, as you do on family Christmas get <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">togethers</span>.<br /><br />It was a bit of a shame though to find on arriving downstairs the next morning, my brother, cleaning the carpet...... Mad Dog Lucy, traumatised by car journey, other mad dog and lack of any available adult on hand to let her into strange garden had disgraced herself. My poor brother, who recently lost his job, whose computer and telly had both broken in the course of the previous few weeks, and whose daughter had decided to leave her university course just before Christmas was wondering by now what it was that he done so badly in a previous life. Was there anything else that could go wrong for him?<br /><br />We really were by this time the guests from Hell.<br /><br />Our profuse apologies to bro were interrupted though by strains of a sort of singing. Karaoke is tricky of course....Even when you more or less know the tune... For those who have not been brought up with any exposure to Western music at all though, it is a very different experience. It was a bit like the bit in the second Bridget Jones movie where <em>Like a Virgin i</em>s sung by the girls in the Bangkok prison........ This was <em>Hey Jude</em>... with a tune like you have never heard before.<br /><br />My sister in law then went to turn up the heating. At that moment they <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">realised</span> that the boiler had gone wrong too....<br /><br />Thankfully Hubby did manage to fix their flame lookalike fire for them. That having gone wrong just <em>before </em>we had arrived. So we did have some use as guests, but they did look as if they were smiling with quite some relief we drove our massive vehicle back down their drive.<br /><br />And they really had made us all so welcome too.....<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-23996866806316727592008-12-25T01:26:00.011+00:002015-08-17T16:13:19.727+01:00The Yule Blog 2008... Or...The cleverness of FCBefore I help Father Christmas each year, I always <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">have</span> a little tot up of what has been spent on each child. It is of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">course</span> imperative that each child has the same spent on them. This is however quite a challenge, as I never actually count either numbers of presents or total up monies spent as I go along. So, come Christmas Eve it would of course be too late if it were wrong.<br />
<br />
This though is when I realise that there is a Father Christmas. For every year, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">including</span> this one, miraculously we have the same number of presents per child and the same <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">amount</span> spent almost to the penny.<br />
<br />
"Oh the cleverness of me," from Peter Pan springs to mind: it being the play that my mother used to take me to see every <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Christmas</span> when I was little. But, just like Peter Pan, I somehow think that it is not me, but my magical friend <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">FC</span> who is responsible. Hubby is not really <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">involved</span> too closely on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">present</span> front, so it isn't him. It is just pure magic. It's the sort of magic that happens in families. Like the magic that means that by some strange coincidence if you do a certain <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">mathematical</span> exercise with our children's DOBS, then they all add up to 27. And it's only in our family that that happens...<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, we have seven children to entertain this Christmas. (Yes that's right, <em>seven</em>. We gained two that we are fostering, just last week.Two boys from Afghanistan.) Presents have all been dispatched to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">FC</span>; and the children are <em>nearly</em> all in bed (Please GO soon kids! I need to go to bed myself, and I CAN'T until you do... if you get my gist.)<br />
<br />
The thing is, with little or next to no English available, and no former understanding of western culture, let alone Father Christmas, how do you explain to the newbies that they need to go to bed now, otherwise, Christmas cannot happen as it should? One of the said guests is currently sitting at at Hubby's laptop with headphones on, singing along to Indian music in a voice that if it were based on volume it might just win him the Afghan version of the X Factor. Ever the tactful, Sensible, not wanting to draw attention to herself, has just sent me a text asking me to ask him if he could perhaps sing a little more quietly.... as he is keeping her awake.... Thanks Sensible....<br />
<br />
In the meantime, just before I do some pigeon English explanations of why my new guests really <em>should</em> go to bed, I wish you all a very merry and very lovely Christmas.<br />
<br />
HAPPY CHRISTMAS!<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-88929757444360023082008-11-18T12:49:00.007+00:002008-11-19T07:53:11.359+00:00Freddie's MumI blame Freddie's mum myself.<br /><br />Her father was a GP we were told. Unfortunately he hadn't appeared to have passed on his medical knowledge to his daughter, and so when Freddie aged three got chicken pox, she sent him into nursery school.<br /><br />This would have course have been fine, except for the fact that the nursery school that he attended was also attended by ED. Freddie's mum arbitrarily decided that it would be fine for the whole nursery school to get chicken pox in one go. That was of course very generous of her, but some of us were less decided as to the appropriateness of the timing.<br /><br />For me personally, being heavily pregnant with Sensible, with ESOS aged just nineteen months, the timing was perhaps a little off.<br /><br />ED went down with it first, just in time for her to not be allowed to visit me me in hospital with Sensible. She and ESOS had to stand outside with Hubby and I lifted Sensible to the window to show her to them. It wasn't my happiest moment of motherhood. My own post natal room was nice. Even if it was for isolation purposes.<br /><br />Next of course came the injection. The Human Varicella Zoster vaccine - to build up antibodies, as neonatal chicken pox is very dangerous.<br /><br />"It won't stop her from getting it, but it may help," explained the Doctor.<br /><br />"Please could I have one of those too?" I asked.<br /><br />"Why?" said the female military doctor.<br /><br />"Because I have never had chicken pox, and I may give it to her."<br /><br />The Doctor looked Heavenwards.<br /><br />"You are breastfeeding." She said.<br /><br />"Yes." I said.<br /><br />"So you will give her your antibodies."<br /><br />"But I haven't got any antibodies against it. I have never had chickenpox." I protested.<br /><br />My mother was visiting. She adamantly confirmed that I had never had chicken pox. The Doctor smiled at me in that <em>"sympathetic, poor woman, just had a baby"</em> sort of way, that sort of <em>"she clearly doesn't know which side of her brain is which any more"</em> sort of way, and in that <em>"don't be so stupid love, I'm related to Freddie's mum, and I KNOW that everybody is exposed to chicken pox"</em> sort of way.<br /><br />"Neonatal chickenpox is very dangerous." She concluded, pulling the needle out of Sensible. "If you get it, it is one of those things."<br /><br />I started to protest again that I was likely to give it to her, because she was exposed to me, and I was breastfeeding her, and that therefore instead of giving her my antibodies, I would instead <span style="font-size:85%;">give</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">it</span> <span style="font-size:78%;">to her</span>.......... My voice wasn't being heard. She had packed up her belongings into her military style doctor's bag, and was gone from my isolation room.<br /><br />ESOS got chicken pox on my return from hospital.<br /><br />I got it when Sensible was 10 days old. I wasn't offered an anti viral drug, because it was too expensive to give to someone in a non high risk category. Apparently, a mother of three children, one of ten days old, and the other two recovering from an illness isn't vulnerable... It's not a nice thing for an adult to get though, especially ten days after giving birth. That was an interesting breastfeeding experience...<br /><br />When, at three weeks old Sensible was rushed into hospital, this time to Queen Mary's in Roehampton, so as to be given intravenous acyclovir, it was no great surprise. I had of course given it to her, lock stock and barrel and I was in a different hospital, so I couldn't even gesticulate at my Army miss who had told me that this wouldn't be likely to happen....<br /><br />Sensible, having been born sensible and stoical, coped remarkably well with the prodding and poking and jabbings over the next ten days. The maternal viewpoint was less desirable. Once, I just couldn't watch the procedure of changing over the cannula yet again as yet another tiny vein collapsed.<br /><br />I was angry. Angry that it had come into our family at the wrong time. Angry at Freddie's mum. Angry at the Doctor who had refused to help me avoid having it, or at least suffering so much. Angry that I was not able to be given a drug to suppress it, so that my bout would not have been so bad, and .......... most angry that due to all those things that Sensible at three weeks was being subjected to a form of torture.<br /><br />We all recovered.<br /><br />As you do.<br /><br />The torture techniques did pay off thankfully, and Sensible was well and healthy again quickly, and apart from the fact that she was the youngest ever recorded case of a very minor case of shingles in Northern Ireland two years later, has had no side effects ....... we hope.<br /><br />Personally though I put on loads of weight and suffered from TATT (tired all the time) syndrome ... for the next ten years. I probably have TATT written all over my medical notes much to my various GPs' annoyance.<br /><br />And I do of course blame it all on Freddie's mum.<br /><br />Luckily for her, not only do I not live near her or know her, I am not sure that I ever even met her. I was just TOLD that it was SHE who brought the chickenpox into the nursery school...<br /><br />So, when last week this strange rash appeared on my tummy, my immediate thought was that it looked like chickenpox.<br /><br />I've had chickenpox though, so that's all right I thought.<br /><br />More blisters appeared. It itched and drove me crazy, small as it was. And, by Sunday afternoon I was ready to collapse. I went back to bed and slept..... all afternoon, all evening and all night in various feverish states. I NEVER take a day off from work. But even Hubby, who also never takes sickies, told me that I was too ill to go in. So, I slept again.<br /><br />My funny patch on my tummy was still itching, had largely scabbed over and was in fact possibly starting to subside. Hubby looked at it.<br /><br />"It looks like chickenpox." He said. "Do you think it's shingles?"<br /><br />We looked it up on the Internet. At first we found some pictures that looked like roof tiles. I knew I wasn't suffering from those. Then we found some more pictures, and for a <em>forty</em> something, as opposed to a <em>seventy</em> something with shingles, it looked seriously likely.<br /><br />"We've got some Zovirax in the cupboard." Said Hubby. Put some of that on it. Now Hubby is not a Doctor, but he is a Cambridge scientist, and unlike the Medics who I acted in plays with at university, he spent considerably more of his time at college in classrooms, and considerably less of his time out of his head. And um.... he was by no means sober all the time either....<br /><br />Needless to say, when it comes to science, I trust his judgement.<br /><br />I put some Zovirax on.<br /><br />By morning, the rash had reduced so much, that by the time I went to the Doctor, he was dubious that it was indeed shingles. He did however listen to my self diagnosis.... and did concur that the other symptoms made it more likely, and that I should definitely be off work.<br /><br />Just think, if it weren't for Freddie's mum I wouldn't have written this blog today.<br /><br />So... thank you Freddie's mum.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-46484210343960302602008-11-01T16:49:00.010+00:002008-11-08T06:59:06.161+00:00All we can do is to think positively....We have always called him the"Milky Bar Kid" because, just like the traditional "Milky Bar Kid" he has <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">blond</span> hair, glasses and a very cute "butter wouldn't melt in his mouth look." And, just like the "Milky Bar Kid", he always has a twinkle in his eye that just says, "I might get up to some mischief later.... but mostly Ill just be a nice kid."<br /><br />Until two year's ago, when they moved away from here, I would <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">regularly</span> meet his mum in the playground. Regularly of course because, like me, she was always running into school with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">MBK</span>. We would all arrive sometimes just before the bell, but often just after. They, like us, often had no real reason for being perpetually late, other than the fact that her mind, like my mind is often full of "other" stuff, and she just needed to do twenty things prior to going to school... and think about a further forty.... and each every every task and thought all just takes a little bit longer than you think it will......<br /><br />But she was great company and as friends we could always have a laugh about our complete inadequacy in the timings department. In a strange sort of way we possibly saw ourselves as slightly superior to "seriously on time mums". Of course, that was then. Once they moved away, and everyone else was "on time", I had to change my routines so that the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">children</span> got to school on time. You see, as a late person, it is one thing being "late", but it is a different ball game all together being "last". I reckon that my lateness stems from being born three weeks early. By the time I die I should have caught up with those three weeks. It must be getting closer of course because I am definitely becoming more punctual as the years go on...<br /><br />We have all kept in touch since <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">MBK</span> and his family moved away, and every so often we talk on the phone or we get together.<br /><br />So, it was an ordinary phone call to start with.<br /><br />"How are you?" I asked.<br /><br />"In what <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">respect</span>?" said <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">MBK's</span> Dad.<br /><br />Immediately I knew something was wrong.....<br /><br />He put me onto <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">MBK's</span> Mum.<br /><br />As the conversation progressed, I was told about how three weeks ago he had collapsed at school and how he has been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor.<br /><br />He is just a normal, lovely, fun loving, easy going nine year old.<br /><br />He has a wish list of things that he wants to do.....<br /><br />It includes a trip to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Legoland</span> and a visit to the cinema to see the new James Bond movie. They are just ordinary requests for any little boy, because that is what he is.<br /><br />A kid.<br /><br />And that is what he should be allowed to be.<br /><br />I went to the cupboard and found my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Tesco</span> vouchers. I calculated that I had enough points to send a normal sized family to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Legoland</span>, so I wrapped them up and enclosed them in a card. It's hard writing a card in such circumstances. You feel <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">completely</span> inadequate and... guilty for having completely healthy family members. But so grateful. So very grateful.<br /><br />Hubby, a confirmed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">aetheist</span> does every so often question the things that non <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">aetheist's</span> question. His questioning confirmed what I was thinking. My <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">religious</span> thoughts over the years have blown hot and cold. I believe, but <em>what</em> exactly I am not always sure.<br /><br />"If there is a God," said Hubby, "How could he possibly be so cruel?"<br /><br />"Not everything is perfect." I say. "Perhaps even God makes mistakes."<br /><br />I cannot hold with the view that these things are done for a reason, despite my very Christian based schooling.<br /><br />It puts everything into perspective.<br /><br />All we can do is to think <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">positively</span>, and, if you believe, pray.<br /><br />P.S. ...... If there is any possibility that you could tell others, please do..... So that we can have as many people as possible pulling together......... Thank you.... S<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-68564243412398039972008-10-30T20:02:00.018+00:002008-10-31T13:37:32.616+00:00Poor Banks...."Mum, can you pick me up please?"<br /><br />8.30 a.m.<br /><br />The two night camping trip had lasted just 12 hours.... We had said of course. Camping on the coldest night so far this year is not exactly my idea of a picnic. But then being parents, of the <em>older</em> generation: those boring old and unfashionable remnants of society that we are.... how on earth would we know anything about what might or might not entertain a teenager? Of course, I hadn't quite bargained for what I was met with as three teenage boys piled into my car whilst their "stuff" was piled into the back.<br /><br />As I drove along, I smelt a faint "whiff" of alcoholic breath. "It's a good job that none of you boys are driving" I said. "I am not sure that any of you would pass a breathalyser."<br /><br />We stopped at the first drop off, and unloaded the goods and the boy........ looking seriously worse for wear.<br /><br />After he had gone, the other two then proceeded to tell me the real reason for their early homecoming, and it seems that my son and friend, uniquely had managed to drink, well ..... shall we say, "slightly less" than the others. "Drinking sensibly" would be too strong in the circumstances. It did appear though that they had more or less saved some of the the others' bacon. Ten boys camping and drinking far too much...... Not a pretty sight.... I was assured as I did the washing later that day, that the "debris" shall we call it, on the sleeping bag, was out of others mouths and not my own son's. "So it's all right Mum, at least it's not my sick." As Esos's friend pointed out, from a domestic viewpoint, your own son's vomit is possibly slightly easier to deal with than that of AN Other's random teenager's vomit...... LOVELY!<br /><br />So that was a good start to the day... Meanwhile, life should have been rosy in one respect, as it was payday. And so, I went to check my bank statement online, so that I could make a payment to someone.<br /><br />But the bank wasn't playing.... it appeared my account had been made "dormant" for no apparent reason. It was very confusing. I have had a few run ins with banks over the years, but this was the first time that the account had been made dormant....<br /><p>I picked up the phone.</p><p>"Oh yes, Mrs. Lomax. I'm really sorry, but it's because you have moved house, we need to check your identity at a branch."</p>"But I haven't moved house" said I. "I have lived in the same house for six years."<br /><br />"Well it says here that a piece of post was returned to us, and so as such you need to go into the branch with a passport and address ID to verify your new name and address."<br /><br />I muttered plenty about it being half term and having all the children home, <em>and</em> friends, and that the last thing that I had time to do right now was to drive six miles to the nearest branch. And that I DIDN'T have a new name and address.<br /><br />Now.... ironically..... the "payment" that I needed to pay was to another bank account of ours. You see, Hubby and I are complete masochists. Not satisfied are we with the poor treatment of one bank, we spread our misery around and actually have a few accounts in our name.... for different purposes.... sort of.....<br /><br />But, I digress... The reason that I needed to make a payment was because last Friday, we had been expecting Hubby's expenses into the "other" account, but by 2 p.m. they hadn't arrived. At this point panic mode set in, and I phoned our bank's branch. This particular branch is the NatWest, who uniquely amongst the banking fraternity seem to have worked out that customers are actually people. Well, mostly. At least, the manager at our particular branch has worked that out. So, as long as you phone in banking hours, and ask to speak to the Ross on Wye branch Manager you will get completely human treatment.<br /><br />And so it was that I rang her last Friday. "One of our payments is going to bounce." I had said. "We need to cancel something quickly otherwise it will cost us £35.." She and I agreed a strategy to cancel something, and she meanwhile recommended that we also change our insurance company and managed to save us £40 a month into the bargain. Clever woman.<br /><br />Roll forward to Monday...... the day that the said payment was due to go out. The money was in the account (late, but there) after all. I rang Mrs. Bank Manager again. "Don't worry she said. It's not too late. I can uncancel it and it can be paid."<br /><br />But lo and behold.... Head Office Natwest thought differently, and despite there being funds in place, and despite Mrs. BM having "paid" the bill, they decided not to pay the bill.....<br /><br />To cut a long story short, by the time I had caught up with this company and paid the bill, they had charged me extra for the privilege, and the bottom line was that we were just £3.50 short to pay our final bill of the month. We run a very tight ship in the Lomax bank accounts, despite what the banks actually think. We move Heaven and earth to try to avoid those £35 charges, but usually fail at the last hurdle.... It's a tough game they play. If we were in the days of Robin Hood, <em>they</em> would probably be the Sheriff of Nottingham....... but sadly there is no Robin to get those charges back. Yet....... (But just you wait Mr. Sheriff the law <em>could</em> be changing......)<br /><br />The hassle that that £3.50 caused me....<br /><br />I feel really a bit sorry for the banks really. It must be quite tough being overdrawn by<br />£40, 000000000. <em>Their</em> charges must be phenomenal.<br /><br />So this is why I was in Ross on Wye at 4 p.m. this afternoon, literally running from one bank to another.<br /><br />The first bank were sorting out if I was indeed a real person and if the passport that I was carrying was indeed me and if I had, as I said I had (although I appreciate that my word cannot be trusted without the robotic quoting of fifteen letters and numbers), lived in the same house for 6 years, and been married for 22. Or if in fact I was really a hologram with a false passport.... It must have its uses at times, being a hologram with a false passport, but um.... not in Ross on Wye on a Thursday afternoon................<br /><br />I left them to it and asked them to phone me once they had decided if I was allowed to spend my salary or not this month....<br /><br />Meanwhile, having raided the dog's piggy bank (the children's having been long since been spent out) for the last few coppers in the house, I went to the Natwest and paid in the necessary funds to allow the bill to be paid when it is requested very shortly......<br /><br />And there I found out that not only had Friday's direct debit not been paid, but that that particular direct debit now remained cancelled and that the NatWest were unable to reset it up ............ because.................... the company that had needed paying had cancelled the direct debit themselves.<br /><br />Que??<br /><br />Confused?<br /><br />You will be........<br /><br />(Answers in a postage stamp (or in the comments box) please for which programme that last little quote came from, and when.....)<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-39386002734822742032008-10-24T11:22:00.017+01:002008-10-24T13:12:04.775+01:00Star Treatment"I'll get a coach said Hubby. Save the cashflow."<br /><br />Cashflow is always a big thing in our house, and so even when someone else is ultimately picking up the tab for Hubby's <span style="font-size:78%;">"very important Government business.... shhhhhhh" </span><span style="font-size:100%;">we do still tend to take the low budget options at all times.</span><br /><br />We are so boring.<br /><br />So, he booked a ticket from Gloucester. £9.50 return "Funfare" from Gloucester to London on a National Express Coach. Fantastic. You can't really go wrong. Well... until he got a phone call, asking him to be in London an hour longer than previously expected. So... he booked an additional later single from London. That one cost another £4.50. We were still winning even on our tight budget.<br /><br />As he left at 6.15 a.m. I dragged myself out of the bath and started to get on with the day. It all seemed relatively easy, especially as everyone had made an effort to get up early and get themselves organised. Quite the domestic scene really. There was I ironing (!) my skirt for work, Sensible was making a cup of tea, ESOS was working out how to bring himself into a compos mentis state for the day and Gymnast and Tinkerbell Mushroom were getting themselves some breakfast....<br /><br />Then the phone rang.<br /><br />"There's been an accident on the A40. I'm going to miss the coach."<br /><br />Hubby was on the A40 to Gloucester. Traffic jams have been seriously common along the A40 for weeks. You see, what they are trying to do is to make two lanes and a bus lane into, as I understand it, two lanes and um... a bus lane. And, even without accidents added to the mix, it's taking six months, driving people semi suicidal in their attempts to get to work on time and costing the tax payer a fortune......<br /><br />"I'll go onto the internet, and see if I can find out where the next stop is."<br /><br />Crank up seriously slow computer... and eventually find out that it stops first at Longlevens and then at Cheltenham. Call Hubby back.<br /><br />He aims for Longlevens... but misses it there.<br /><br />"Where can I park in Cheltenham?" He says on his next call.<br /><br />Having spent five weeks earlier in the year, acting in a play for minimum pay, I am, despite my serious navigational handicap disadvantages, actually an expert at where to park in Cheltenham for a day, for free. So I direct Hubby to my very secret free parking spots.<br /><br />"No" he said. "I haven't got time to walk from there, and get the bus at 7.30 a.m." "O.k." I said, "go to the NCP and park there for the day. You can claim it back."<br /><br />I go back to the business of getting myself and everyone else organised for the day. Sensible and ESOS disappeared off on the bus, leaving me with just Tinks and Gymnast. I needed to get out by 7.55 a.m., as I had to drop them off at school seriously early, at 8 a.m., so that I could get to work.<br /><br />7.35 another call. "The driver wouldn't let me on the bus, because my ticket was to travel from Gloucester. I would have had to have bought a full ticket for £20." At this point, had it been me, I have to say that I <em>may</em> have said, "Stuff the cashflow. Take me away driver..." But Hubby is more prudent than me... and he knew that he had only £23 on him, of which he needed £14 for the day's parking, and that was his budget for the day without causing ripples for the Lomax financial front.... And so he was by this time walking back to the car, with a view to possibly going back to Gloucester to get the coach there at 8 a.m.<br /><br />"No, don't do that" I said. "I'll ring National Express and see what I can do. You go and move the car to my very good and very free parking spaces and I'll sort out the tickets for you."<br /><br />I rang the enquiry line. There would be no-one there until 8 a.m. Hubby would have to sort it out himself. I would text him the number. But ... it was one of my old friends, an 0845 number, which of course would cost dearly on a mobile... So I went in search of a new number on the "<a href="http://www.saynoto0870.com/">say no to 0870 website</a>." I found a number, and just in case it didn't work (which sometimes they don't, because for some reason companies want us to use the lines that cost them more and put money into the phone companies pocket, and cost us more in the process) I checked the number by calling it, before I called hubby again. And lo and behold, my standard 0121 number was in fact a 24 hour helpline. "Oh said the woman" (imagine Birmingham accent here), it's a great pity you didn't phone before he tried to board bus at Cheltenham. I could have called them and asked them to let him board...." "Yes, but I didn't have your number then ... I started to mutter weakly... while storing the VERY USEFUL number in my mobile phone for future use. "The thing is, I said, I need to get him another ticket from Cheltenham, and really I want to get him another cheap fare, but you have to book those online, and I can't get the voucher to him...." "Oh you can" said my helpful Birmingham lady. "Ask to have the ticket sent by text to his mobile phone."<br /><br />Absolutely brilliant.<br /><br />It was by now however, quarter to eight and I realised that the lunches weren't finished for Tinks and Gymnast. I barked instructions to Gymnast. "There's one sandwich made" I said. "Can you put that into your lunchbag and get fruit and stuff organised for both of you? The bread is cut. I'll make the other sandwich in a minute." "Don't worry Mummy, said Gymnast, we'll do the other sandwich." I thought for second that I perhaps ought to tell them what to put in it, and then decided that for one day, it would be just fine ... whatever it was.<br /><br />So..... I spent another £11......... By now the cheap ticket to London and back had actually cost £25...<br /><br />I called Hubby.<br /><br />"Right, I said. "You are on the 8.30 from Cheltenham. It's all paid for, and you will get a text in a minute or so to give you the details. If it doesn't work call me back and I have a number for you to ring, but right now I have got to GO."<br /><br />I went into the kitchen to find Gymnast and Tinks struggling with the clingfilm for the sandwich. "It just doesn't seem to want to go round the sandwich" said Gymnast. I took over, got the last few bits together, threw some lettuce into what appeared to be a half made pasta salad from one of the older kids, for me, got two children into the car and went. I left all the cereal packets and used bowls out for the burglars.<br /><br />I then drove the <em>very long</em> distance to the front of the school (across the road from our house) and dropped off Tinks and Gymnast. I looked down at my fuel gauge. Nought miles. (It very kindly tells me when I have zero miles left). 8.02 a.m. I had to be 37 miles down the road in 53 minutes, actually teaching. (That was having missed the early morning meeting... Given fact that I would not make that anyway on this particular morning...)<br /><br />Drove into the petrol station. Waived to the cashier to start the pump. And helpfully, as soon as she had finished her conversation with her colleague, she turned the pump back to nought for me. I threw a minimum amount of fuel into the car, ran in, paid, ran out and back into the car. It must be a bit like being a racing driver... Sort of....<br /><br />8.04 I was finally on the road. Sped into school at 8.50 a.m. It did occur to me that it had cost me more in fuel in order for Hubby to have a cheaper ticket to travel, which ultimately meant that I was spending more to save the Government money. How charitable of me. After all the Government needs to save money at the moment, having spent so much on the banks...<br /><br />I looked at the salad had made for myself and realised that it was actually not a half made pasta salad, but a left over pasta salad from a few days before, got out of a school bag in a hurry on the way to a bus by one of the older children..... with lettuce added by me.<br /><br />Nice.<br /><br />Meanwhile I got a text from Hubby thanking me profusely. "I'm on the coach now. Thank you. You're a star." He said.<br /><br />And for once I thought...... without being too conceited. "Yes...... Just for today...... I know."<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-54160992596709350572008-10-17T09:56:00.009+01:002008-10-17T10:41:32.136+01:00Little StepsI was in that sort of "drifting in and out of sleep, sort of waking up period," half listening to Sarah Kennedy. We always have her programme on. Hubby loves her. I moan that she was "clearly in the right place at the right time", and "what's she got that I haven't got on the broadcasting front?" And that: "<em>Really</em> it should be me doing the Dawn Chorus show on Radio 2." Hubby assures me that she really is indeed very good. His faith in me is inspiring....<br /><br /><em>Then</em> I heard her talk about her headmistress .... and she mentioned the <em>name</em>... I did a double take. Good gracious. She went to my school. That's MY school! The school that wore a very strange looking brown uniform and was across the road from a racecourse, with a load of nuns present.<br /><br />Immediately, all negative thoughts about Sarah Kennedy vanished. I decided that I had to "claim kin". I ran downstairs and went straight onto the computer. She did indeed go to my school, but as she is 12 years older than me, we didn't coincide. She would have been just about finishing secondary school, as I started Primary School - then in a different part of the country. Nevertheless, I just thought that I would still claim kin.... and send her an email. I was quite excited really. Little things.....<br /><br />The BBC website let me down however, and try as I might I couldn't get a link. So, giving up, knowing that really the day had to "begin" anyway, I had a quick look at my emails....<br /><br />And there it was.<br /><br />Th opportunity of a lifetime.....<br /><br />Well, it's all relative....<br /><br />I had had an email from someone replying to a CV that I had submitted for an acting job. For a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">webcast</span> company. Not only did they want to look at me, but all the children and Hubby too. How exciting. I told the children. "I'll arrange for a haircut for you for this afternoon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ESOS</span>...." I said, before I take some photos to send to them. This caused an uproar from Sensible, who at 14, and seriously in touch with her looks and her acting ability, decided that he didn't need a haircut from a hairdresser and that Hubby could do it with his clippers. Not wanting to look like a Home Ed crew, I made the decision however that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ESOS</span> needed a professional cut for the camera.....<br /><br />Meanwhile.. I had to think about my diet. Would it be possible I thought to lose a stone and a half in four or five days prior to the audition? Probably not... but I decided that less <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">carbs</span> between now and then would definitely be a step in the right direction. They want a normal looking woman. At a stretch, I could <em>probably</em> do "normal." It's normal <em>looks</em> they want, after all.<br /><br />And then, having caught it successfully for a week, once half an hour earlier indeed for Sensible.... the bus bus went <em>past</em> the house, and of course <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ESOS</span> and Sensible were still arguing over haircuts....<br /><br />Hubby got into the car. Got them to the next bus stop. I put the kettle on again.<br /><br />He came back in: "I'm really excited about this" I said to Hubby....<br /><br />"Pity it's not a feature film though" said Hubby.<br /><br />"Yes, well, I'm not sure that Stephen Spielberg's "A list" includes someone who has worked for the Government for 25 years." Small steps Hubby....<br /><br />Meanwhile, it was time to get Gymnast and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Tinks</span> to school. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Tinks</span> was coughing like there was no tomorrow. Hubby and I decided that she could have a day off, especially I wasn't working. At this, Gymnast saw red. "Just why exactly should SHE have a day off?" And "I don't want <em>that</em> drink bottle, it tastes mouldy."<br /><br />My children are in good training to be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">prima</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">donnas</span> fortunately.....<br /><br />Let's hope the web cast film comes through, and then maybe I might be able to go to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">ASDA</span> or somewhere to buy a new drink bottle......<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36173469.post-40703183615785834122008-10-10T17:09:00.014+01:002008-10-12T10:02:25.244+01:00Not Quite RedundantOf course I needn't have worried about the possibility of being a redundant mother.<br /><br />Hubby thoughtfully decided to do a residential course this week, thereby ensuring that if I ever thought that I may no longer be useful in the parent department, that I wouldn't, so to speak.<br /><br />It's quite tiring running our lot single handedly, so I do tend to fall into bed as soon as is manageable. When I am woken up from my comatose sleep by a call at 11.30 p.m. from ED, it is surprising that I actually register what is being said.<br /><br />"Can you make sure that you call me at 6.30 a.m. please? I need to get a train, and I am worried I may not get up in time." "I was asleep" I moaned as I looked at the settings on the alarm clock and turned the light back off...<br /><br />6.30 a.m. Called ED.<br /><br />6.50 a.m. still couldn't get hold of her. Began to worry. Called Hubby.<br /><br />"She must already be up." He said. There's no way she would miss her room phone. It's right next to her head".<br /><br />The university has very kindly put room phones into the rooms. You can call in, but she can't all out. This means of course that she has two ways that parents can contact her. Well three actually, because I can still phone the university itself. And of course, I can email her, night and day. This is progress apparently. When I was a student I quite liked the fact that the only way that I could talk to my parents was via a call box. It would have had to be a dire emergency for them to call me via the college phones. And as a student that anonymity was possibly a benefit at times.<br /><br />Meanwhile I was beginning to panic. It did also occur to me that I had dreamt the phonecall at 11.30 p.m...... Was I indeed going completely mental - as opposed to just a bit?<br /><br />In the midst of getting other children up for school, making sandwiches and getting uniform sorted I kept calling her, alternating between her mobile and landline numbers. I ignored Hubby's advice, as my only thought was... she'll miss her train... By 7 a.m., I had just about decided that either she was sleeping eleswhere ( in which case WHY did she ask ME to wake her??!! ) or that she had left the room already and gone off to get an earlier train.....<br /><br />I tried one more time...<br /><br />"Hello?" said a very groggy voice. "Sorry, I didn't hear the phone..."<br /><br />Your neighbours must have done though ED...<br /><br />Sensible and Esos appeared downstairs, arguing, with Esos directing insults in both her and my direction. He accused her of suffering from PMT. "Your the one with PMT" she retorted. "That isn't actually physically possible, in case you didn't know", he replied in a smart alec type voice... to which I retorted that, maybe not, but that boys certainly had hormonal influence affecting them...... This wasn't a popular comment...<br /><br />Finally they got on the bus. Rang ED again to check she had caught her train. Whilst she was talking to me the ticket inspector arrived to check her ticket. I heard mutterings. "No," I heard her say. "That's a return ticket."...........Except it wasn't.... the first half of the ticket was in the machine at the station.......<br /><br />Made several phonecalls on her behalf.... And meanwhile she managed to persuade the ticket inspector to let her travel anyway on the basis that it was booked originally on the internet to be picked up at the station........<br /><br />Progress again...... Do you remember when they had <em>people</em> at stations who passed you the correct tickets?<br /><br />Roll forward two days. 7.30 a.m....... the school bus drives past the kitchen window. "Bye bye Esos and Sensible."<br /><br />.... But no... they are still sitting in the kitchen.....<br /><br />Into the car, coat over dressing gown and boots without socks. Drive to the next stop.......<br /><br />Not quite redundant yet then.<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://rpc.technorati.com/rpc/ping</div>sallywriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13950005738012348313noreply@blogger.com13