musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Category: ranting

New Shoes — August 20, 2015

New Shoes

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Today I went shoe shopping. I would like to tell you that I browsed beautiful heeled footwear to choose something to go with a new party outfit. But that would be a lie. I did recently buy myself some new shoes. Well actually my husband ordered me some on line as the pair I was wearing were literally falling apart. The soles were flapping dangerously in my wake. My only criteria were waterproof, pull cord laces, and…no that’s it. My life is such that I like shoes I can merely pull on and go.

The last time I bought fun shoes was….hmm….I think it was for a ball around nine years ago. They are still in good nick. I don’t go to many party events.

So Imelda Marcos I am not….

My children, however, are much more high maintenance footwear wise.

To be fair I guess some of it is to do with growing. They can’t really help that although I wish they would…just….stop…

And some of it is to do with the school. Again not really their fault.

And some of it is because they are fussy. They can help this. But don’t.

And so I am shoe shopping for three footwear hungry children.

Every summer we face this nightmare. It begins with my spreadsheet. Yes that is right, my spreadsheet. Date, measurement, type of footwear, notes…. I then persuade them to try on all their current footwear after I have unearthed it from games bags, PE bags, the garage etc to see which pairs may last another year or term. I then colour code my spreadsheet with yellow for ‘needs checking’ and orange for ‘too small’…

I literally cannot keep track of my off springs’ footwear without Excel. It may be anal but it avoids realising the day before a Cub Camp when rain is forecast that you have no wellies in the right size. And such like.

You may think that once we have a foot measurement then all shoes would be the same size. But no, one has to factor in different socks. School socks, football/rugby socks, PE socks, bare feet, weekend trainer socks. And then the manufacturers seem to feel the need to make shoes that don’t conform to the standard sizes. Nike for instance come up really small and narrow. Add in thick socks and a child can need two sizes larger than their school shoes would suggest.

At the bottom of my spreadsheet is a list of spare shoes. What type, their size and their location in the house. I really ought to check this list before going shopping but that doesn’t always happen.

Then we embark on step two. An appointment at a well known shoe shop. I have stopped just turning up after my all time record of waiting for 90 minutes to be served. The wait was made worse because I was being gazumped by more organised parents with appointments. I am now that more organised parent. And those waiters must hate me with my three kids.

At least now I usually remember to take the right socks. And the old shoes. In case the gauge suggests they can be salvaged.

And talking of gauges the casual holiday workers employed in the summer months by this well known shoe shop now use I pads to measure feet. I mistrust them. Intensely. I once spent a summer being that casual worker fitting kids shoes in a famous department store. I wore a badge declaring that I was a ‘Trained Fitter’. If training equates to a tour of the stock room and a basic introduction to measuring tools then yes I guess I was trained. So when that teenager approaches me I am not fooled into thinking they have any idea what they are doing.

Eldest usually goes first. After the ‘fitter’ has regained his composure after smelling his horrendous feet we get going. Referring constantly to my spreadsheet and manually updating it. Today I am not lucky. Over a hundred quid later and all three have new black school shoes and Youngest has trainers for home wear. I got £5 off those. Mini whoop.

All three are in the same style as last time. They are awkward. Eldest has very narrow feet (D) and his right foot is a whole inch longer than his left. Middlest has wide feet but they are very shallow so most styles pucker on top of his foot and dig in nastily. Youngest will not wear anything she considers too girly and I will only countenance patent leather as they wear so well, and she needs to be able to play football in them. Even though school insists on outdoor trainers for playtime (another frankly pointless row on my spreadsheet) these are not worn before school when she seems to spend the half hour or so in the playground pretending to be Messi or some one. If boys shoes came in patent they would be in it too….

I gird my loins for step three. A well known sport’s kit retailer. According to my spreadsheet we still need two pairs of rugby boots (Eldest and Middlest), two pairs of weekend trainers (Eldest and Middlest- who will no longer countenance Clarks for such items), two pairs of PE trainers (Eldest and Youngest- who is a decent runner and therefore needs reasonable ones), one pair of Astros (Youngest, hockey) and one pair of football boots (Youngest, football). According to my spreadsheet those football boots could be covered by my ‘spares’ section. And the Astros could be covered by the Home Trainers recently discarded by Middlest. Negotiations open.

I don’t really do that well. I get agreement to very cheap rugby boots. So the search begins amongst the ‘pile em high flog em cheap’ section for football boots with unscrewable studs. We do OK here. I know I have rugby studs at home unscrewed from last year’s wrecked boots so don’t buy more. Mistake. We only have enough for one and a quarter pairs.

Then we meander over to the Nike section were I am suckered into new home trainers, a pair of Astros and a pair of football boots. Eldest and Middlest are going to contribute to the footwear. Middlest from his upcoming birthday money (hmm as a banker ‘Anticipating One’s Salary’ (that is going overdrawn before pay day) was a sackable offence) and Eldest from his rapidly diminishing X Box fund. Youngest argues quite reasonably to my addled mind that she can use those ‘spare’ boots for her school club and new ones for her out of school football club. And the Astros just got in under the radar. The radar was clearly not set to colour mode as they are an eye wateringly neon pink- a shock to me as usually she eschews anything pink.

The process takes about an hour as finding an assistant to find you the right size, or more often than not finding an assistant to go away and return to tell you they don’t have the right size is difficult. We strike gold today and get a decent one with a walkie talkie and minions to scurry but even so it’s busy and he is harassed. We have to change tack many times which causes angst for the kids who have their heart set on bright purple Magisatas with orange laces or some other such monstrosity but finally all are happy with their decisions. None care that their new footwear will not ‘go’ with any clothes they possess.

He puts my many, many purchases behind the desk because we have to go downstairs to the running shoe/trainer section. For those PE trainers. Youngest tries on a pair in a 1. They are too big. The less useful downstairs assistant finally tells me they don’t have a 13 in that style. So we find another of the same brand but a bit more expensive and get the 13 which is too small. So we get the 1 which finally works.

Meanwhile Eldest can’t find any style that comes in a 6. The Juniors seem to end at 5 and a half. And most of the men’s start at 7. We lose the will. He thinks the pair he wore for cricket still fit. They aren’t on my spreadsheet which makes me panic a bit, but I decide to trust his memory, after all mine is failing, and we go to pay.

Back upstairs for the painful part. The checkout girl finds my pile of footwear. Laboriously checking each pair for a match, taking the security tags off the pile em high cheapies and trying to sell me reusable bags and bizarrely mugs.

We go home. I spray them all with protector, name label them and put them in the right bags. I order Eldest a pair of running shoes on line as, although he did indeed have a pair of trainers that according to me don’t exist, they were too small. I add in a bag of rugby studs and we appear to be good to go.

I spend part of the evening updating my spreadsheet, storing new spares in the garage and trying to think of creative ways to use 10 shoe boxes.

We may be lucky and last a whole year before we need to go through this process again. But I doubt it. Joy….

I can see clearly now…. — August 13, 2015

I can see clearly now….

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About a year ago I had to finally admit defeat and go to the opticians. For months I had noticed that reading small things was becoming increasingly difficult.  I decided it probably wasn’t usual to ask one’s children to read out instructions for one or to have to move ever closer to the window to scrutinise those small print terms and conditions surely everyone reads in depth.

So I went to my friendly ophthalmist who decided that, yes indeed, my long sight was deteriorating.

I found this deeply unfair. I have been short sighted since the age of 7. I spent my childhood in disgusting NHS frames being picked on. And then my teenage and early adulthood years in Dierdre Barlow’s. My astigmatism was such that large frames worked best to avoid that ‘bottom of a bottle’ look. Finally, about age 25, I either met a more enlightened optician or there were some advances in manufacture and I finally went into a more fashionable look. But either way I was forced into paying around £300 a pop every year or so just for the ‘privilege’ of being able to see.

I had been put off ever trying contact lenses by my partner at Uni who did try them. And then seemed to spend hours trying to get them in and even more trying to get them out. Putting his fingers in his eyes. Cleaning, soaking, rinsing etc. This was the days before daily disposables or monthly wearables or whatever the bejeebers are around now.

And anyway I feel naked without my specs.

Being a glasses wearer has other disadvantages too. The main ones being any water based activities. I quite like swimming. But I always have to keep in close proximity of anyone I have gone along with, once lost it is almost impossible to find them. I have embarrassed myself heartily on several occasions swimming up to complete strangers in similar coloured trunks and making conversation. I always scope out a new pool with glasses on, clocking the deep end, working out which way to swim, noting flume ride restrictions etc, before going back to my locker and placing my glasses safely away inside.

There is not really much point snorkelling or scuba diving either. In the Maldives I enjoyed swimming  in the sea. It was like being amongst an indistinct rainbow. Apparently we saw rays. I will take my husband’s word for that. And yes I could buy prescription googles or dive mask but it really isn’t worth the cost for my infrequent sub-acquatic adventures.

It is like that with sunglasses too. I could never afford them in my youth. I bought those plastic clip ons. But they were so hideous that I generally didn’t bother. It is only about three years since I have had sunglasses made to my prescription and it does make driving in summer much easier.

Middlest wears glasses now. He has since age 5. He had an undiagnosed astigmatism which meant his brain ‘turned off’ his left eye. We got it working again with patches and glasses and now he is fine. And all his siblings and mates now want glasses as children’s frames nowadays are so cool. It is a bit like Clarke’s shoes. To wear them in the 1970s was a teasing death sentence (although I thank my mother now for my straight, unbunioned feet) whereas now they are fine to wear- even trendy.

So anyway in a naive way I thought my deteriorating long sight would partially correct my horrendous short sight. And apparently it does work like that for a bit. But then you just have both. As the (extremely young) optician put it ‘It’s not going to get any better’. Thanks.

So I had to go through the difficult process of selecting new vari-focals. That is the other tricky thing about wearing specs. Choosing specs. Whilst not being able to see your self in a mirror. Without putting your nose up against the glass.

Anyway I got some which look vaguely passable. And I could read again.

It took a while to get used to them. I walked round with a ‘swimmy’ feeling for several days.

Then we went on holiday and I wore my sunglasses. Which had not been changed- now I am in vari-focals that price tag has jumped again. And every time I switched from one to the other I got that swimmy feeling again. At least I wasn’t doing anything more taxing than lounging and reading.

And recently I have noticed that tendency to move towards a light source when reading returning. I may need to go back. Oh joy.

The Great Sofa Delivery Scam — August 11, 2015

The Great Sofa Delivery Scam

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sofa

We have been waiting for our new sofa for weeks…. It feels like decades…maybe eons.

Our new lounge is not currently in use as we have no seating in it.

Soon Middlest is having a sleepover party for his birthday. In order to escape 5 ten year olds- who will no doubt commandeer the TV for Wii playing and DVDs- we would really like our new sofa. So we can retire to our parlour…like large spiders.

Imagine my delight, then, when last week I got a phone call from the shop we ordered from advising that the sofa was in their warehouse and asking me to call to arrange delivery. Well actually they wanted my husband to call to arrange delivery as for some strange reason when we ordered in the shop his name went on the documentation. Some lingering sexist misogyny on the part of the sales person, no doubt.

Anyway they had my phone number and my e mail address because clearly it was I who was going to have to wait in for one of the 7 hour time slots on offer- being as husband works outside the home. So the lady had called my phone number.

I was away at the time but called her back as I had another delivery due from the same store and wanted to try to amalgamate them. Of course this was not possible. The van was already full. So I arranged a different day whilst trying to recall the contents of my diary – which is in calendar form on my kitchen wall and so not accessible from my hotel room in Bristol.

Of course I got back home and realised the date I had booked was not going to work.

So I called back today to move the date.

I spoke to a nice lady. But she was insistent that my husband needed to ring as his name was on the order. Quite often in these situations I give up. And wait five days for my husband to have enough time to call. And then hope he gets the day right.  By which point the delivery date I wanted has filled up with speedier customers.

But today I wasn’t going to stand for it. I have reached the end of my ‘pointless security measures’ tether.

I asked her why she needed to speak to my husband as I was present at the ordering of the sofa. She just re-iterated that as his name was on the order she could only speak to him.

I asked her if the van men would refuse to deliver the sofa to me if my husband was not actually present because he was unable to wait in for the required 7 hours. No they would deliver to me, even though I was ‘not on the order’.

I asked her what possible risk she could possibly be taking in changing a delivery date on a sofa. She wasn’t sure. I assured her that had we wanted to change the delivery address then I would have asked my husband to call (or a man who sounded like, well a man, as she has no idea what my husband sounds like) to confirm as clearly I could see an actual risk in this.

She went away. To presumably take advice from someone higher up.

Whilst waiting I tried to imagine the risks myself. I guess she might be subject to an irate phone call from my husband who was mightily upset that his wife had unilaterally decided to wait in for a sofa for 7 hours on a different date convenient to her.

Or maybe they have experienced pure malice from wives who have deliberately changed delivery dates to scupper World Cup football parties/ Eurovision parties and the like.

Or maybe there really are gangs of badduns out there who steal sofa order details from innocent members of the public, call up pretending to be their wives. And change the date. For kicks? Maybe I am being harsh. Let me think again. I guess a real criminal mastermind could stake out the house, find a seven hour time slot when no householders are ever present, change the delivery time to that slot, pretend to have locked themselves out and persuade the delivery men to put the sofa in a white van. And make off with it. I am sure there are better ways to make a criminal name for yourself.

But really I failed to see any actual concrete risk.

When she came back (you may have gathered it took a while) she too had failed to find a risk, certainly not one worth the bother of turning down Ms Stroppy Cow Customer. She asked me to confirm what the order was for and when I could provide this information in detail (as I WAS THERE WHEN WE ORDERDED) she agreed to change the date.

Sense prevailed.

But I had to get arsey. Which really isn’t me. Well not in person. That’s what this blog is for…

Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun fun, fun, fun, fun….. — August 9, 2015

Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun fun, fun, fun, fun…..

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Today my husband and I built a trampoline. A trampoline was one of the ‘conditions’ my off spring made before they would agree to move house. Clearly we didn’t actually need their permission but it is good parenting (I think I read somewhere once) to make them feel that their opinions are actually valid. And anyway we were stuck for birthday ideas for Middlest and Youngest and so buying the bouncy apparatus killed several birds with one stone, without taking up any more of our indoor storage space, which whilst increased following our house move is still at a premium.

Anyhow I digress.

Husband had researched trampolines on line- exhaustively- as is his wont. We had estimated that the 12 foot version would be large enough to hold our three offspring but still fit in a ‘corner’ of the garden. We hadn’t actually measured the garden you understand- that would be much too sensible. We had plumped for 12 foot on a gut feel and sincerely hoped we weren’t going to experience a ‘Christmas tree’ moment. We have all done that. Looked at a fir or a spruce in the forecourt of a petrol station and decided it would ‘fit in that corner of the lounge’ before getting home and having to attack its base with a hack saw and remove the three piece suite.

Anyhow I digress again.

Somewhere along the line husband told me the trampoline was oval. Which is a bit different. And gave me a small frisson. I wish he had disabused me of this idea before we began assembly. It would have made everything make a bit more sense. It is actually circular. Oh well.

Normally my husband and I don’t do that well building things together. In fact doing anything practical together is a little challenging. He is not ‘handy’. But he is taller than me and stronger than me. So in some ways useful.

What happens is this. I am able to understand the intellectual parts of the job quite quickly but often am physically incapable of carrying them out which leaves me trying to impart this knowledge to husband. With my limited ability to grasp the right word at the right time. It is probably as frustrating for him as it is for me. I usually  end up holding bits, which are often heavy, whilst trying to get him to understand that next part of the procedure. And I get impatient. Why can’t you just get it right man? What can you not understand about ‘Put that bit there, no that bit there, yes that bit, in the black thing, no the black thing has to be the other way round, rotate it damn it, no not that way the other way, left, no sorry I mean right, yes yes yes finally, now get the smaller thingy, nut, no sorry screw and put that in the hole, no you need to line the other hole up first, did you use a washer, no not the spring ones, the other ones, take it out and get a washer, here, here, here I have one here….Oh no now I have dropped the really heavy thing on my foot and dropped all the washer thingys….’ Etc. Every year we go camping. Every year we nearly get divorced pitching the tent.

When the trampoline boxes arrived (worryingly all three were long and rectangular and in no way oval (or even circular), that is when I think it hit me that assembly was going to be an ‘enterprise’) I toyed with trying to start the process on my own. I opened all three boxes before finding the instructions which stated that the trampoline would take 2 adults two hours to build. I was one adult with one hour before I had to leave to be somewhere else. I very nearly gave in and began the process egged on by my exceedingly excited and impatient children but thankfully discretion won out. I guess that is what makes me a grown up. The kids had to wait.

So today was our first window of opportunity when we did indeed have 2 adults and two hours. Despite my having impressed upon the kids the fact that the instructions stated it would take those 2 adults 2 hours to build all three thought it would be ready ‘after breakfast’. That didn’t allow for daddy mowing the lawn first- a sensible precaution really. Or for us having to go out to buy food and drink for an impromptu BBQ party which husband had managed to arrange almost by accident during my absence for the previous three days with the kids on a mini break. O-Kay…

So lawn mowed we began our assault. I had pre-read the instructions. Which was a ‘good thing’. In the manner of flat pack today the instructions are multi lingual. Which means they contain no words…at all… you are reliant on your ability to follow diagrams. Luckily for me these ones ‘seemed’ fairly self explanatory and I had mentally noted the pitfalls helpfully laid out with little warning signs in the booklet.

All went quite well to start with. We managed to get the frame assembled (here it would have been useful to know its actual shape but still we coped) and attach all 72 springs. In the right order. Here husband’s brute strength and my counting came into their own.

Ah and then we came to the legs. Four of them. With two attachments each. And here we hit a snag. Between us we could not get the legs on. Without previously attached legs falling off. Words would have been useful here such as….If the trampoline is not being built on a bowling green (and not a crown one at that) you are going to have issues with legs. Or…. try the legs in other configurations before giving up entirely. Or…. don’t try to build it upside down as it is impossible to turn back over without the aid of a crane. Etc

There was nothing for it. It was time for the cavalry. The offspring were roped in to help. They had started helping at the beginning of the process (muddling up the spring counting, losing bits, inappropriately wielding Stanley knives, generally annoying husband) but had wandered off in the manner of small people denied access to the really exciting tools after the first half hour or so. Middlest was now reading upstairs and occasionally leaning out of his window to shout down his enquiries about how much longer we were going to be- in that really ‘helpful’ way 9 year old boys have. But now we needed them to give themselves hernias by holding up the springy bit whilst we ran round like headless chickens trying to insert legs before one of their biceps gave out.

After about four goes we got there. Nobody was permitted to breathe or move whilst we ran round inserting screws, taking out screws and re-inserting them with washers and fetching the mole wrench to clench some bits that had been warped during our extended leg insertion process. Until it was in a sturdy enough place to risk leaving it while we went to the local supermarket to eat and gather burgers.

We got back and attacked the net part. I was tempted at one point- I  think it was when we had to undo a whole lot of work as we had done something in the wrong order (where was that hazard sign) and even my six foot (if you listen to him, really 5’11”) husband was unable to reach the ‘next phase’ – to let them bounce un-netted. That was good enough for me in the 1970’s. But then we had those BBQ guests’ off spring to worry about. Damn it.

So anyway some velcroing and hooking later, voila, a trampoline. And it only takes up about a quarter of the garden.  They went on it eagerly. During what remains of our holidays they will be spending at least an hour a day on it. At least.

And before anyone asks no I will not be bouncing myself. The assembly was a purely altruistic process on my part. I have had three children. If you need to know why I shall not be bouncing ask a mother. I am not going to elaborate here.

And those instructions need to be amended. It took 2 adults, 3 kids and a mole wrench at least three and a half hours to build. I feel a momentous sense of achievement. I think we should really unveil it at this BBQ or at least crack open some champagne in its honour, if not off its ladder.

However I am mentally and physically exhausted. And so I am having a cup of tea and writing this blog. While husband makes kebabs. Serves him right really.

Flights of Fancy — July 28, 2015

Flights of Fancy

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airplane

So our holiday is over. Well and truly. Although we are still in Greece, sitting in the airport waiting out a two hour and rising delay. Of course we had to be here two hours before the scheduled time to clear the security checks etc. which took about 5 minutes. And so we are here for at least 4 hours. Plenty of time to write a little rant.

Apparently we are flying back with a carrier called Titan Air. I have never heard of them. According to the British Airways hastily printed hand out at check in they are renowned for their quality of service. Hmmm we shall see. The hand out also suggested that if they hadn’t leased this Titan aircraft the whole flight would have been cancelled. So I guess the lesser of two evils. Although another night in my luxury hotel wouldn’t have been the end of the world. If they weren’t fully booked.

Infuriatingly the Easy Jet flight we eschewed for the better service of BA left on time. Although I still wouldn’t have wanted that sprint up the Tarmac…

Flying really is the most unreliable form of transport. I find it infuriating. There seems to be so much that can go wrong. This is by no way our worst delay. And by no way the worst incident I have heard of.

Last October when we flew to the States we were taxi-ing down the runway. I was gripping tightly to the armrests mentally preparing for the hell that is take off when we stopped. Apparently a warning light had come on. I guess it isn’t a good idea to ignore them, like I do with my car, before a 9 hour flight across the Atlantic. So of course it had to be investigated.

It took three hours for that light to be extinguished. A part had to be shuttled in from Vrigin’s parts store to be replaced. By which time my offspring had exhausted their film and video game capacity. The next nine hours of actual flying were tortuous rounds of rummy and toilet trips. Although that was preferable to having to stay behind for a day and miss my first breakfast with Donald Duck.

On the way back from Kos we got stuck on the runway. Again. With no electrics. This time they had a broken seat and a full plane. And were therefore one seat short. Increasingly desperate tannoy announcements asked for flight trained individuals who could sit in the spare cabin crew seat (presumably they would not have been expected to serve nuts or explain life vests) and finally for people willing to stay behind. I am not sure of the outcome but we eventually left. And the air conditioning started up again and saved us from the heat that had built up in the large tin can sitting on a runway in 40 degree heat.

I have more but would hate to bore you. I think my worst delay was 8 hours. At least this was in an airport. Nearly all my delays have been on the return leg (except for that Virgin Atlantic experience) of our holidays. It is safe to say that British airports are considerably more fun to spend time in than some overseas. The one I spent eight hours in was literally a hut. I think it was a Canary or a Balearic. I can’t remember. Luckily it was BC. Spending time being delayed alone or with one’s spouse is bearable, doing it with three fractious kids is a million times worse.

Anyway we are down to 2 hours to wait. I have written this entry over a 2 hour period which has also included loo trips, knock out whist and refreshment foraging outings.

I am now being pressed to play Strip Jack Naked, perhaps the most infuriating card game of all time, so I will end. Apparently the kids ‘have nothing to do’ Despite the free wifi. And kindles. And each other. I am evidently a necessary distraction. So off I go to fulfil my primary role.

Pray we all get home. Thanks.

Aroma moan… — July 26, 2015

Aroma moan…

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deodorant

Brace yourself….more intimate revelations.

I have been using the same deodorant since I was 14. So a little over 30 years. When I began using it it was the mid 80s and so Roll On was the order of the day. We were still in the height of the CFC crisis terrified of eroding any more of the ozone layer by spraying or changing our fridge. It seemed that overnight we all switched to roll on. And the crisis was averted… Ah the innocence.

Anyway. Once the aerosol companies caught on and eliminated those nasty CFCs I switched back to a spray. To avoid the need for arm flapping every morning. And have used it ever since.

And then last year I was unable to buy it from Sainsburys on line. I was down to my last can and getting slightly panicky so I went to Boots. They didn’t have it either. Neither did Superdrug.

And it slowly dawned on me that Sure had stopped making my ‘flavour’ in a spray. I scoured on line pharmacies and managed to find one with some stock and bought 10 cans. This has now run out.

And so I am faced with finding a new smell. And I resent it.

On this holiday I brought with me a new brand of spray. Eldest doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like how I smell. I don’t like it either. I don’t smell like ‘me’.

It is made all the worse because smell is such an evocative sense. Certain aromas can transport me back to a time and place in an instant.

Rain on hot pavements for instance. That aroma which usually only happens a few times a year in my neck of the woods takes me back to my child hood. Instantly.

My paternal grandma lived in a house with a lovely big garden. It wasn’t probably that big but to me it seemed enormous. Towards the back she had a row of large conifers which formed a sort of hedge behind which my brother and I used to hide and make dens. The smell of laylandii confiers takes me right back to those days, sitting on a rug out of sight of parents picking those little seed pod things off the trees.

Similarly on the wall around the side of our house when we lived in Formby in the north west we had an outlet, a silver box thing about a foot square set at about child’s head height, probably for the central heating which let off a sort of gas smell, not unpleasant but very distinctive. Another very evocative perfume whenever a catch a whiff of it nowadays.

There are countless others, my old school dinner hall, the insides of tents, line dried washing, freshly mown grass, the smell of Christmas which is actually the smell of my loft at my old house…

So I understand my eldest’s frustration with my deodorant issue. He has spent his entire life smelling me a particular way and part of that aroma is Sure Cool Blue spray deodorant, it is part of me. And now I don’t have it anymore.

There is still a roll on version. Which won’t be quite the same but may have to do.

Grrr…..I hate arm flapping…

TV Dinners — July 19, 2015

TV Dinners

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Here I am again…..still on holiday… I have a spare minute or two lounging on the balcony whilst husband gathers lunch…in a hunter kind of way….it makes him feel good….it may only be a very very very hot trip to the mini market a short stroll away but hey ho it if is good for his ego who am I to argue. Eldest has gone too. He needs to learn such manly pursuits sometime.

Middlest and youngest are watching dubious TV. The choice is limited it being Greece here. But they have stumbled across the Disney Channel which seems to play white middle class teenage comedies on a sort of loop. They find it totally hypnotic. It is preferable to the 24 hour doom and gloom on CNN. And anyway it gets them out of the sun for a bit.

I had an idea for this entry which I seem to have lost the thread of. Where was I?

Oh yes I remember. I came on to talk about electronics. Specifically children and electronic devices. But now I have told you that two of my three are currently sitting in front of one I feel a tad hypocritical. But then I have spent all morning in a pool with them playing ball, and races and diving for ‘sinking seal’. So I feel a little bit of me time is in order…this blog is me time by the way. And they are on holiday and allowed to choose to spend some time watching mindless TV, even if it is beset with horrific stereotypes and canned laughter of the worst order.

Scene setting done. One, I am not against electronics per se, two, my children have devices and watch TV, three, not sure but this sentence seemed to need a three….

What prompted this post was a phenomenon I have already observed at home but which has been brought into sharp relief here. And that is the use of electronic devices at dinner tables. What really brought it to a head today though was seeing this at breakfast. Yep breakfast.

Breakfast here is an all you can eat buffet. I have mentioned the queuing for bacon already. But the choices are really quite endless. My point in bringing this up is that it is not a passive affair. One has to get up, regularly in my family’s case, to refill your plate or glass. Luckily the walk from the table we inhabit to the groaning buffet is quite lengthy and goes a small way to compensate for the vast amount of calories on offer.

As such breakfast can be as long or short as you like. It is busy and noisy and in no way refined. As such I see absolutely no need for a child to be watching a film/ playing a game/ searching you tube on an electronic device propped up on the salt and pepper cellars. I find it distressing. Actually distressing.

I don’t really like seeing it at dinner either. Yesterday a group had set the adults up at one end of their table and the four children at the other each mining for something on a separate device.  My only hope is that they were at least ‘networked’ and able to meet up in the virtual world. I think you can do that in Minecraft.

I find this odd. There were four of them around the same age. Even if the adults did not want to interact at all with their offspring surely those offspring could have entertained themselves off line?

Or if the adults were worried that they were unable to sit ‘nicely’ at a table without the use of an electronic kosh they could have been left at home with a babysitter (10 euros an hour here I am told, quite reasonable at current exchange rates). Whose job would have been very easy as I don’t think I saw any of them speak the whole time we were there.

When we eat I like to talk to my kids. Even when they were little they joined in with the meal fully. Yes those meals were not extended three hour affairs and when we went out we made full use of those colouring books and pencils provided at many family friendly restaurants. But they joined in.

This morning at breakfast we ‘discussed’ plans for the day. We talked about possible future holidays. I regaled them, probably not for the first time, with stories of our past trips abroad. I embarrassed them by being overly demonstrative and animated. In short we interacted.

I was saddened to see a little girl sat in a highchair, dummy in in between ‘courses’ watching some kids TV show on her rubber protected I pad whilst mum and dad ate in silence, each on a phone. I guess it is somewhat equivalent to reading a newspaper. Those cliches of men retreating behind their broadsheet to avoid being drawn in. I don’t like books or papers at the table either.

And yes I don’t know the ins and outs of their families. Maybe they hate each other (odd to come on holiday to Greece though in that case). Maybe those children are extremely difficult.

But I see it so much that I cannot believe that to be the case all the time. I just think it is laziness. Or a lack of anything to say. Which is just sad.

Any how rant over. I must be off to save my children’s minds from the drivel they are sat in front of. And anyway I think I hear hubby and eldest returning with freshly hunted packets of processed meat and fried potato products. One must arrange one’s grateful and somewhat awed face. And take off one’s judgey pants…

Manners Maketh the Man — July 5, 2015

Manners Maketh the Man

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I drive my children to school. Luckily I share the morning trip with a friend and so I only do the early run one week out of two but I pick up every night, often twice.

The school is on a busy road and I have to turn right out of the driveway to continue my journey home. Lots of people approach the driveway from the left and have to turn in across the flow of traffic.

As we are British a sort of etiquette has developed. If you are approaching from the right and need to turn in left to the driveway you hold up the traffic behind you. Anyone approaching from the left then also holds up their flow of traffic. One car is allowed to turn right out of the driveway, then the car approaching from the left turns in across the flow and finally that person who is coming in by turning left does their manoeuvre. Please keep up.

This does mean the car turning in left has to wait. But in a few minutes- after they have disgorged their offspring, someone else’s offspring, a cello and two violins, four games bags and 4 school bags (that’s probably just me though- is it wrong that I feel a frisson of pride as we execute this?- and only on a Monday)- they will be that car trying to turn out right onto a busy road in rush hour. It is a kind of school run Karma… you give, you receive.

The system works. Mostly. And the reason it sometimes doesn’t work is that some people (one might call them selfish) do not adhere to the rules. And this drives me utterly batty.

Either these other people are new to the school (although that is highly unlikely except in September when an element of leeway is given), stupid (quite possibly, I worked out the turning in/ turning out etiquette within about two days of beginning this school run) or ill mannered.

And if there is one thing I cannot abide is it is bad manners. I am a fairly tolerant person in many ways. I accept that all people are not the same and come with their own unique characters. They will view the world differently to me (I married a Tory supporter for goodness sake) and approach things in a way possibly alien to me. But I believe that one thing should be common to all of us. The ability to be polite.

It begins with the p’s and q’s. My children had this drummed into them from as early as they could speak, and then as quickly as possible progressed from merely adding a please onto a demand to asking in a full sentence beginning ‘Please may I…’. And importantly I speak to my children in the same way. Asking politely and thanking routinely. The first time. I do escalate to demanding once I am ignored a couple of times.

So that is important but it is also a whole host of other things.

Being on time, not pushing into queues, enquiring after people’s welfare, replying when spoken to, smiling at people who are helping us, cashiers, shoe fitters, ticket collectors, sending apologies for any absence, holding doors, allowing other people to go ahead of you (but clearly not in a queue unless, say, I have an entire week’s shopping and they are buying a toothbrush), replying to party invitations within the designated timeframe, dealing with paperwork in a timely fashion. I could find many more I am sure.

Often I get comments in my offsprings’ reports or at parents’ evenings that they are well mannered and polite. It is not something I need to hear. I find it deeply depressing that this makes them unusual enough for it to be commented on.

I don’t know about you but interacting with a polite, well mannered individual, whatever their age, gives me a warm glow. Whilst the opposite leaves me spitting feathers.

Relaxing weekend — June 25, 2015

Relaxing weekend

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Last weekend was a tad…frantic…  I would like to say it is unusual. It isn’t really… I am sure some of you can empathise..

It started off on Friday. I was a due a day with no workmen…just a furniture delivery and a furniture collection. Oh and the grocery shopping. But then the wooden floor man asked if he could start prep for Monday’s job and of course I agreed, hoping to salvage Tuesday.

And so I was confined to barracks again waiting for people. In any event I had a cake to bake so really it wasn’t too bad. And my in-laws were due so things had to be prepared and cleaned. The floor man arrived at lunchtime and immediately got VERY noisy doing unspeakable things to my architraves… I left him with the in-laws to collect eldest and youngest from school. He had thankfully finished when I got back.

We dashed off a bit of homework and then I took youngest to piano, you know that hokey cokey I think I have mentioned before. After a bit more desert natural life adaptation work I took eldest and his cello to piano (don’t ask) and picked up youngest. I slowed down outside our house, booted her out of the car, checked the in laws had answered the door and drove off to pick up middlest from his school trip. After the obligatory wait for the bus to crawl up we left and I took my Tudor boy to the chippe. Youngest is banned. The blood splatter is still there.

We got home around 6.20pm and stuffed down chips.  At some point the kids went to bed and I then packed for the following night and built a football out of rollable icing for the top of that cake.

The next day dawned, wet. Husband and I did the usual fielding of football games/ training sessions, made slightly easier by eldest having the weekend off. I watched youngest and her team comprehensively beat the opposition, in the rain, with Granddad and latterly Grandma and eldest, who, showing his empathic side, had brought a folding camping chair for Grandma…I had time for a momentary flash of pride.

We managed to get home before middlest, who was merely training, and his father. So, damn, I had to start on lunch. Spag bol for seven. Whilst that was steeping I emptied chests of drawers.

After lunch the husband of a lovely friend (of course he is lovely too) turned up to help shift our extremely heavy chests of drawers out of our bedroom onto the landing in readiness for our fitted wardrobe…fitting. I bet he wished his wife was not in the Monday morning coffee group I attend. Where we regularly offer up our husbands for ridicule (in a loving fashion) and the occasional job.

We then spent a few hours at the kids’ football club annual presentations, in the rain. The children seemed to enjoy the stalls on offer, despite having to wring out their socks after utilising the bouncy castle obstacle course. Husband and I managed to see youngest receive her medal and take a team photo before we had to rush home to get ready for an evening out. We left the in laws to watch middlest and eldest get their awards. They were there until gone seven. Ouch.

An evening out is a rare and wonderful thing. This was work though. We had to schelp to Birmingham (an hour and a half drive- in the rain) in time to host a table of 12 at the Rep Theatre’s fundraising 1920s murder mystery dinner. We arrived in Birmingham at around 6pm and drove towards the hotel. We were slightly disconcerted at the large number of ball gowned ladies tottering towards our venue. We couldn’t check the time that our function started as the details were in the boot of the car. Fingers crossed husband had it right then.

He did…we had about 50 minutes to get changed and make ourselves over from soggy football parents into scintillating black tie dinner guests. Posterity will show if we got that right, along with the annoying photographer at the event. Husband assured me that the venue was ‘right next to the hotel’ so off we went. Luckily it had stopped raining. I tottered, he strode; I shouted, he slowed down. After crossing a canal, walking past hundreds of bars, dodging pools of sick (never easy in a floor length gown)and walking through what looked like a shopping centre we arrived. I may blame that ‘quick walk’ if I look less than scintillating on those photos.

Luckily the guests husband had chosen were actually quite good fun, they were even more fun after a few glasses of free wine. Them not me, I don’t drink. In fact I love watching other people drink. In a kind of anthropological experimentation kind of way. One mentioned that they had passed the Annual Slimmer’s World awards ceremony on their way- ah those ball gowned ladies. On the menu- one shake and a green salad?

So due to the company the event was actually fun. There was also a really quite good murder mystery to solve. And a live jazz band. Well we were in a theatre so I had expected a certain level of acting and music. There was a quiz. I love a quiz. There was an auction to take the mickey out of (we were at a table of bankers and guests I leave you to decide how much was spent collectively). I managed to be amusing and good fun so all in all not a bad night’s work.

All too soon it was time for that ‘quick walk’ home. I purloined husband’s jacket to avoid garnering too much drunken attention en route. I may be the wrong side of 40 but still scrub up OK in a ball gown, especially when the audience is pissed.

After a terrible night’s sleep (clearly chucking out time is now 3.15am- when did that happen?), we awoke, packed, and left to head back to the kids and relieve the in-laws, stopping en route for a sausage and pancake meal somewhere on the M6.

We got home around 11am. During that 3.15am early morning call I had realised that this was going to be my only window to get my prize winning children to a book store to choose appropriate books ahead of Friday’s deadline. Yep you read it right, my only window. So I scooped them up and drove to town, leaving husband to rustle up some roast potatoes and cabbage for a 1pm lunch. We browsed the books, fought over suitability and discovered that the book tokens provided by the school would in no way cover the cost. On the way home I picked up a ready cooked chicken.

We ate. We cleared. We had a small space for a sit down. We then left to host youngest’s 8th birthday party at a gymnastics centre in a nearby town. Once everyone had arrived, and I had reminded the staff of what I had actually paid for, the party went quite well. I rolled out that cake, children were collected and I drove home. Really this does not in any way sum up two hours with 13 very excited children, two Year 9 boys ‘in charge’ and a host of dangerous gym equipment but I let your imaginations fill in the gaps. I am too traumatised to go through it all here. Suffice to say it wasn’t what I needed after 4 hours sleep. But then children’s parties are never something I need even on a full 9 hours.

We came home, unwrapped presents, assembled kit for the next day & accomplished the bed time routine. I discovered it is actually possible to fall asleep whilst reading aloud from Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix.

We got some tea for the in laws. Who looked a bit shell shocked.

And then I sat down and fell asleep in front of the Antiques Roadshow.

I make no apologies for that.

Procrastination… — June 23, 2015

Procrastination…

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ahh-procrastination

I think I may have mentioned before that I love writing this blog.

I think I may have also mentioned that sometimes I panic gently about running out of ideas.

And then I need to do something unpalatable. And suddenly I become full of the muse and set to work…

Today I am supposed to be packing two smallish boys up for Cub and Scout camp. It is one of those chores which sounds easier than it is. I loath it. If I merely pulled my digit out of a small orifice I could have the job licked within about two hours or so (not including the GF cake I need to bake and name labelling all their newer kit). But something in me is putting it off.

And so I am writing this piece of fluffy nonsense instead.

On the kit lists it says that the smallish boys themselves should pack their bags. Hmmm. Well that would be lovely I am sure but as tonight I have to drag all of them down to the camp field to actually pitch the Cub tents and tomorrow one has to get to a village at least 30 minutes away by 5pm during rush hour, when we will only land in from school circa 4.15pm that aint going to happen.

In any event they can’t work the loft hatch, unhook the trailer cover or sew on name badges all of which I need to accomplish to pack the bags.

No I prefer to focus their energies on remembering to BRING ALL THE STUFF I LOVINGLY PACKED BACK…

And so packing is my domain and the process (once I got round to it) goes something like this.

First I attempt to find all the stuff from downstairs. To avoid going up and down those stairs too often. So I scoop up tea towels and medication, carrier bags for wet clothes, small travel sized tubes of sunscreen, packets of tissues.

Next I raid the garage in search of camping crockery and cutlery, strong boots, wellies, a camp chair. The latter is a new one on me. Clearly Scouts is a lot more civilised than Cubs. Or the group owns less seating.

I then make my way into the loft and throw down sleeping bags, pillows, thermarests & hold-alls that could never hope to contain all this stuff. This is made harder today as I have never been in my current loft and first need to negotiate the unknown loft ladder. Once I gain access I find that I am lucky and husband has put all this stuff in plain view.

I dig out flannels that won’t embarrass but are named, four towels (eldest needs three- the mind boggles), soap in boxes (how 1970s), spare asthma inhalers and spacers.

Finally I get to the bedrooms to assemble the rest of the gear. I search drawers for all the clothes that are old and already labelled. Unfortunately we have recently replaced a lot of their outdoor gear as their ankles were on show and for some inexplicable reason I have failed to name eldest’s new Scout uniform. So I amass a large pile of sewing.

It is at this point I realise that I have forgotten ‘shoes which can get wet’ (garage), waterproofs (under the stairs) and torches (in an unknown location- last seen on my hall bookcase unfortunately in my previous abode).

I call husband and leave a message torch wise. I gather the other bits, check the weather forecast and decide to chuck in sun hats and woolly hats.

A quick glance at the clock and it becomes apparent  that I have now only got an hour left to bake that cake and eat lunch before my afternoon meeting. Should not procrastinate, should not procrastinate. So I dump stuff on the floors and vow to finish tomorrow when my supermarket will have delivered the extra tooth paste I require. I do not have enough tubes for everyone to be in a different location. These en-suites have their disadvantages including needing 3 tubes of toothpaste- well 4 now so the boys can split up too… who knew dental hygiene could be so problematic.

Mid whisking hubby calls back and asserts that the torches might be in the bottom drawer of his chest with all his running, cycling and gym gear. It is a drawer I avoid at all costs it being a tangle of an unbelievable quantity of lycra, padding and vaguely sweaty accessories. I take the plunge and rummage around and unearth the torches. Another cross off the list.

I bung the cake in the oven and stuff down a cheese and pickle sandwich. Mid crisp, and again remembering the forecast of ‘extremely heavy rain’- I believe it was a Yellow warning- I remember waterproof trousers and dig around in my under stairs cupboard. During this process the timer on my cake goes off. I extract it and rush off to my meeting.

Tomorrow I will add teddies, that toothpaste, ice the cake, try to remember water bottles.

And tonight I will face the sewing mountain.

I wouldn’t mind so much but I know that when they return precisely none of the garments or towels and flannels will have actually been used. The soap in a box will remain pristine. Even the spare pants will be untouched. I try to see the silver lining in this whilst they soak in a bath and I load the washing machine whilst trying not to touch anything and put the clean, dry clothes back in the drawers…

Footnote: I appreciate that having to pack two boys for camp is a mere drop in the ocean compared to the effort the leaders put into these events. And I really do appreciate all their work on behalf of my kids and everyone else’s. You lovely people.