musingsponderingsandrants

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Tag: humour

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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IMG_4859

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.

The Tortoise and the Hare — August 2, 2015

The Tortoise and the Hare

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Tortoise and hare

I like Aesop. And his fables. I particularly like the tortoise and the hare. You know the one. They have a race. The hare is cocky and over confident. He decides to have a rest as he is soooo far ahead. And falls asleep. And so the sure and steady tortoise wins the race.

I am that tortoise. Unfortunately, although I do indeed often look like I have a shell (the packed rucksack I never leave the house without), that is where the resemblance ends. I never win the race.

I live with four hares. Three have the excuse of youth. And the other is still younger than me and considerably fitter. Because he spends hours working on it. And I do not.

Today three of my hares and I went on a long cycle ride. I was predictably at the back. Going too slowly. I have never been a great cyclist. It has never really suited me. I am not sure why. Short legs. Maybe. Lack of practise. Maybe.

My kids know where to wait for me. So I can shepherd them across roads. Something I am actually good at. I guess at some point they will be able to cross roads safely alone. In fact when big daddy hare is there I am totally superfluous, except for being the butt of all the jokes.

I was once fit. In fact BC I was really quite fit. Daddy hare and I did Body Combat and Circuit Training.

Then I had kids and my opportunities to exercise were somewhat limited. Scrap that. Totally limited. If I got time on my own the last thing I wanted to do was run to the gym. I wanted to sleep. Pee alone. And such like.

When they all finally went to school I did start some exercise DVDs and managed to keep up with them for about a year and developed some quads. And then the long school holidays hit again and I had to stop. Or risk the children having hysterics at the sight of me star jumping. And I never found the energy to restart.

I tried running, another thing all four of my hares are good at. I set off with new trainers and an irritating guy in my ear telling me when to run and when to walk. Every time I saw someone I knew my pace picked up a bit. By the time I got home I was spent. It took at least half an hour on the stairs with my head between my knees before I was able to risk moving without being sick.

I can swim. Maybe more a turtle than a tortoise? In fact I can currently still beat all my hares. But I prefer to do my swimming in a heated pool somewhere situated on the Med or the Aegean Sea. I have developed an allergy to municipal swimming pools. The cold shock of the water. The inability to see anything (my extreme myopia) causing me to possibly get in the ‘wrong lane’ or swim the ‘wrong way’. That deforestation I can’t be bothered with, especially in winter. The likelihood of being caught behind either two women who consider exercise to be chatting next to each other whilst doing a weak breaststroke and not getting their hair wet. Or a bloke creating a mini tsunami with his frantic yet ineffective front crawl. And the showers afterwards, dodging used plasters and other peoples hair. Shudder.

No I have to accept that I am basically unfit. Middlest is my most likely ally. He is the least sporty of all my hares. Once on an infamous trip cycling round a reservoir I spent the time before our first pit stop- which is really a stop for mummy to catch up by which point all the others have refuelled and hydrated and are champing at the bit to get off again before I have even got my breath back- a loooong way behind. It was hilly.

Middlest spent our next cycling session to lunch falling behind with me. We had a lovely chat. Well he chatted, I listened and tried not to sound too ‘panty’. On the flatter bits I commiserated with him about how tough the ride was and he agreed it was hard. Especially the bits on the sand. I felt comforted that I was providing Middlest with company in his hour of need.

We got to lunch. I had the sandwiches in that tortoise shell rucksack so the others had had to wait. After we had eaten I went to the loo and on the way back overhead Middlest asking for a new volunteer to ‘stay behind and keep mummy company’ as he wanted to ‘race on ahead again’. There were no takers. And I felt tremendously patronised. In a nice way.

So there you have it. I will always be bringing up the rear. Red in the face. Less than gently made fun of. But I will still go. Otherwise it would probably be Middlest in that spot. And he was once kind to Mummy Tortoise.

Footnote The remnants of those quads ache today….

The Tower of Babel… — July 14, 2015

The Tower of Babel…

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I am not one for racial stereotypes. Usually.

We are on holiday. Did I mention this before? Sorry… Anyway we are. Over our many years of overseas holidays- which were punctuated by a run of cottages in the south west of the UK during my children’s early years (we weren’t brave enough to go abroad until youngest was just three and even then we took the car so we could take everything we owned in the boot)- I have noticed a shift in the nationalities of those we share the dining room with.

In our years BC (before children) we went on many a last minute get away to inexpensive places such as the party resorts of the Balearics. And other than the British making the most of those sea front dives serving warm ale and steak and kidney pie in front of the English Premiership we were mostly joined by Germans enjoying a slightly different sort of joint serving sauerkraut and beer in jugs with handles.

There was that running joke that in order to bag a sunbed one had to set the alarm early. Or throw a towel deftly off one’s balcony directly onto a lounger. And it was true. We would watch the scene unfold from around 7am from the safety of that balcony as well padded German men carefully and precisely laid out enough towels on enough loungers for their entire party. Ensuring they were tucked in all round to avoid the wind blurring the lines of demarcation. They have always been a race prone to take over though eh?

Our trips to France and the Canaries which formed the majority of our early PC (post children) forays abroad were full of Scandanavians. And French. The former imposing in their sunburnt blondness, forging a pathway directly to the cold meats section at breakfast, loading up on processed protein before hitting the all inclusive lager at 10am…I kid you not. Their offspring emptying the pool with every forceful dive.

The French women endlessly elegant, cigarettes dangling alluringly, sipping tiny espressos, surely an advert for any teenager to begin smoking. Their equally beautiful little daughters with better toe nail polish than me (not difficult) and sun streaked blonde hair talking in their lyrical language to other charmingly turned out preschoolers swinging their legs from bar stools. No threat to anyone poolside when they finally emerged, immaculate, from their rooms at around 10am.

And now, in Greece, there are few Germans, I am not sure they would be able to show their faces here, even the mild mannered and laid back Greeks may find it tough to cope with. No the dominant race is Russian. I don’t want to offend anyone, really I don’t but I find them a tough nationality to share a hotel with. They are strident and pushy, massively entitled, put German sun bed hogging to shame, and lack manners. Of any sort. Or maybe that is just the ones here. The season is clearly hotting up and this hotel has hastily issued some new sun bed rules. One forbids the saving of sun beds at both pool and beach simultaneously. It would never occur to me to do such a thing. Russians.

And then there is us. The good old British. I have a soft spot for my race abroad. They are easily spotted. Queing up sensibly for the bacon (I call it bacon but usually abroad it is a kind of ham that has been vaguely shown a grill), getting quietly irrate when those sun bed rules are not adhered to (let us be honest here we are the only ones even giving them a passing thought), looking pink whilst being streaked with white from hastily applied and malabsorbed suncream and making their children wear rash vests all day. Oh and shark fin buoyancy aids. We had a whole family wearing them in here earlier. They created a little shoal of sharks. Anyone swimming myopically could have been seriously worried.

We sit in the shade, doing Soduko and failing to gain the waiter’s attention. And I love us for it. I love our manners and reticence and gentle fuming.

I love being British. It sees me sitting on a wall watching my kids swim most afternoons for fear of antagonising a Russian returning finally to their sunbed which has been occupied by merely a pair of sunglasses since 9am. But still, I love it.

Reunited, and it feels so good…. — July 7, 2015

Reunited, and it feels so good….

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lost phone

So today I lost my mobile phone. Well actually I lost it yesterday but I did not realise until today. This would never have happened if I had been wearing jeans but hey that’s the downside of linen trousers. They may be cooler but they don’t have the requisite back pocket for phone insertion.

I got back from the school run this morning and it occurred to me that I hadn’t checked my phone in a while. And then I couldn’t find it. So I rang it and listened to the deathly silence. Then my brain clunked round and I remembered that it was low on battery. Oh and on silent. Because I was at a concert yesterday evening. Oh and I recall now it was low on battery as I had been filming my son singing. And then I remembered I had put it on the hymn book shelf in front of my pew. Next to my son’s water bottle. And then I recalled thinking to myself  ‘I mustn’t forget that phone, really it is a silly place to store it, it is quite hidden there, between the kneelers’….

And then I retraced my movements at the end of the concert and realised I had left it exactly in that silly place. Nestled, low on battery and alone, on it’s vibrate mode.

And then I felt sick. Literally.

Panic set in. I am not really wedded to my phone. I do not usually use it for email or Facebook. In fact I only really set myself up properly on it when I had those problems with my land line and Internet when I was moving house. I had recently downloaded all the photos so the only lost footage was of that concert.

But, and it’s a big but, I have no record of all my stored phone numbers. When I dropped my last phone and smashed it I learnt a valuable SIM versus phone memory lesson and now all my contacts are on both handset and SIM. That doesn’t help when you lose both. Getting all those numbers back would take ages. And ages. Let alone the possibility that someone may have needed me this morning. Like my kids’ school. Or a friend with a coffee emergency.

So I decided to breathe into a paper bag to calm down and think about how to retrieve it.

The phone was locked in a church. In a small rural village a few miles away. I searched the web and found the names of two church wardens along with contact numbers. The first wasn’t in but the second answered and was just off to the church. After I had described my seating position as accurately as possible she promised to have a good look. And also did I own the bag of music left behind? Er, no, admittedly my ‘not forgetting things’ credentials are slightly dented here but I am not that bad…

She would call me back either way but not until lunchtime when she returned from her various church ‘wardeny’ duties.

I called hubby to alert him. In case he needed me, texted and then got no response, and got worried or angry, actually probably the latter. He didn’t answer his phone. But he called back later to see if I was OK and I explained the situation. He thought I should contact my mobile provider in case someone had purloined the phone and was running up a bill calling sex lines in Nigeria… I thought it unlikely….the phone being locked in a rural church in Middle England. So I decided to take the risk and wait for my lovely lady to call me back.

I spent the rest of the morning feeling slightly bereft. As if someone had cut off my left arm. I went to a meeting, started slightly at the sign asking me to switch my mobile to silent, rub it in why don’t you?, and lept every time the land line rang. Simon from an Energy Conservation group got short shrift. Shorter than usual…

Eventually just as I had decided to turn on the tennis, update my friends on Facebook and eat salad the phone did ring and my church warden was on the line. She had the phone! A miracle had occurred. Akin to loaves and fishes in my mind.

She wondered if she could send the phone into my son’s school the next day with the lady from the congregation who had organised the concert. I had a flash of how this might go. The worried look on eldest’s face as he gained possession of a mobile device strictly prohibited in school except for those on buses. Of which he is not one. And so I enquired  if I could drive over to collect my device. The friendly church lady was ‘turning on a sixpence’, a phrase I have only heard in relation to small cars, so I promised to jump in my car and head straight over. She described her house’s location. She said I could ring on route if I got stuck…hmmm not really.

Anyhow I found the house. She didn’t immediately hear my knocking but my increasing desperation finally roused her. And, after some basic security checks as she wanted to be careful, I was reunited with my phone.

And what a moment it was. Relief. Happiness. Overwhelming gratefulness to the lovely church lady. A feeling of completeness.

Disappointingly there were only three missed texts. One from my husband replying to my message, one from Sky with my latest bill, and one from my ironing lady. So maybe I am not indispensable then…

But, how exciting, there were two missed calls. No one ever actually calls….quick check the log…my children may be in need… Oh….that’s right… those missed calls will be me trying to find the phone earlier….

Still doing that….

So my phone and I drove happily home. And I changed into jeans and inserted it into my back pocket.

All was right with the world.

Disclaimer….the picture above is not of my arse…. shame…

Let’s Not Skirt Around the Issue — June 30, 2015

Let’s Not Skirt Around the Issue

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ra ra

Today I am wearing a skirt. Those that know me in real life will no doubt be gasping in amazement. I don’t really do skirts. The last time I wore one unreluctantly it looked like that and it was 1983.

I am only ‘doing’ one today as I have just returned from a cervical smear test. I did ask myself if this was something I wanted to air in public (careful with the spelling there Sarah) but as the old smear test is just one of the many ignominies us women have to face why not just share that reality?

The invitations (yep that is how they word them- it stops short of black tie- as if that somehow makes it better) come round alarmingly fast and you sit there with a mounting sense of dread believing the NHS may have made an error in recalling you so quickly. But then you realise that actually, yes, last time you suffered this procedure one of your children wasn’t yet at school and they were sat asking awkward questions from behind the curtain. So although it feels like yesterday when you last chatted about the weather whilst someone slid a metal implement somewhere metal implements have no business being it really was three plus years ago. And so I have decided to just let it all hang out. Again.

Skirts are good for cervical smears. It avoids having to strip off your entire bottom half and with some delicate drapeage one can still believe one is retaining a certain air of delicacy. It’s all an illusion obviously but psychologically it helps.

I realise now that maybe this entry should come with some sort of warning. To be honest this whole piece is probably going to be too much for some of my readers. Mostly the male ones I imagine, especially those who are not yet fathers or those who stayed firmly at the head end during the delivery of their offspring.

You see the cervical smear is a total stroll in the park compared to the total lack of dignity that accompanies childbirth. Until you have had your feet in stirrups with some random doctor trying to repair your reproductive area you can’t say you have reached the bottom, dignity wise. To be honest after the twenty hours it took me to extrude eldest I would have let anyone have a go with that repair just so I could get some sleep…ahh sleep..well of course that didn’t happen. What? a student wants to come in?- hey! I am high on gas and air- bring in a whole class, just get me sorted!

Anyway before I lose loyal readers in droves back to the point (if I ever had one). My reasons for not wearing skirts then.

My main reason is legs. I do have legs. Two of them. Which I believe is the usual complement. I have found that my legs look best in trousers. Specifically jeans. Boot cut. Jeans are my wardrobe mainstay. I will venture into leggings and boots in winter and linen trousers when temperatures hit 25 plus. But usually I am in the old denim.

And so my legs are, how shall I put this, slightly neglected. It flits across my mind occasionally, usually when I see some yummy mummy wafting around in a frothy summer number, that I could don one of my two skirts. And then I remember the deforestation that that would entail. And I reach for the denim.

I do envy women who ‘sort’ themselves out every day. I just can’t fit it in. To be honest I sometimes don’t fit in teeth brushing until gone 11am. And before you suggest I get up earlier we are up at 6 daily it’s just my actual job (the kids) seems to get in the way. And don’t get me started on moisturizing. Really?

And then recently my house has been full of men. All the time. This week one was ensconced in my bedroom for two days from 8-6 and whilst I admired his dedication to building my new wardrobes it was quite off putting ablution wise.

Then as well as legs feet are an issue. Mine are utilitarian. Not pretty. One ex described them as flippers. Cheers. I am not one for nail varnish. A friend and I went to a spa in January and I still have a small bit of that polish on my big toe nails. It’s quite interesting to know how quickly one’s toe nails grow. I can’t find the varnish remover that I have had since 1986 (and that is not a joke btw) maybe it has all evaporated. So my feet and sandals are not really that good a combo.

And then in my line of work jeans are just more practical. I spend my days cooking, cleaning (husband will be spitting out his tea at this point), doing laundry, clearing up kid detritus, ferrying, hauling large musical instruments around etc and heels (with my legs flats and skirts would just be ugh) and floaty numbers don’t cut it. I had curry down my front and had managed to suck my frothy number up my Hoover attachment before 10a.m. this morning.

And then there are a whole host of other issues. The glare of my pallid legs putting motorists off their manoeuvres, the way the kids look when they see me in anything other than jeans (‘You just don’t look like you mummy’), where do I put my mobile phone, wind issues, co-ordination- denim goes with anything skirts need thought, my thread veins, my varicose veins, all my veins really, the ironing. I could go on.

To be honest it is possibly a matter of priorities. I was never one for prioritising my ‘beauty’ routine. And now my main priorities in life are sleep and this blog. So there you have it. Trousers all the way.

Relaxing weekend — June 25, 2015

Relaxing weekend

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IMG_4282

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.

The View — June 18, 2015

The View

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image image

Today my house is full of men. There are six of them here currently. And whilst there are slightly too many pairs of underpants on show and the kettle is in over drive I am quite enjoying myself.

I scheduled replacement French doors (we broke the old ones it’s a long and boring story involving wind, an insurance claim for half the damage and buggered render) and carpet fitting on the same day and I am now beginning to realise that I hadn’t really thought it through. Much. Maybe I got carried away with underpants. Who knows.

So currently I have no doors on the back of my house. The back of my house is my kitchen diner which goes across the whole width. Luckily it’s sunny and relatively warm. Unfortunately the prevailing breeze is northwards and therefore helping to cover everything in my large kitchen diner in a fine layer of plaster and cement dust. And further because there appear to be swarms of carpet fitters in the rest of my house nearly all my furniture is currently in my kitchen diner.

I must think of a collective noun for a group of really quite young and beautiful carpet fitters…may be a ‘grip’ as in get a grip of carpet fitters….too 50 shades? My apologies.  I am not really sure when I turned into a middle aged lecher. Hey ho. Soon my sons will be teenagers bringing their friends home. I must get over it now before I turn into a jaguar…or is it some other large cat? Anyway I digress…

Rather ridiculously, it appears now, I had down on my list of jobs to do (which can be achieved whilst still leaving time to field workmen) baking a cake for youngest’s imminent birthday party.  I think I may need to hold off  until my house is again weather tight…get me all Nick Knowles… Unless she fancies a plaster dust cake… Maybe not…

I had just finished making my shepherd’s pie, there I go again, sorry kids, cottage pie before “I Came From Alabama” rang out announcing the arrival of the door men….(an architrave of door men?) so at least tea has escaped the light dusting with the intervention of a hastily thrown tea towel…out of the drawer…one of my precious drawers.

So that cake will have to wait. I do have my on line Sainsburys shop to do. I can’t use my computer because it is under a dust sheet it being perilously close to one set of…holes… And the last time I used my I pad to order my groceries it cut out half way through and I swore a lot….so again I’ll save it for later.

So here I sit stuck in my dusty kitchen diner…literally…my stairs are currently out of bounds as one of the grip is working there banging….gripper….into my treads… The family room has another one…he is currently under laying. And oh my goodness all the banging… It’s interminable. And now right over my head. My car is blocked in by a fleet of vans…clearly they don’t get on that well as they all came separately.

So I am trapped, without chores, without the ability to speak on the phone without hollering and there is really nothing left to do but to write to you all and gaze at the view…. Brew anyone?

image

The Games My Children Play — June 16, 2015

The Games My Children Play

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DVD players

So today on a really not that long car journey my children (11, 9 and 7) decided to count passing German cars. They wanted to see how many they could find in a row.

Being them, the game soon escalated and became more and more involved so that by the time we were coming back again they were giving each car make a ‘handle’ whilst still counting German cars… and so the conversation went something like this…

one, two, sushi, sushi, burger, burger, double burger, one, burger, sushi, burger, burger, ugly burger, poppadum, poppadum, poppadum-dum-dum (sung), one, sushi, Retreat, Retreat We Surrender, sushi, burger, burger, sushi, poppadum, poppadum, poppadum-dum-dum, somewhere in a factory in South East Asia, ein, zwei (things had moved on German wise), Taekwondo, sushi, sushi, poppadum, poppadum, poppadum-dum-dum, burger, burger, burger with ketchup (roof rack), I can play chopsticks with chopsticks, sushi, burger, burger, ein, zwei, drei, burger, God Save our Gracious Queen (etc sung- rare old Rover), Retreat, Retreat We Surrender, burger, burger, sushi, sushi….

Etc

And this is why we have in-car DVD players for longer journeys…