Things that wind me up

This could be a long series of blogs because I seem to spend my life being wound up by things.

I know that the way to managing stress is to control the way I react to things so that they don’t wind me up, but I can’t help myself.

I’m doing an evening class at the moment and this evening I received a copy of my 2.1 Learning Charter.  Apparently I’ve agreed, somewhere, to abide by this charter.

There are things that Adult Community Learning “will make every effort to do” and there are things they “expect from me.”

They expect me to:

1.  Respect the rights of all centre users to be able to work in a co-operative manner and treat everyone with respect regardless of differences in culture, disability, learning difficulties, medical conditions, race, ethnicity, gender, age, sexual orientation, religion or social class.

2. Play an active part in challenging discriminatory behaviour by

• refusing to take part in any unacceptable activity that degrades others, such as bullying, harassment or victimisation in any form and on any grounds, whether it relates to learners or staff.  Any such behaviour will not be tolerated.
• behaving in a way that respects the needs of others to learn teach and work.

3. Comply with Health and Safety regulations

• by behaving in a way which does not put yourself or others in danger
• by not attending classes when under the influence of alcohol or illegal drugs
• by informing your tutor of any adverse impact on your behaviour resulting from prescribed medication
• by helping to keep the buildings clean and tidy

4. Attend your course regularly, make every effort to be on time for your session and bring the necessary equipment or inform your tutor where this is not possible

5. Complete a learning plan and feedback on your progress with your tutor to chart your learning

6. Keep us informed in writing of any changes in your personal details e.g. address especially telephone number and in particular your status where it affects your entitlement to any fees remission you may have been granted.

7. Help us improve our service by giving us feedback in evaluations and satisfaction questionnaires.

                                              ***

I am not going to critique this.  I just wanted to share.  But does that mean I can turn up under the influence of legal drugs?

Actually I can’t resist passing some comment.  What kind of monster do they think I am that they have to get me to agree to this code of conduct?  Do they honestly think I’ll be a a complete bloody idiot?

Why not take it further with expecting me to:

8. Not smear excrement all over the walls.

9. Not bring my pet chinchilla into class

10. Sit quietly and pay attention

11. Not throw paper aeroplanes in class

12. Not speak to anyone in the class in case they have a fear of conversation

13. Do the washing up and get the mop out

14. Not question the tutor’s authority by asking questions

15. Raise a hand to indicate a need to use the toilet.

16. Bring my own refreshments

17. Bring pencils and biros but not fountain pens because ink is dangerous and messy

Make up your own “expectations” and we can build a new list together.

I’ve just written a letter to the school.  Well both schools really as I’ve addressed it to the Heads of the Infant and Junior Schools.
There used to be a school uniform shop in nearby Shenfield.  It closed down and moved to premises that were even closer in Brentwood. 
The clothes were expensive when compared with High Street prices and the quality was poor too.  But there wasn’t a choice.  If you wanted an item bearing the school crest (demanded by the school uniform policy) then you either bought a poor quality expensive item, or went to Marks and Spencer (Or Sainsbury, Tesco or Asda) bought a cheaper item and paid the school uniform shop to embroider the school crest (at a cost of about £5).
Well now the school uniform shop has closed and relocated to an industrial estate in Basildon with opening hours roughly equivalent to office hours plus four hours on Saturday.
For me this is a minor inconvenience. 
Although I work, I don’t work full time, so I could spend 90 minutes of my free time (and about £4 in fuel) driving to buy some uniform.  Of course if I’m having an item embroidered then I’ll need two 90 minute trips (and about £8 in fuel).  There’s always the scenario that what I’ve bought might not fit which might also necessitate more than one trip, but let’s not over-complicate matters.
Imagine I work full time and imagine I don’t have a car, or perhaps I can’t drive.  That makes things a little trickier because as the shop is located at the end of an industrial estate, it isn’t well served by public transport, and yes, I’ve checked.
It’s also OK for me, because I have a computer, so I can order via the website.  Well yes except that there’s a modest charge for delivery and returns are not free.  This financial implication becomes costly if items don’t fit and need returning and re-ordering.  And the website doesn’t cater for the embroidering of items.  I could, at this point, start to regale you with tales of the poor usability of the uniform website, but you’d accuse me of being picky (which I am.)
Imagine I don’t know how to use the web, or don’t have access to the internet, or don’t have the means to buy online with a credit or debit card.
The school hasn’t sat idly by whilst this has happened. 
They have second hand uniform sales (during working hours.)
They have arranged a visit, during the school day on July 6th, enabling parents to buy direct from the school uniform supplier.  This of course doesn’t help with embroidering items, nor does it help if purchased items don’t fit as items will be purchased while the children are in lessons.
So I’ve written a letter, because it’s just one of those things for which the school will assume parents are coping and that there isn’t an issue unless someone raises their hand.
Please Miss.  Please Sir.  It’s not working.

A memo to marketing professionals

There once was a time when direct mail was king.  Then we all started to get too much of it and it became junk mail.

The problem was targeting, or lack of it.  Most of what we received wasn’t relevant to us when we received it, but companies still sent it because occasionally somebody bought a product or two.

Smart companies worked on improving both the content and targeting of direct mail when other companies just widened the net and sent more irrelevant messages to more people at the wrong time. 

Then there was e-mail, which was much cheaper than direct mail.  Smart companies moved their marketing spend to this new channel and probably achieved some great results when only a very few organisations were using e-mail for marketing purposes.

Unfortunately e-mail marketing has become spam.

I receive, on average, 60 marketing related e-mails every day.  It’s noise in the system and my six personal e-mail accounts are just a mess.  One of them has over 7,000 unread items.  I check my personal e-mail once or twice a week and I scan it, I don’t read it.  And when I say I scan it, I scan the subject line and note who e-mails are from.  Only if a message happens to be open in preview might I scan the contents.

If a company wants my attention they really will have to try a little harder.

Inconsiderate Marketing

I received a piece of e-mail marketing today from Gardening Direct.  I have no idea whether I’ve used the company before or whether they’ve bought my contact details from someone.

The subsidiary sending the e-mail was Jersey Bedding Plants and the subject of the e-mail was “Impatiens for less than 6p each!”  For those unfamiliar with the Latin names for plants this can be translated as “Bizzie Lizzies for less than 6p each!”  For those who haven’t a green finger at all on their person this can be translated as “Colourful flowers for less than 6p each!”

I haven’t planted any bedding plants this year and, even though I was tidying up the ridiculous amount of marketing e-mail I receive, I opened the e-mail and became a statistic for “Open rate.”

As I scrolled down the e-mail I saw this:

I was furious.  I was insulted.  I was incandescent with rage.  OK that maybe over-calling it but I do like the word incandescent.

You might wonder why I had such a strong reaction. 

I was annoyed, not because I don’t have a mother, but because Mother’s Day was in MARCH.

How dare they send me a piece of marketing that hasn’t been checked properly?

This isn’t a tiny typo error, it’s a big pink banner!

I wanted to point out the error to someone so I hit reply knowing that the e-mail probably wouldn’t go back to its source.

So I clicked on the big pink banner to see whether it linked to current content or a website error page.  It worked so I found the Contact Us button and wrote another e-mail, this time to an e-mail address that should have worked.  But it didn’t.

So, because Gardening Direct, their subsidiary Jersey Bedding Plants and the company behind the big pink banner, Flying Flowers, have insulted me with their careless marketing, and don’t even have the good grace to allow me to complain via e-mail, their chosen method of communicating with me, I have shared my pain with you.

Rant over.  Thank you.  I feel better now.

How, when, why?

I drove past something that looked very much like this today.

And my first thought was, how do they do that?  I mean is it a blowtorch, a welding thingy, a firework or Semtex?

And my next thought was, when do they do that?  I mean I’m guessing the culprit has been caught by the camera.

If you know the camera flashed and you think that will result in a ticket then do you wait, or do you just get angry and take it out on the camera anyway? 

Do you get the ticket and react or do you contest the ticket and lose your appeal before you resort to vandalism?

And my final thought was, why do they do that?  I mean what does it achieve?

If it’s revenge then it’s short-lived and actually comes back to you because taxes pay for the replacement.  If it’s protection from being caught again then it’s only a temporary solution because at some point it will be fixed.

I did wonder whether people believe that immediate arson would destroy the evidence, which is an interesting thought.  Are they really cameras that store the images in the yellow box or have they developed a system where the images can be transmitted or collected remotely?

If you’ve ever destroyed a Gatso then please tell me how, when and why.

Bovvered

I really shouldn’t bother should I?

This evening my husband asked me “Can I get you anything?”

I was in a grumpy mood.  The day before a holiday, when one is trying to remember to pack everything, holiday clothes don’t fit, the swimsuit has experienced Lycra fail and the travel-sized shampoo and conditioner that were bought specially have magically disappeared, is just a tad stressful.

“Chocolate pudding in a mug, please” was my surly reply.

“Where will I find the recipe?”

“There should be one printed in the binder downstairs.”

A bit later…”No, it’s not there.  Is it on your blog?”

“Yes, hang on I’ll print it.”

A little later after the printer failed to engage it’s electronic brain…

“What’s your blog address?  I’ll just look it up.  What is it?” Looking over my shoulder “Ann Cardus dot blogspot dot com.”

“You know what, forget it.  I’ll just have a bottle or two of wine.”

If my husband had a blog I would subscribe to it.  I’d read it.  I’d know where to find it.  I’d know the url.

That’s all I’m saying.

Intelligent cars

I’ve been watching a documentary titled Toyota Total Recall which, despite it’s humorous title, covers a very serious and sticky problem for Toyota (and I’m not just talking gas pedals).

I’ve seen that Toyota initially recalled vehicles because of a floormat issue, then because of a sticky accelerator pedal issue and then on a smaller number of vehicles because of a braking problem.

And then I saw something interesting.  Steve Wozniak of Apple fame was interviewed explaining that he thought that the real issue maybe software or electronics related.  A lawyer representing families of those who died in Toyota accidents seemed to be indicating that he believed this might be the case too.

Then some clever bloke explained in a completely patronising fashion that these days cars are operated by computers and that when you put your foot on the accelerator you’re telling the computer you want to go faster.

So, bearing all of this in mind, I thought I’d share something that happened to me today in my Ford Kuga.

My Kuga has a power start button.  It’s a piece of kit that negates the need to put a key in the ignition.  The car somehow knows the keys are in the vehicle (clever electronics) and to start the car the driver just pushes the power button (for safety reasons the clutch needs to be depressed at the same time).

To turn the car off is even simpler.  Just press the power button – done.

The car started without issue and I started driving to work.  I’m not quite sure why but the radio wasn’t on.  This is unusual for me as I almost always drive listening to the radio.  After negotiating a couple of junctions I thought I needed radio but I was approaching a roundabout so needed to think quickly.

I pushed a button quickly to turn the radio on.  Maybe I didn’t have enough caffeine before I left the house because I actually hit the POWER BUTTON.

Arghhh PANIC!

Except don’t panic because I was driving a Ford, engineered by Ford engineers and, just like a Toyota, it didn’t stop.  But that’s OK because I didn’t want to stop, I just wanted to turn the radio on.  The car knew I was only kidding when I pushed the power button.  It wasn’t clever enough to know that I wanted to turn the radio on but that level of knowledge would be akin to the psychic powers of Derek Akorah (or not, because Akorah is a scam artist).

I realised my mistake and pressed the radio button and everything was tickety boo, fine and dandy.

I’m not sure there’s a moral to this story, except perhaps “Pay attention when you’re in charge of a car” or “If I offer you a lift, be afraid, be very afraid.” 

Euthanasia

A depressing topic for a Saturday afternoon but I’ve been thinking about it, a lot, recently.
Sydney, our family cat isn’t well.  He’s losing weight and he’s increasingly lethargic.  The vet has prescribed steroids and she thinks the problem is a tumour that lines the intestine. 
I can’t talk to Syd to ask him whether he’s in pain.  I can’t ask him whether he’s enjoying life.
My internet research hasn’t really helped me, especially when I read that sometimes a cat will purr not through contentment but because it distracts the cat from the discomfort it’s experiencing.
I could get all sentimental about how Syd has always been there and how he’s been a part of our life for so long but that doesn’t help.  Basically I need to know whether now is the right time to “put him to death” as Ethan puts it.
The advice I’ve received so far is “Don’t leave it too long” which doesn’t really help because I don’t know when “too long” is.
And it’s not really my decision either, it’s a family choice.
The children understand death if it just happens but I think they’ll struggle with making a decision that will bring it forward.
I see my husband getting upset whenever we start to talk about it and I struggle to remain composed too.
I don’t know what to do, or who to ask.

TGIF

I'm on a Eurostar train that smells of fresh fart. I'm in my allocated seat near the window, and to move anywhere I'd have disturb the lady next to me. I'm looking around the crowded carriage trying to figure out who the guilty party is. Not that I will be able to do anything about it but sometimes it's nice to know who to blame for one's discomfort.
There are two men, clearly colleagues, sitting at the opposite window. They've been discussing at length, and at a not inconsiderable volume, the deals that they nearly did, but didn't.
There is a couple nearby in which the man is clearly dominant. He's not just talking to his wife/lover/colleague, he's broadcasting to a wider, disinterested audience.
There's a young guy opposite me whose rucksack is spilling into my space while he reads a book titled Mijn COUNTDOWN. I think he might be a student because he's covering the pages of the book with orange highlighter and pencil. Oh, and he has one of those little triangular beards immediately below his bottom lip. It's less beard, more tuft and I think he thinks it makes him attractive. He's wrong.
I would quite like a cup of tea if it weren't for the fart smell, which is being refreshed quite regularly, and the long walk to the bar, and the fact that the lady sitting in the aisle seat next to me is asleep.
I wonder what I'd be talking about if I had someone who'd enjoyed the same conference as me, sat next to me.
Would we discuss the shared experience and reflect over the last couple of days? Maybe we'd share iPhone applications or talk about what we had planned for the weekend. I wonder if we'd complain about lack of time, resource and corporate will to implement any of the interesting ideas we've seen over the last two days, whilst secretly making plans to leapfrog the competition.
Student boy is eating a floury bread roll with white chocolate which, to my mind, confirms his student status.
The noisy businessmen have tired of one another and have fallen silent avoiding eye contact.
I haven't bought my guilty mother gifts yet. I looked but couldn't find anything. My children didn't want me to do this trip. They didn't want to go to the Breakfast and After School clubs. Ethan kept asking me why I had to go and, when I explained, he told me I should be more assertive with my boss. It's difficult to explain that I did and didn't want to do this trip.
The information gathered is very valuable and I have a long memory for this type of presentation. It does help me with my work and I would like to spend more time learning and understanding.
But I miss home and I feel so guilty about disrupting the weekly routine. My husband has taken some time off, I've missed Hannah's parent's evening at school, and the children have had to spend time in a club that would normally be home time.
So I will probably stop at Bluewater on the way home to buy the guilt gifts. But if I do that I might miss the children before they go to bed. I don't think I can win. It's a lose lose situation all round.
Thank God it's Friday.

Cookies

I’ve just tried this recipe and it was easy and tasty, my favourite kind of recipe.  Oat and Raisin cookies:

Makes variable amount depending on how big you want them to be, but roughly 24 biscuit sized or 12 giant cookie sized cookies.

Ingredients

• 140g unsalted butter at room temperature
• 80g caster or granulated sugar
• 80g soft dark brown sugar
• 1 egg
• 1/4 tsp vanilla extract (not flavouring)
• 190g plain flour
• Pinch of salt
• 1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
• 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
• 60g rolled oats
• 110g raisins

Preheat oven to 170 degrees (150 degrees for fan oven) and line two baking trays with greaseproof paper.

Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy.  Add the egg, mix thoroughly and then add vanilla and mix again.

Measure out flour, salt, bicarb, cinnamon, and oats and stir with fork.

Add to butter mixture and mix well then add raisins and mix again.

Roll balls of mixture about 3cm in diameter and place on baking trays.  You need to leave a gap between cookies as they will spread when cooking.  To get an even thickness during the cooking process, lightly flatten the dough balls with the palm of your hand.

Cook for 15 mins or so.  I think it’s best to judge by eye when the cookies are done. 

Leave them to cool on the baking sheets for a while as the cookies will be soft when they come out of the oven and will firm up a little as they cool.

If you want you can finish off the cooling on a wire rack, or if you are as impatient as me you’ll start eating them before they see a wire rack.

If you can resist eating them all, then store in an airtight container and save for later.

Perfect with tea, coffee, hot chocolate, wine, beer, gin…  Enjoy.

Surfing in the bath

I was using Twitter the other day in the bath when I happened to see a tweet by Ed Fraser who describes himself on Twitter as: Senior Programme Editor, Channel 4 News/Online. Covered Iraq, Kosovo, Lebanon, Soham, Tsunami. Seriously Scottish

The tweet that caught my eye was: “Watching #Tsunami live on mac is amazing. Only in the 21st century via http://www.ustream.tv/channel/hitsunami #hitsunami.”

I’d heard about UStream but couldn’t remember seeing it in action so I thought I’d check it out.  It sounded like the sort of tool that might be useful.

I knew Ed was viewing on a Mac but I had an iPhone and they’re both Apple so the experience would be the same - right?

I can’t remember the exact sequence of events but I ended up having to download the UStream Application and creating an account.

I then went back into Twitter and clicked on the link again.  I am not sure exactly what choices I was presented with but remember having to choose between Live and Local.  As it was a live event I wanted to view, I clicked Live.

The next thing I remember was the screen changing to look a little like this:

Remember I’m in the bath.

The next thing I know, the shutter is opening and I can see my bath through the shutter aperture and there a little message saying “Streaming to http:// …”

I didn’t wait to capture the web address, which is just as well.  I think I may have been streaming live images of my bath onto the world wide web.  I think all anyone would have seen would have been bath, water and bubbles.  I hope all that anyone would have seen would have been bath, water and bubbles.

Chocolate pudding in a mug, revised

I'm re-posting this as, having used the link several times, it's irritated me that there isn't a list of ingredients.  Plus I've discovered that slightly less cooking ensures a fabulous gooey bottom (for the pudding not the cook).  Plus I prefer the self raising flour version.

Ingredients:

• 4 tbsp self raising flour
• 4 tbsp sugar
• 2 tbsp cocoa
• 1 egg
• 3 tbsp milk
• 3 tbsp oil (preferably corn oil)
• 3 tbsp chocolate chips
• 1 tsp vanilla essence

Method:

• Get a big mug, the sort used on the continent for dunking breakfast baguette or croissant
• Throw in flour, sugar and cocoa & mix well
• Add egg and mix again
• Pour in milk and oil and mix well
• Add chocolate chips and vanilla
• Mix, then cook in the microwave for two and a half minutes. Don't panic if it goes over the top of the mug.
• Cut in half serves 2 adults very well with a dollop of ice cream or cream or squirty cream.

Very yummy.

Ditto

Apparently there is a school that has banned Valentine cards to prevent the emotional trauma of rejection.

I don’t blame them.  In my experience Valentine’s Day sucks.

The promoted image of Valentine’s Day for the single person is the mountain of cards arriving on the doormat.  For couples the image is one of romantic weekends away and lavish gifts.

These images are not a reality for most people and the problem is men, and women.

Women, generally, are more prone to expressing love.  They are more likely to send Valentine cards, buy Valentine gifts, say “I love you”, prepare a romantic meal or night out or pretty much anything along these lines.

Men are less likely to send cards, buy gifts or put much effort into Valentine’s Day and are more prone to say “ditto” a la Patrick Swayze.

There are exceptions but from a woman’s perspective there is nothing worse than the petrol station or supermarket bought card and flowers which just says “I felt I ought to do this.”

From a man’s perspective I imagine there is nothing worse than feeling you ought to make an effort for Valentine’s Day when you have neither the time nor the inclination.

I have sent more Valentine’s cards that I have received.  That doesn’t make me feel good, it makes me feel awful.  I never awoke to a mountain of Valentine’s cards on the doormat and I don’t know anyone else who has either.

If I were to receive something that matches the promoted Valentine’s experience I don’t think I’d be happy, I think I’d be non-plussed because that is promoted as the expectation.  As this isn’t my experience then it’s just depressing and I think lots of people find the day is a low point.  This is why I can sympathise with the school’s decision to try and prevent emotional trauma.

If you’re single and you don’t want to be then don’t wait for Valentine’s Day to do some wooing.  Woo all the time because it makes you and your wooee happy.

If you’re in a relationship then don’t wait for Valentine’s Day to show your loved one that they are just that, loved.  Unexpected demonstrations of affection are far more effective and will be appreciated more. 

Parenting tip, number two

Parenting tip, number one received mixed reviews. Undaunted I’ve decided to continue.  This tip helps you to get children to the breakfast/lunch/dinner table when they would normally ignore your calls.  It works for husbands too.
Tip number two is a a little bizarre and it is a bit of a shaggy dog story.  It starts with a visit to the Essex Police Museum which does exist, details here, photos of our trip here.  (Well worth a trip but go on an open day when they have the dogs, cars and helicopter there.)
There’s a shop in the museum.  When I say shop it’s more of a till and a small handful of items for sale.  I bought a bicycle bell, like this one.

I’ve got this vision of what my life should be like and in this vision I ride an old fashioned bicycle with a sit up and beg design, basket on the front and a traditional bike bell.  This vision bears no relation to reality. At all.  But, in a vain hope that someday I will be an environmentally concerned mum who is healthy because I cycle everywhere, I bought a bike bell.  I know that’s far fetched, but it happens to be (sad but) true.
Even before I’d left the shop, as soon as I’d paid for it I had taken it out of the box and started playing.  This is because I’m an activist.  I can’t pick the post up from the doormat and take it to the kitchen without opening at least one item.  My husband, on the other hand, can leave mail for a week without touching it.
When I got home I wanted to put the bell on the bike but the bike was in the garage and that was a bit of a faff.  So instead I attached it, using screwdriver, to the towel rail in the kitchen.  I know nobody ever needs warning that they have a moving towel rail behind them, but it was the closest thing to a handlebar without requiring me to get off my backside and go out to the garage.
And I discovered it’s quite loud.  I also discovered that the children loved it, probably because it’s loud.
I explained to the children that I’d ring the bell when their dinner was ready.  They came running to the table when I rang the bell.  Normally if I’d yell “Dinner’s ready” I would, for the most part, be ignored or get a really delayed response.
So now the bell is used regularly and it works a treat.  I guess it’s just a twist on the old fashioned bells you see in old people’s drawing rooms.  But it works, for us.

History

“01-02-MMII

Dear Ann

Your great uncle James opened his tailoring business in Ship Yard Leeds in September 1919.

Your great uncle Frank enlisted in RHA in 1915 and died of wounds 1917.

Your granddad was mustard gassed in Oct 1918 and was discharged in the following January.  He was a wonderful father.

When we are due to meet remind me to show you your grandma’s now tatty “diary” for the period.

Love, Dad”

I just found this amongst some papers that needed sorting.  It was written on a simple postcard.  It made me cry. 

It reminded me of my dad.  I miss him.

It also made me think about the loss and pain caused by war.

It also reminded me of my grandma’s diary which I now have in my possession and which is such a fascinating slice of life in Leeds around the time of the Great War and afterwards.  Dad was right that it isn’t really a diary at all, more of a notebook recording purchases, births, weddings, deaths and recipes, all in one tiny little leather bound book.

One day my daughter may well be sorting through my belongings and find the diary, or the postcard, and maybe she’ll cry too.

Parenting tip, number one

Let me start by saying that I am in no way a perfect parent. In fact, far from it. My parenting is so full of holes it has been called colander parenting, or sieve parenting by more vicious observers.

But there are a few things that I think work well and might be useful for other people. I’m sure they aren’t new ideas and there certainly won’t be anything revolutionary here but if an idea is worth sharing then, isn’t that what a blog is for?

So here goes. Tip number one.

Problem: Your children take forever to get ready in the morning.

My solution:

Firstly there is a rule that breakfast can only be consumed if a child is dressed. I know that risks breakfast spillage on uniform but that’s why wipes were invented.

Secondly go out and buy kitchen timers. The funnier or most appropriate for the child the better. Ask your child how long they want as a time to get dressed. Ideally the timer should be set for 10 to 15 minutes. The aim is to have a time that can easily be beaten. So if your child says five minutes then say “Tell you what, how about 10 minutes? Off you go.”

When your child has beaten the timer, tell them you don’t believe it and demand to see the timer. When they provide the proof tell them how amazingly quick they are.

Don’t be tempted, over time, to reduce the time on the timer.

What not to do:

Don’t get their clothes out for them and don’t help them to get dressed unless they ask for help because they’re trying to do something difficult like tricky buttons or laces. This makes them lazy and more dependant on you.

Don’t get stressed if they aren’t dressed immaculately. You can tidy collars and tuck shirts in without your child even realising it’s happening.

Summary:

You should find your child loves competing with the timer. You should also find that with more than one child there is the added competitive element of competing with a sibling or two. They get much more satisfaction from sorting themselves out without help. The payoff for the child is lots of praise and achievement and, of course, breakfast.

Also in our house, a session on the Wii in the morning only happens once a child is ready to leave the house (apart from coat, scarf and gloves).

That’s it. If you aren’t doing this right now, and you try it, let me know how it goes. If you have a better strategy then I’m all ears.

Banana tea bread crisis

I’d tweeted a request for a banana bread recipe and tried it the other day but when I tried to find it again I failed.

After an emergency tweet request Steph (aka @NorthNorfolk) came through a second time around.

So, to save the recipe for posterity, having made another lovely loaf this evening, here is Steph’s recipe:

Ingredients:

• 75g butter – softened
• 175g caster (or granulated) sugar
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 225g SR Flour
• 1/4 tsp bicarb of soda
• Pinch of salt
• 450g ripe bananas weighed with skin (about 4 medium bananas), peeled and mashed
• 100g walnuts (optional and I sometimes substitute with plain choc chips)

Method:

• Heat oven to 180 degrees C or Gas mark 4.  Or 160 degrees C in a fan oven.
• Grease and line a 2lb loaf tin.  Or grease with butter and then flour.  If you’ve never done this before you just tip a bit of flour in and swizzle it around a bit until all the inside of the tin has a thin  dusting of flour.  It’s a good idea to do this even if you have a non stick tin.
• Mix flour, bicarb and salt.
• Cream butter and sugar until pale and fluffy.  I use a Kenwood Chef and blitz with K beater on max to achieve this.  Doing this by hand is good exercise.
• Add eggs a little at a time with a little bit of flour each time.  Mix thoroughly.  I give this another full blast mix in the Kenwood.
• Stir in bananas, remaining flour and walnuts (or choc chips) if using.
• Tip into the tin and bung it in the oven for an hour and a quarter.
• When the timer bleeps (and I recommend setting a timer to avoid  the smell of burnt disappointment) check the loaf with a skewer.  If the skewer goes in the middle of the loaf and comes out clean out then the loaf is ready.  This loaf does need a lot of baking and it’s tempting to take it out when the top is a light brown.  This is a mistake because it won’t be cooked properly in the middle.
• Wait until the loaf has cooled before slicing and I cut the loaf into lunchbox size portions and freeze, taking out a fresh slice for the children’s lunchboxes in the morning. 
• If you do freeze the loaf, as mentioned above, then each piece will defrost and be nicely warm after 30 seconds in the microwave.

So thank you Steph, for saving me twice.  And the next time someone asks, feel free to share this link.

#punchdisease

I know. A weird title for a blog post, my first via iPhone (may delete tomorrow).

There's been a lot of tweeting over the last week with the hashtag #kickcancer. It seems to have been popular to use that hashtag whilst encouraging people to retweet.

Well why? Sarah Brown and a host of celebs feel they need to join the bandwagon and #kickcancer has been everywhere.

I hate cancer as much as the next person. Maybe more in some cases. It robbed me of my mother when she was just 58. She never saw me get married or have children and I never got to say goodbye.

What is my problem with the #kickcancer hashtag then?

Let me tell you. It does nothing. It's just words. Cancer isn't an entity that will feel threatened or bullied by the use of this hashtag. It's not going to go away just because we say we don't want it. It's pathetic.

If you want to do something constructive then give to a charity that spends money on researching the disease or that raises awareness about how to obtain early diagnosis. Don't just tweet rubbish.

#kickcancersoharditcantgetupagain

Drugs don’t work

I’m on medication. 

Those of you who know me will have one of two reactions, I imagine.

1.  Yeah.  I knew she was on something.

2.  Nah.  Really?  Nah, she’s not on medication, she needs medication!

Well thanks.  You see drugs and me are not a good combination.

I’m supposed to take these little tablets, one in the morning and one in the evening.  I am not supposed to miss a dose.  If I do miss a dose I need to try and catch up as quickly as possible.

I am useless at remembering.  I have done a couple of things to try and help me remember though.

I have a note blu-tacked to the back door that says “TABLET”.  I’ve also written on the cardboard box containing the tablets.  On one side I’ve written “Morning” and on the other side “Afternoon” to help me remember whether I’ve taken a morning or afternoon dose. I turn the packet so the word that is uppermost is the last dose I’ve taken.

OK so this makes me sound like I’m about eighty years old.  But that’s how I feel because, even with these pathetic memory aids ,I still forget to take this wretched medication.

I would set an alarm on my phone but I know I’d dismiss the alarm and wouldn’t actually act on the alarm.

Does anybody have a foolproof method that I can use, please?

The School of Statistics

It probably hasn’t escaped your notice but it’s been a bit wintry of late.

As we know the UK is a bit rubbish when it snows.  We run out of grit.  The grit we do have isn’t applied at the right time or in the right place.  As soon as there is the slightest hint of the white stuff on the ground then so many people decide they simply can’t venture out of their house and driving to work is simply out of the question.  And I’m as guilty as the next person.

On Wednesday there was snow on the ground in the morning and it snowed during the day.

I’d planned to work from home because I had an inkling that schools might close early.  Sure enough a text came through mid morning advising that children could be picked up at 1:15pm.  At the time I didn’t understand what was so special about 1:15pm but I was glad I’d stayed at home so that I could be around to collect my children.

Later that evening we were advised that the school would be closed on Thursday.

On Friday morning we were told the school would be open for the day, but would close early at 2:00pm.

So what is special about 1:15pm? 

That’s when the afternoon register is taken.  So on Wednesday, despite the fact that most children were collected at 1:15pm, all children will have been marked as present, even though they were in fact absent for 99% of the afternoon.

The same is true for Friday afternoon except that children will have been absent for about 60% of the afternoon.

Am I too cynical, or was the school behaving unethically to ensure their attendance statistics were the best they could be?

For coffee

I quite like coffee.  I don’t like it too strong, sometimes a Nero double shot is too bitter, and I don’t like it too weak either.

My designer coffee of choice is quite dull really because I like a white americano: and espresso shot plus hot water and then cold milk.

A latte is a bit like having a meal and a cappucino is a lot of froth about nothing. (Although I do enjoy the froth with chocolate sprinkles.)

At home we only have cafetiere coffee.  It might sound affected not to have instant coffee in the house.  I don’t mean to be.  Beans go in a coffee grinder, grounds go in cafetiere followed by water that has boiled but isn’t boiling anymore.  Plunge the plunger and then pour.  It really isn’t a hassle.  I don’t know how the cost compares with instant, but I think the taste is better.

Given that this is how I make coffee at home, I don’t really understand why, if you have all of the equipment and ingredients at home, why you’d have instant instead.

I guess you’re thinking that instant means instant and speed is an issue for some people.  The amount of washing up created is also a factor.  I’d buy both of those arguments but allow me to outline another scenario.

I know someone who chooses to put milk in a saucepan, heat it on the hob, add instant coffee and then pour and drink the results, in preference to preparing a cafetiere.

That’s more effort and a worse taste experience.  I don’t understand.

Bored

I got bored.  With myself.  I looked in the mirror and I saw bland.

Just wanted to say sorry really, because I don't see mirrors very often but you guys don't have to look into a mirror to see my blandness.

This week I changed a couple of things.  It's a bit less boring but it's a bit more hassle.

I'm weighing it up in a "Can I be bothered to keep it up?" kind of a way.

We'll see.

Of course appearance is one thing, personality is another.

I'm less bored with my personality.  It just irritates me.  And I know....because I can read it on your faces, that some, many, of you feel the same way.  That's unlikely to change as it requires more effort.

Time

People wonder why I don’t get more done. 

It’s almost half eight and ideally this evening I will do the Tesco/Ocado/Sainsbury shopping online.  I don’t know which service I’ll be using because it all depends which has a spare delivery slot for tomorrow afternoon.

Ideally I will also bake two batches of banana muffins to prevent the waste of the muffins in the dining room.

Also, I’ll grill some bacon rashers to make making a carbonara sauce just a little bit easier tomorrow.

My brother arrives in about an hours time so I’d better type quickly if I’m going to have time to have a chat with him too.

I left the house this morning at 7:40 and drove to the breakfast club.  Having realised my phone was still at home, after dropping the children off I diverted back home.

Traffic was horrendous by this time but I still made it into work by 8:25.

I grabbed lunch at work to save time but then ended up staying at work too long after lunch.

I drove to Brentwood to pick up a reserved item and I also grabbed a birthday card while I was on the High Street.

When I got home I took the tablet I forgot to take this morning and then started tidying, cleaning, ironing and vacuuming.  I made up two beds and printed some documents I need for tomorrow.

I put some (homemade) food which I’d defrosted into the oven and set the timer so it would be ready for the children as we walked in later.  I also got some more food (homemade) out of the freezer for the adults.

I got the karate gear ready and put it in the car, chatted to the builder working next door about access to our garden, responded to a few work e-mails, phoned the council and phoned Lakeside.

I walked to school for 3:15, collected the children, came home and drove to karate.

After karate I drove home and at 5:30 the children were eating dinner after a ten minute blitz of bedroom tidying.

I sorted some washing, did some more cleaning, listened to Ethan read a book and at 6:30 the children were showering.

At 6:45 Dave and I were eating while the children assembled Lego.

At 7:15 Ethan went to bed and I started playing Uno with Hannah until she went to bed at 8:00.

I did some more cleaning and I’m now sat with you and I have a cup of tea next to me and at 8:40 I know that my list of things that should get done tonight is rapidly becoming a wish list.

I haven’t slept properly all week.  I have programmes saved on the iPlayer that I’m not sure I’ll get time to watch.

I’m ratty and irritable and nobody understands.

Shouldering a problem

I had my first ever visit to a sports massage practitioner.  I thought you might know what it was like.

I’d been having problems with my shoulder and upper arm for about a month.  I can’t remember what caused the problem, but if I had to blame anything it’s probably be gardening.

The first step was to expose the problem area.  So top half clothes came off and were replaced by modesty preserving towel.

My practitioner, Mark, explained that he’d be applying pressure and be asking me, on a scale of one to ten, how painful it was.

I’m not very good at explaining how painful something is.  The one to ten scale helped but only to make pain ratings relative.  How can one rate pain at a ten?  That means that it’s not possible to suffer further pain.  Of course it’s mostly possible to put up with more pain.

So with the first attempt I went with a score of four, and tried to score all other pain relative to that first score.

The other thing about pain is that it’s possible to be conditioned to it and, over time, accept more.

Apparently my score of seven has other people screaming “ten” and needing a piece of wood to bite down on.

We did hit a couple of tens but they were only ten relative to the other scores I’d made.  If the pressure had been increased I could have coped.

The other thing that I thought was strange was that a score of eight, after pressure was applied for a few seconds turned into a score of two, without any reduction in pressure.

He didn’t just apply pressure constantly.  Sometimes the pressure was moved back and forth on an area and sometimes pressure was applied constantly and my arm was moved at the same time to change to impact of the pressure.

Mark told me I might be a “bit sore” tomorrow, and the following day, but he also said that my pain threshold might mean I don’t feel too bad at all.

Let’s see how much complaining about my shoulder I do over the next couple of days, and see whether things improve by the end of the week.

Inappropriate applause

When I was young, and yes I was young once, it was deemed inappropriate for one to applaud oneself.  These days it seems to be perfectly acceptable.

I know this makes me sound like a crotchety old woman, but that’s OK, because that’s what I am.

I see celebrities being interviewed and the interviewer will show us, the audience, and the interviewee a piece of their work, maybe a clip from their latest film or perhaps a few bars from their latest single.  Invariably the celebrity will applaud with the audience once it’s finished.

When did it become socially acceptable to lack modesty?

Surely the acceptable behaviour is to modestly smile and maybe nod the head to acknowledge the audience’s appreciation.

Isn’t applauding one’s own work arrogant and presumptuous?  Shouldn’t one allow the audience the job of critiquing one’s performance?

I know, by the way, that some famous people will excuse this behaviour by claiming they are merely showing their appearance for the audience.

Rubbish!  They’re just full of themselves and are trying to excuse the inexcusable.

Gissa job

Our lovely post delivery people, are considering striking.  As a response the Royal Mail will be recruiting 30,000 temporary staff to cope with the work that isn’t being done by those who are striking.

This is the time of year when Royal Mail would be recruiting seasonal staff to cope with the Christmas rush anyway, I think they’ve just upped the requirement because of the planned industrial action.

I know we’re emerging from the economical hangover caused by the credit crunch, but there are still many people who have lost their job and will be eyeing 30,000 temporary jobs and thinking “I’ll have a piece of that.”

I have done this job.  I have worked the sorting office nightshift and I’ve delivered the mail.

The nightshift: This involved standing in front of a grid of pigeonholes and sorting mail into these pigeonholes which were divided into streets, or sections of streets.  It was possible to sit down but the seat that was available was not adjustable and was akin to an uncomfortable bar stool.

Tea breaks were the highlight of the shift because there was a pool table for amusement.  I think there may have been a canteen but the food can’t have been great because I’ve blanked it out.

Delivering the mail: I was dumped on my patch by a van and left, with my mail, not really having too much of a clue about which street was where.  Most of the time the mail had been sorted appropriately for the street and it was a simple matter of mail into letterboxes.

Low letterboxes cause back ache and are not good (Health and Safety take note).  Sprung loaded letter boxes scrape the skin off the back of the hand.  Barking dogs petrified me and the fear was realised when the dog followed up the bark by snapping with teeth at the hand through the letterbox.  Flats are a pain, especially when one has finished delivering to a block of flats and then there’s a letter that has been mis-sorted and it’s for the top floor.  (This happened to me and my response was to pop it in the nearest letterbox.  I know this is wrong, please don’t write and complain.) 

So in case you are tempted by the headline 30,000 jobs, you can submit your application knowing a little more about what you’re applying for.

A cautionary tale

Ethan asked me this evening “Mummy, what would happen if I put a conker in the washing machine?”

“You’d go on the naughty step.”

“For how long Mummy?  How long would I go on the naughty step, if I put a conker in the washing machine?”

“Five years”

“Really?”

“Yes really.  I’d be very, very annoyed.”

Nanny state

I read this today on the BBC website:

“Parents in England who regularly look after friends' children and receive a "reward" for doing so must register as childminders, regulator Ofsted says.

It said most parents would be exempt but those who babysat for more than two hours at a time, or for more than 14 days per year, should be registered.”

It incensed me.

The last time I checked, a full day of nursery costs for one child was about £50.

The staff that worked in that nursery also made themselves available for babysitting at a rate of £10 per hour.

With that kind of cost, it really doesn’t surprise me that people seek cheaper solutions.  One of the most logical solutions would be a reciprocal arrangement with a friend.  Sharing the job of childcare and avoiding the cost.

It is such an arrangement that Ofsted told two detective constables, Leanne Shepherd and Lucy Jarrett, was illegal.  A reciprocal arrangement can be deemed to be a reward.

And if I understand this Ofsted statement correctly, it means that my children cannot be babysat by a friend of mine if we plan to be out of the house for more than two hours and I offer to return the favour.

Equally, when I was a teenager I used to get paid to babysit, sometimes for five or six hours.  This enabled couples and single parents to enjoy the occasional evening out.  This, and the nursery staff that babysit in the evenings to supplement their income, can no longer happen.  It is illegal, unless these individuals register as a childminder with Ofsted.

How puerile.  How utterly ridiculous.  Surely, as a parent, I should be empowered to decide who cares for my children, and if it happens to be a friend or neighbour I trust then that’s my decision.

It might seem strange that I complain about this Nanny State because I rarely go out but it’s the principle that matters here.

Knickers – it gets worse

Update from Hannah.

The knickers weren’t handed to a teacher, but a parent helper. So not only do all of the teaching staff now know about my knickers, but so do all of the mums.

And, the mum she handed them to was her best friend’s mum. This is the woman I often chat to in the playground.

Debbie – can I have my knickers back please?

Knickers

Hannah had her school swimming lesson today and as per usual I asked her how the lesson went.

She started talking about some knickers she’d found.

It appears that when Hannah took her towel out of her swimming bag and started to get changed she found a superfluous pair of black knickers.  She knew they weren’t hers and so she took the only action that a sensible little girl would take.  She handed them to a teacher.

At this point in the story my ears pricked up and I started to ask questions..

Were the knickers lacy or plain?  Lacy.

Were they the kind of knickers that don’t cover somebody’s bottom properly? Yes, Hannah thought they were.  A thong then.

So one of my thongs had somehow got caught up in the laundry with Hannah’s swimming gear and had ended up in her swimming bag and subsequently in the changing room and therefore in a teacher’s hands.

And now they were the subject of great amusement in the staff room no doubt.

If I was the teacher receiving the knickers I’d put two and two together and, being a teacher, I’d get four.  So the teacher knows they are my knickers which probably means the whole of the staff room knows they are my knickers.

The question is, should I ask for them back?  This would clearly be an embarrassing exercise.

The alternative is to just “let it go.” 

Whatever I do I am now unable to look any member of the school staff in the eye without a hot flush enveloping me, and not in a good way.

BBQ – no thanks

Is it just me, or are barbeques a bit of a faff?

Victoria wanted a gas barbeque and was asking for advice. 

Vish was of the opinion that gas was a heinous crime.  The only barbeque one should entertain owning is charcoal.

Lucinda owned up to owning a gas barbeque but that wasn’t her crime.  Her crime was buying disposable barbeques and using the gas barbeque as an attractive platform to support the disposable barbeque.

Whereas others considered this to be a bizarre practise, I thought it was completely logical and actually very sensible.  Although I did suggest that it would be possible to rest the disposable barbeque on a less expensive option.

Barbeques are hard work.

It’s the cleaning I detest.

I’ve been told that barbeques should be cleaned while they’re warm.  How stupidly impractical.  When I’ve sat down to a barbeque meal with a glass or three, the last thing I want to do is to rush to don the Marigolds.

Plus it’s just such a horrible job to do.  It’s filthy, dirty work.  It’s so much worse than a bit of washing up, and of course just because you’ve used the barbeque it doesn’t mean that there isn’t any washing up.  So you have the hideous barbeque cleaning and the washing up to do.

So we tend to leave the barbeque cleaning until the next time we want to use it.  This means that the happy anticipation of outdoor cooking is spoilt by the knowledge that there’s an onerous task waiting.

So, Victoria, my advice is buy disposable barbeques and enjoy the pleasure and avoid the pain.

Camping

I took a risk this week.

I was walking through town with the children and we ambled into Millets and looked at the tents in the sale.

I want a new tent, mainly because our current tent annoys me but partly because I like shiny new things.  I know I won’t get a new tent though because I’m too rational.  Our current tent suffices.  It does the job, not brilliantly well, but it does the job.  I cannot justify the expense associated with replacing it or, as is the case with most things we buy, the new would sit alongside the old as we’re not very good at “getting rid.”

In order to maintain the interest of the children I suggested we could be looking for a tent for them – just for them.  I told them that at Hannah’s age I was allowed to camp in a pup tent which was pitched alongside my parents’ tent.  I was pretty sure we wouldn’t buy the children a tent as we had our old two man tent in the loft that Dave and I had used pre-children.

The conversation gradually moved on to that two man tent and the idea of putting it up in the garden.

Ten minutes later when we were home, that is exactly what we were doing.  Putting up a two man tent in the back garden.

The conversation had also resulted in me agreeing to (and if I’m honest encouraging) the idea of the children sleeping in the tent in the back garden.

In theory this isn’t a big deal except…

• We had badgers in the garden this week
• We don’t have a secure back garden and usually leave the back gates open
• The children would need access to the house during the night which would mean leaving the back door unlocked

We went ahead anyway and whilst the children enjoyed the adventure, they decided they preferred their own beds.

All of which means that two days later we still have a tent in the garden that needs to be taken down.

The joys of dog ownership

I walked to the station today and came across a woman who was enjoying a walk with her Great Dane.

The dog needed to stop and defecate.  It produced a vast quantity of diarrhoea.

The owner (or could have been a dog walker as I was walking past some very expensive houses) started fiddling with a bag that presumable contained equipment for dealing with dog poo.

I walked past and didn’t look back, but I did wonder how one cleans up a mess like that.  And I doubted she was adequately equipped.

So what do you think?  Did she just leave it?

July’s charity

Every childhood dream begins with a vision. At Eye Care For Kids, we make sure the vision can happen.

A non-profit organization, Eye Care for Kids has provided humanitarian aid to more than 20,000 children since 2001. Our program helps visually impaired kids from poor and low-income families get the treatment they so desperately need.

We treat kids in need across the state of Utah, including rural areas and Native American reservations. Here at Eye Care For Kids we see up to 200 children every week.

Our goal is to help restore every child’s vision. Help us make it more than just a vision – help us make it a reality.

“Our Vision… is their Vision.”

Just click on the badge to the left of the Gaping Void cartoon to find out more.

Banter

I’m all for a bit of office banter.  I have to be really given that I’m often the person responsible for starting and perpetuating it.  But even I think there are times when it’s inappropriate.

I went to a Union meeting today. 

Yes I am in the Union and no that doesn’t mean I’m a steel toe cap wearing lesbian who’ll be burning my scab colleagues on a picket line.  I happen to think Unions are a good thing; they provide a voice for the workforce who otherwise could go unheard.  I’m also a woman working in a very male dominated environment and Union membership just makes me feel a little more secure.

The purpose of the meeting today was to try and encourage “the management” of whom I laughingly call myself a member, to say yes to the Union representing them.  At the moment the Union represents hourly paid and salaried staff below management grades.  Our lack of representation means that instead of changes to our terms and conditions being negotiated, they’re just communicated via e-mail and it’s a done deal with no opportunity for recourse, other than the obvious move – resignation.

There were probably 250 people in the room which I thought was a good turnout.  It was standing room only and although the meeting started well I thought that most of the main points had been made early on and there then followed much reprising of those earlier points.  It got to a time where I thought the meeting would end without us having reached the point of a vote so I stuck my hand in the air waiting for my turn to voice an opinion.

I was ignored for a very long time but eventually our man on site did spot me and he waited patiently for the Regional Union Representative to draw breath.  We waited, and waited.  Finally I had my chance and said “In the interest of time, can I suggest we have a vote.”

The Union rep responded “You remind me of my wife, nagging me to shut up and get on with things.” (or words to that effect) and then he said, addressing the audience, “I don’t want to keep the lady waiting.” (or similar) and we proceeded to vote.

Up to my interjection, all the people speaking had been men, and all of the contributions had been business-like and focussed on the issue at hand.  My point, equally, was professional and timely.

Was I right to feel just a tad patronised and belittled by this Union man’s response to me?

If it had been within a small group I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but in front of 250 it just seemed wrong.

Am I being too politically correct?  Should I just “get over it”?

Kids eh…

We took Hannah to the Junior School today to meet her new teacher.  Ethan came along too.

We met not only Hannah’s teacher we met her new Head Teacher too.  He’d given a presentation to all of the parents outlining expectations of children and parents etc.

This next bit you need to know for context.  The Junior School Head is a slim male.  The Infant School Head is a larger, shorter lady.  Ethan and Hannah are both currently attending the Infant School.

When we got back home I was chatting to Dave about the afternoon and Ethan was half listening.  I said “I thought the Head was….” and Ethan finished with “…fat!”

I was actually talking about the Junior Head and went on to use words like “switched on, engaged, interested” but Ethan’s word was funnier.

Using a camera

We went to watch the school concert today, along with half of Brentwood.

Hundreds were crowded into a small school hall to watch some 230 infant school pupils performing.

Naturally the room was full of cameras and video cameras and the woman in front of us was one of those with a camera.

It was difficult to see the “action” and many people were using digital cameras on an upwardly extended arm to capture the action.

The lady in front of us was vertically challenged and tried to use the raised digital camera technique.  The only problem was that she had a tall chap sitting in front of her.

Every time she clicked the shutter the camera focused on the item just in front of the lens.  She must have ended up with 15 pictures of a brightly lit man’s head.  The head was so close to the camera flash that it reflected loads of light, fooling the camera into believing the shot was exposed, meaning that the rest of the shot (containing children) was too dimly lit.

I wanted to take the camera from her and explain the problem, because she just wasn’t learning.

Stranger danger

Early yesterday morning I drove past the local school and saw a lone schoolgirl running along the pavement, clearly upset.

I pulled over and spoke to her.  She was running late.  She’d been to a swimming club and something had happened so that she was late.

I offered to give her a lift wherever she needed to go and she accepted.

Gradually she stopped crying and I discovered she was on her way home.  It was the first time she had ever done this journey on her own.

I had assumed she didn’t live far from the school but as she gave me directions to her house I realised the journey we were on was over a mile.

I was surprised that a girl of just seven or eight was expected to walk over a mile after swimming, and before school, on her own.

As we got closer to her house I realised that, whilst I think I did the right thing, she might get into trouble for accepting a lift from a stranger.

When I told my husband later in the day he told me how he’d handle the situation: hand your phone to the child and let them phone their parents and, if required, you can talk to the parents too.  Wish I’d thought of that.

Couldn’t sleep

Dave was due back from Belgium last night.  He’d left on Tuesday and I hadn’t heard from him.

I started thinking that maybe he’d had an accident.  It’s unusual for him not to call while he’s away.

I didn’t really think he’d accident, but he might have done.  I ran through what would have happened if he had had an accident.

Well surely the company would have phoned me.

Except that the HR department are useless and probably mislaid my number.

And would anyone know if he’d had an accident on the way there or would they have assumed he just hadn’t made it because he was sick.

And if he had had an accident then surely the police would have found something with contact details.

Unless it was a major car wreck with fire or in which debris is scattered far and wide.

I started to wonder what time would be a reasonable time to start worrying.

I then realised I had probably already started worrying.

So I tried to persuade myself that all of these thoughts were just hypothetical and everything was OK really.

Lord Roberts's Message to the Troops

I have inherited a book that belonged to my grandfather, William Sadler.

I never knew my grandfather but he served in the first world war and the book is called The Daily Portion Testament. I'm guessing it was issued to troops to give them comfort and to help preserve faith.

This is inside the front cover:

Lord Roberts's Message to the Troops

25th Aug 1914
I ask you to put your trust in God. He will watch over you and strengthen you.
You will find in this little Book guidance when you are in health, comfort when you are in sickness, and strength when you are in adversity.
Roberts.

The message inside the front cover is not overly legible which is not surprising, as if it was Lord Roberts that wrote the message by hand, he was 81 at the time. He died later that year, in November, aged 82.

I wonder if the same time, thought and effort goes into the spiritual welfare of today's troops.

The poncy world of marketing

I received indirect feedback today.  It wasn’t positive.

I’m overly aggressive.

On a good day this means passionate and assertive.  It means fighting for the right course of action and having the courage of my convictions.

On a bad day it means raising my voice and/or swearing and arguing or consistently persisting with an opposing or unpopular point of view.

This is not new news and frankly if I found it easy to change, I probably would.

When I’m stressed I bite my tongue less and I speak out more.  I am stressed right now to the point where tears are not far away for most of my days.  I can’t pinpoint one specific thing that’s causing the stress as I think there are a number of factors but I know it has an impact on my behaviour.

I don’t want sympathy, frankly it doesn’t help and is more likely to push me over the edge.  I just wanted to let people, anyone, maybe nobody, know that this feedback has had an effect.

Instead of being more vocal than normal because of the stress, I now just feel utterly depressed.  I really don’t want to go into work tomorrow or any day.

I know that’s selfish because people are losing their jobs, but I'm not appreciated and I just feel some people would rather I just wasn’t there at all.

So what am I doing about it?  Eating too much, drinking too much and finding excuses not to exercise.  Shouting at my husband and shouting at the children.  Great.

Invasion of privacy

I had an inkling that my doc would refer me to see a specialist so I sorted out my healthcare arrangements.  Not very complicated just arranging to be covered in my own right rather than being a dependant on my husband’s policy.

Doc did refer me so I phoned PPP to get authority to make appt with specialist.

I went through the usual verification of name, date of birth, mother’s maiden name, height in centimetres when I was three, the number of times in the last month I’ve had sex, the number of lightbulbs in my house, the name of my first pet and my pornstar name etc.  And then the conversation turned to the reason for the call.

I was calling from work because all of my membership details were in a work e-mail that I’d only recently received and it hadn’t been followed up by anything in the post.

I was comfortable with explaining that I’d been to the doctor and I had a referral.  I was also comfortable with providing the specialist’s name and the hospital in which he works.  It was when I was asked to describe symptoms that I declined and we arranged that I’d call back when I had more privacy.

I don’t believe it’s the business of anyone at work to know about any medical condition.  I could launch into a diatribe about medical case management but that might have to wait until I’m forced to go through the process.

Summer fruit muffins

This one’s for Tim, after he used the banana and chocolate muffin recipe to make blueberry muffins, and it didn’t quite work.

• 280g plain flour
• 3 tsp baking powder
• Pinch of salt
• 110g sugar
• 1 egg
• 240ml milk
• 90ml corn oil
• 140g summer fruit (any berries, either alone or in combination: blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants, cherries etc.), fresh or frozen (don’t thaw frozen berries); larger berries should be coarsely chopped.

1. Pre-heat fan oven to 160 degrees
2. In a large bowl sift together flour, baking powder, salt.  Stir in sugar.
3. In another bowl, beat egg and stir in milk and oil.
4. Pour wet ingredients into dry.  Stir until just combined, folding in berries at the end using 2-3 gentle strokes to avoid crushing fruit.
5. Spoon mixture into muffin cases and then bake for 20 mins or when tops are lightly browned and spring back when pressed gently.  If frozen fruit was used then add 4-5 minutes to the cooking time.

Sweet

Ethan and Hannah were trying to find something that their dad would like for Father’s Day.

When their dad didn’t have many suggestions then he was presented with a variety of ideas like books, videos (bless Hannah for not thinking DVD), iPod, etc. 

And then Ethan said “What about a book about Grandad?” and Hannah explained.

“Ethan thought Mummy could write a book about Grandad to help you remember him.”

My dad died just over a year ago.  Ethan is such a sweet and caring little boy and his Grandad’s death has obviously affected him.

*Wobbly bottom lip.*

Local elections

We had four parties contesting the local elections and they all had very different ways of trying to get my vote.

Labour did nothing.

Conservatives but boards up everywhere around the town saying “Vote for change. Vote Conservative.”

Lib-Dems put their blurb through the letterbox and knocked on the door for a chat to discuss issues uppermost in my mind.

BNP bought advertising space on a hoarding near the town centre. This was mysteriously papered over “by accident” and then somehow got redone. Not sure I really know exactly what went on.

Who do you think got my vote?

I could blog about Euro elections but frankly there were about 15 candidates and I didn’t know who 80% of them were.

I cannot accept your refusal

To those who might be receiving refusal letters in such a tough labour market – you may want to adopt this approach.

I stumbled across this today.

Herbert A. Millington
Chair - Search Committee
412A Clarkson Hall, Whitson University
College Hill, MA 34109

Dear Professor Millington,
Thank you for your letter of March 16. After careful consideration, I
regret to inform you that I am unable to accept your refusal to offer me
an assistant professor position in your department.
This year I have been particularly fortunate in receiving an unusually
large number of rejection letters. With such a varied and promising field
of candidates, it is impossible for me to accept all refusals.
Despite Whitson's outstanding qualifications and previous experience in
rejecting applicants, I find that your rejection does not meet my needs at
this time. Therefore, I will assume the position of assistant professor
in your department this August. I look forward to seeing you then.
Best of luck in rejecting future applicants.
Sincerely,
Chris L. Jensen

Road rage

I took the children to a local country park yesterday for an organised treasure hunt.

As we left in the car a lorry was manouvering and blocking our exit.  We waited until he stopped and then I waited again.

The driver had stopped in such a way that the only way we could get around his vehicle was to drive on the wrong side of the road. 

Where this occurs and there’s great visibility of oncoming traffic this would be fine, but it was right near a junction.  Traffic on an A road could pull into the road I was on without either driver having visibility of the other.

The lorry driver indicated I should pull round his vehicle.  I didn’t because I was always taught to check myself before taking anyone else’s word for the safety of a situation.  In this case I couldn’t, so I got out of the car.

I didn’t meet with a particularly co-operative or polite response when I asked the driver if he could park the lorry elsewhere.  I explained why it was dangerous for him to park there and he explained that was why he had waved me around his vehicle.

All very well except his next move was to get out of his cab and walk over to a roadside cafe.  Any other park goers would experience the same problem.

I had no choice and risked driving around his vehicle.  I encountered two vehicles pulling off the fast A road.  Luckily a collision was avoided, but it was definitely not safe.

I was furious but didn’t know what to do.  So I seethed all the way home.

Out of the blue

I met Alice when I was first pregnant.  She and I went to the same ante natal classes.

I discovered that Alice sometimes struggled to get to or from the classes because she didn’t drive.  I offered to help by going to and from the classes via Alice’s house.

As the ante natal class due dates approached the group had started to meet socially.  As babies arrived the group was a mixture of bumps and babies.

Alice wasn’t as lucky as the rest of us.  She had a midwife visit just before her due date and the midwife couldn’t find a heartbeat.  Alice had to give birth to her dead baby.

That is such a tragic and terrible thing to happen to anyone and, in general the group didn’t know how to respond.  I was probably closest to Alice because of the car sharing but I didn’t know what to do either.

I imagined that the last person she would want to see was someone who was still pregnant with a healthy child.

I can’t remember exactly how I kept in touch but I did.  We did talk about her loss and how she was feeling.  I remember broaching the subject of meeting the other mums.  I was honest and said we had hesitated to invite her along because we didn’t want to get it wrong, but I made sure she knew that when, or if, she was ready to meet us she would be very welcome.

We did meet a few times but we didn’t have much in common.  We drifted and became people that send Christmas cards.  Until yesterday.

We hadn’t spoken for years, but yesterday she called, out of the blue.

Perhaps I should have asked why she called, but I didn’t, so we just started talking in a very stilted fashion through lack of familiarity.

She’s become a grandmother (her first child, a daughter, has started her family) but has also suffered terribly with cancer.  I got the feeling she just wanted to talk to someone, anyone.  So we talked.  I listened and shared.

Today, out of the blue, a bouquet of flowers arrived from Alice.  Whilst this is lovely and kind and sweet, I don’t understand it.

The trigger

I looked at our kitchen on Saturday morning and hated it.  There are a thousand things that irritate me about it but the one thing that hit me in the face on Saturday was just how grubby it looked.

It wasn’t the kind of grubby that a bit of cleaning could fix, although there was a bit of that (particularly cobwebs and dust).  It was mainly the paintwork which had just deteriorated over time.

Somehow damp has made its way into some plaster on one wall which gave it a crazed effect akin to a paint crackle effect.  Added to this there was a small gap between the coving and the wall.  Every time anyone walked around in the bathroom above the gap released plaster dust over the kitchen work surface.  This meant that no sooner had the kitchen surfaces been cleaned they would need cleaning again.  It also meant that food couldn’t be stored there.

Also, and this is something I’ve not seen in anyone else’s kitchen, whenever I’ve peeled vegetables the walls have been sprayed with the juice from the potato, carrot or whatever.  I haven’t noticed this when it happened but, over time, this has made the wall look grubby, and it’s impossible to clean.

And then, of course, we have had children since the kitchen was last painted and there are grubby finger marks everywhere.

Something needed to be done.

Unplanned exposure

On Sunday both children had been invited to a swimming pool party.

This was a party in a public swimming pool and my presence was required in the pool.

After lots of splashing around, the swimming part of the party was over and everyone headed towards the changing rooms to get changed.

I’d worn a dress that day, new but not expensive, and as I popped the dress back on I hit a problem: the zip broke.

The zip ran up the side of the dress from hip to underarm and it wasn’t broken just a little bit, it was broken completely.

I didn’t have a jacket or cardigan and I had just one safety pin.

In Who wants to be a Millionaire style, I phoned a friend.

Mel, still in her swimming costume, came and found me.  She may have laughed a bit, but she quickly sprang into action to help me.

We acquired two more safety pins which, although not a neat solution, served to cover most of my embarrassment.  When Mel had dressed we nipped out to her car where she leant me a lovely cardigan that complimented the dress perfectly.

We eventually caught up with the rest of the partygoers and I think I got away with it, just.

The dress is going back.  The question is refund, or replacement?

Brand strength

I had a doctor appointment this morning at 8:30.

I turned up at 8:25 and after using the patient self check-in via a mounted PC screen, I took a seat.

My doctor is wonderful and the surgery is very well run.  I don’t enjoy a visit to the doctor but because my doctor is so lovely and because the surgery is efficient, the process is not as awkward as it could be.

Whenever I’ve made appointments for myself or the children we’ve never had to wait more than five minutes past our appointment time.  How many people can say the same about their doctor?

At 8:40 I frowned.  8:30 is the first appointment of the day so I assumed that there must have been an emergency patient squeezed in ahead of me, especially as I had heard my doctor’s voice over the tannoy calling someone else’s name.

At 8:50 I started to think the surgery was squeezing in too many emergency patients and I became fidgety.

At 9:00 I wondered if I’d written down the wrong appointment time.  Maybe my appointment was 9:00.

At 9:10 I checked my diary and decided I couldn’t possibly have written down the wrong time.

At 9:15 I went to the reception and explained that I wasn’t used to waiting and I asked her to check my appointment time.

My appointment was 8:30.  It transpired that, for some reason, the patient check-in hadn’t worked.

My previous experience with the brand “My Doctor” was so strong that it took me 45 minutes to doubt the brand and, before doubting the brand, I doubted myself.

I think that’s amazing. 

Top 50 jokes

These are the top 50 jokes from the Edinburgh fringe as picked by the Indie.  I’m over six months late with this but some of these made me chuckle.

"I told the ambulance men the wrong blood type for my ex, so he knows what rejection feels like" – Pippa Evans

"The Olympics are for everyone, not just someone who happens to own a dancing horse" – Glenn Wool, on dressage

"I like Jesus, but he loves me, so it's awkward" – Tom Stade

"I love being touched sexually by an ecologist" – Jo Neary, in character as a dolphin

"Glasgow has its own version of Monopoly – just one big square that reads: Go To Jail" – Des Clarke

"A problem shared is attention gained" – Pippa Evans

"Never say to an autistic person, you do the maths" – Wilson Dixon

"I'm glad they invented emoticons, otherwise I wouldn't know what my dad was thinking" – Kerry Godliman

On having sex with men in their thirties: "Generally much better, but you've got to rub their legs afterwards for cramp" – Sarah Millican

"I love paying tax so much, the sight of a gritter lorry gives me an erection" – Jon Richardson

"No seriously, I am a feminist, just a lusty, ogling feminist. I'm a lesbian, in fact" – Rob Deering

"Looking at my face is like reading in the car. It's all right for 10 minutes, then you start to feel sick" – Andrew Lawrence, on his ginger appearance

"One-armed butlers, they can take it but they can't dish it out" – Tim Vine

"If it's gone abroad, it must be fraud" – Tom Wrigglesworth, on the mindset of the high-street banks

"Victoria Beckham? Does this tampon make me look fat?" – Joan Rivers, on celebrities

"What do you say to your adopted African child if you want them to eat up their dinner? 'There are people starving in Africa right now, like your parents'" – Tom Stade

"Politicians are like God. No one believes in them, they haven't done anything for ages, and they give jobs to their immediate family" – Andy Zaltzman

"Channel 4 just cuts out bits from 'heat' magazine and throws them on the floor" – Wendy Wason, on C4 scheduling

"I'm dating now, because I ran out of hooker money" – Rick Shapiro

"The Scots invented hypnosis, chloroform and the hypodermic syringe. Wouldn't it just be easier to talk to a woman?" – Stephen Brown

"Whenever I see a man with a beard, moustache and glasses, I think, 'There's a man who has taken every precaution to avoid people doodling on photographs of him" – Carey Marx

"I love making love on a bed of nails, but can I go on top?" – Ginger and Black

"The definition of bipolar? A sexually curious bear" – Marcus Birdman

"One of my friends had twins with IVF. Two old ladies that she knew came up to her, and one got the term wrong. In a very sweet voice, she said, 'Oh, would you look at those beautiful twins! Did you get those on the HIV?'" – Craig Hill

"Old people don't like swearing, because a lot of the words weren't invented in their day, so they feel left out" – Zoe Gardner

"The anti-aging advert that I would like to see is a baby covered in cream saying, 'Aah, I've used too much'" – Andrew Bird

"I don't hate the Germans, I just miss my grandparents" – Ian Stone

"'What's a couple?' I asked my mum. She said, 'Two or three'. Which probably explains why her marriage collapsed" – Josie Long

"My friend said she was giving up drinking from Monday to Friday. I'm just worried she's going to dehydrate" – Kerri Godliman

"Ken Dodd is one of my favourite comics, and one of the richest in showbusiness – he has Swiss money in Irish banks" – Roy Walker

"I wonder what would happen if Franz Ferdinand were assassinated?" – Glenn Wool

"My uncle Cleetus is illiterate and ambidextrous. Which is a double tragedy. He is unable to write, with both hands" – Wilson Dixon

"I like David Beckham. Most of us have skeletons in our closet. But he takes his out in public" – Andrew Lawrence

"If Britons were left to tax themselves, there would be no schools, no hospitals, just a 500-mile-high statue of Diana, Princess of Wales" – Andy Zaltzman

"Surgery is just stabbing in a courteous environment" – A L Kennedy

"I know someone whose dream is to be an actor but they're not that good – they got mugged, and had to audition for the part of themselves on 'Crimewatch'. They got Passer-by No 2" – Isy Suttie

"My boyfriend likes role play. He likes to pretend we're married. He waits until I go to bed, then he looks at porn and has a wank" – Joanna Neary

"I was talking to my friend from New York yesterday, and I used the expression, 'You can't polish a turd'. He looked at me, disgusted, and said, 'No, you can't, but you can roll it in glitter'. He's a lovely guy but I wouldn't want to go to a craft fair with him" – Steve Williams

"My Nan had a plastic hip put in, but I thought she should have replaced it with a Slinky, 'cause if she fell down the stairs again..." – Steve Williams

"A headline last year, after the death of Saddam Hussein, read: 'Tyrant is hanged'. My auntie looked at the newspaper and sobbed, 'Who's going to present "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?"' " – Steve Williams

"I used to go out with Christopher Reeve, but I just had to keep standing him up" – Steve Hall

"I despise cliquishness, for reasons only my four closest friends will ever properly understand" – Steve Hall

"Where I'm from, people aren't quick. A girl once asked her mum, 'Can I have a Cadbury's Creme Egg?' The mum said, 'No, you can't Danielle, I've already told you, darling – bird flu!'" – Tom Deacon

"I once buggered a man unconscious. I'm lying, he was already unconscious when I found him" – Tom Deacon

"I never know the right thing to say, especially during sex. After my first time, I said to the girl, 'That's it, I'm afraid'" – Tom Deacon

"I'm the eldest of five children. My parents aren't Catholic, just reckless" – Danielle Ward

"I was in Halifax one Friday night in July, and I thought they were having an 'idiots and whores' theme party, but no – that's just Halifax on a Friday night" – Rob Deering

"I do love Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen. He always looks so... clean. But if you went out dressed like that round our way, you'd get the MDF kicked out of you" – Domestic Goddi Rosie Wilkinson & Helen O'Brien

"I've got nothing against disabled people, I've even got one of their stickers on my car" – Damian Callinan

"My granny was recently beaten to death by my granddad. Not as in, with a stick – he just died first" – Alex Horne

Went for a walk

We went on a hunt for bluebells today.  We found some.

We walked back under some big sky.

And some of us got a bit tired on the way home.

It was the first time we’d been into this wood.  We’d been near it, but not in it before.  It’s less than ten minutes walk from our house.  We will be going back.

Chocolate denied

A friend told me about some research being planned by the University of Aberdeen Rowett Institute of Nutrition and Health.

It sounded fun so I sent an e-mail expressing interest in donating my body to science, or at least volunteering to participate in their research.

This was their reply:

“Dear Sir or Madam,

Thank you so much for your interest in our Cocoa study.

We have been a bit overwhelmed by the number of responses that we have got. Thus I have to write with regret that we cannot sign you up for our cocoa study because we have enough volunteers now.

We are very grateful that you have contacted us about the study and we hope you are not too disappointed about our reply.

Thanks again and all the best,

Luisa Ostertag”

They hope I’m not too disappointed.  I’m gutted, and will console myself with the remains of a box of Milk Tray which has been looking at me all day.

I was their perfect research subject!  Their loss.

Facebook application

A friend of mine is considering the merits of his mum joining Facebook.

Other friends have put their cats onto Catbook or dogs onto Dogbook, both of which are Facebook applications.

Others have put their babies on Babybook.

I can’t see the benefit of Catbook, Dogbook or Babybook, but I can see the benefit of my mum joining Facebook.  I can see downsides too though.

If I mum were on Facebook I might tone down some of my content.  I might mind my language a bit and I might moderate my friend’s comments.  But other than those small inconveniences it would be great to keep in touch using something so easy.

Trouble is, my mum can’t join Facebook because she isn’t around anymore.  So this got me thinking.  Do you think there’d be a receptive market for a new Facebook application: Deadbook?

Together again

Does anyone else have this problem or is it just another “it’s just me” problem?

When I type together, without concentrating overly, I always type togather.

I spotted that someone else had done it in a tweet, which made me think it may not be that uncommon.

It’s not that obvious because I’m usually saved by the spellchecker but occasionally one mistype slips the net.

You too?

Texts

We know I have a haunted handbag and the ghost hasn’t gone anywhere.  It’s still there.

A sample of texts on my phone this evening:

“Is ten o’clock tomorrow okay with you?  I am assuming it is not going to be raining x”

“You aren’t actually typing anything !”

“Very funny another empty text !”

“Okay so you send me 5 blank text messages while you are driving and manage to answer a call while you speak to someone else and you don’t speak !”

I checked my phone.  I’d actually sent 13 blank text messages to Janet.

Sorry Janet.  It was my handbag ghost.

Confession

I attended the school’s Eucharist on Friday.

I have observed that many of the songs used in such services are familiar tunes revised with religious lyrics. One such hymn went like this:

We have a king who rides on a donkey, (3 times)

And his name is Jesus

Chorus:

Jesus, the King is risen, (3 times)

Early in the morning

Trees are waving a royal welcome (3 times)

For the King called Jesus

Chorus

We have a King who cares for people (3 times)

And his name is Jesus

Chorus

I don’t know whether you’ve already figured out which tune accompanies these words but if you haven’t, let me put you out of your misery, it’s Drunken Sailor.

Well I was singing along with everyone else but, found to my horror that when the chorus came round I’d slipped into pirate speak.

My chorus finished “Earlye in the mornin’” with associated emphasis.

Forgive me Father…

Tough times

The credit crunch is making life difficult for many. A dear friend sent me some handy tips that I’d like to pass on to you

• DON'T waste money on expensive ipods. Simply think of your favourite tune and hum it. If you want to "switch tracks", simply think of another song you like and hum that instead.
• DON'T waste money on expensive paper shredders to avoid having your identity stolen. Simply place a few dog turds in the bin bags along with your old bank statements.
• HOMEOWNERS: Prevent burglars stealing everything in the house by simply moving everything in the house into your bedroom when you go to bed. In the morning, simply move it all back again.
• SAVE money on expensive personalised car number plates by simply changing your name to match your existing plate. - Mr. KVL 741Y,
• DON'T waste money buying expensive binoculars; simply stand closer to the object you wish to view.
• AN empty aluminium cigar tube filled with angry wasps makes an inexpensive vibrator.
• MANCHESTER UNITED FANS can save money on expensive new kits by simply strapping a large fake penis to your forehead. It is now clear to all, as to your allegiance.
• SAVE electricity by turning off all the lights in your house and walking around wearing a miner's hat.
• HOUSEWIVES, the best way to get two bottles of washing-up liquid for the price of one is by putting one in your shopping trolley and the other in your coat pocket.
• OLD telephone directories make ideal personal address books, simply cross out the names and address of people you don't know.
• SAVE on booze by drinking cold tea instead of whisky. The following morning you can create the effects of a hangover by drinking a thimble full of washing up liquid and banging your head repeatedly on the wall.
• SAVE a fortune on laundry bills. Give your dirty shirts to Oxfam, they will wash and iron them and you can buy them back for fifty pence.
• OLD people, if you feel cold indoors this winter, simply pop outside for ten minutes without a coat, when you go back inside you will really feel the benefit.
• CAN'T afford contact lenses? Simply cut out small circles of cling film and press them into your eyes.
• WHY pay the earth for expensive jigsaws? Just take a bag of frozen chips from the freezer and try piecing together potatoes.
• MIX tea with coffee, and leave in the fridge to cool. Hey presto! Toffee.
• MAKE your own inexpensive mints by leaving blobs of toothpaste to dry on a window sill. Use striped toothpaste to make humbugs.
• SHOPPERS, when buying oranges, get more for your money by peeling them before taking them to the counter to be weighed.
• WOMEN: Don't waste energy faking orgasms. Most men couldn't care less anyway and you could use the saved energy to Hoover the house afterwards.