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.*