Making it happen ... also known as 'Plan B'

There are certain experiences we all go through, both as children and adults.  On Tuesday it felt like Tom and I shared something akin to a rite of passage, which strengthened our bond as we struggled through the adversity thrust upon us.   Okay, perhaps I exaggerate, but it felt like a saga, and I was exhausted at the end of it all.

I took Tom to a supplier in Faringdon to get him a top for Cubs.  This wasn't on a whim, we'd finally got the date of his 'swim-up' ceremony whereby he leaves Beavers and moves up to Cubs, and he needed a Cub top for that.  I'd phoned the supplier the previous week to check they had stock, and took Tom along to ensure the size was right.

Well, that was the plan.  Unfortunately when we got there on Tuesday after school they said sorry, but they'd sold out.  They'd have stock in again later in the week.  Not good enough.  I explained that he needed it the next day, and after some discussion asked if they knew of another stockist nearby.  The assistant could see my dilemma, and took pity on me.

She Google searched, and telephoned, and hey presto! a different supplier in Swindon had them in stock.  I asked them to put a couple of sizes aside, and said we'd be there as soon as it took me to drive from Faringdon.

Ahem.  Easier said than done.  I can count the number of times I've been to Swindon on 4 fingers, and I've not driven there myself.  The Sat Nav was in Simon's car (he was in Glasgow), and I only had a 2013 AA Road Atlas and Oxfordshire Road A-Z in my car.  Swindon's streets weren't in either...

Luckily, while on the phone to the other supplier, the assistant in Faringdon got directions to the shop in Swindon, and then gave me instructions to find the shop....  here are the notes I took.

Don't ask me how, but we got there, and I went over the infamous 'Magic Roundabout' - first time for me driving myself....

image from Wikipedia 

Actually, that's a lie, I didn't 'go over' it,  I stayed left hand lane in two of the roundabouts to take me over.

image from BBC

So with frayed and jangled nerves, we got there, found the shop, bought the tops, and then we headed home and had to re-fray and re-jangle the nerves with the Magic Roundabout again.  Twice in one day.
Frazzled.

Well now, are you just a tiny bit impressed with my navigational skills?

I have to admit, I surprised myself.  I was fully expecting to fail, to get horribly lost in Swindon, then run out of time, and return home in the dark and empty handed, and have to borrow a top for the ceremony.  Scroll up to those directions again.  I mean, I didn't even have an address.  Really???  It's no wonder I have to dye my hair, the grey's beyond a joke.

Still, it was worth it in the end.  Tom's 'swim up', properly attired, went, swimmingly, and he'll be officially invested into Cubs on Monday.

Happy child. Frazzled Mum.  That's what it's all about.

Keeping it real.  Kat.

Swimming through treacle

I try not to analyse things to much.  Emphasis on the word 'try'.

In as much as there's usually so much going on that it's impossible to think, the juggling of which child needs uniform ironing for tomorrow, balanced by the pleasure of spending time with friends for lunch today, the 2 hours spent in the garden yesterday actually digging, versus mopping the kitchen floor, the google this website to find a fitted wardrobe kit that's not extortionately priced, against sitting down to write this blog, complain to Thames Water, remember to buy Tom's cubs uniform ready for his 'swim up' on Wednesday, and on top of all this, I'm working every day this week (not full-time, but the commitment's there, and the travelling), and have a meeting with my County Councillor on Thursday (flood related), followed by a meeting with Tom's teacher at his new school (not related).

And to cap it all, it's my father's 80th birthday on Tuesday, with a family get together on Saturday, which for us means a 3hr drive up to Lancashire on Friday night to spend time there, so as like as not, I'll be tired and emotional before the celebrations begin!

So writing a blog can become another thing to do rather than my escape, my place to explore or wander freely through the thoughts that come and go and the more, or less, significant events that I choose to record here.  And often a lot can be read into the insignificant....

They've started to knock down the house next to us in preparation for the building development on the field behind us.  They're doing it mostly by hand so far, and have been very polite when I've asked them are they likely to have a bonfire because I'd like to hang my washing out, and they confirmed that no bonfires are allowed, and they hope that's allright, which of course it is.  And of course it isn't because the development shouldn't have been overturned/over-ruled/allowed by the inspector, but planning is a tricky thing which doesn't allow for things to stay the same as they need progress and progress is good, isn't it?

Call me a luddite if you like, but I've yet to be convinced that progress for its own sake is a good thing.  Is this an age thing?  Why can't things stay as they are?  Maintain an equilibrium? Keep a steady balance? Not upset the apple cart?

I know why, but don't support it.  It's the consumerist society, the built-in obsolescence, the cheap food and cheap clothes, the generation with no values who want everything and value nothing, and don't get me started on that again!

So, I was digging my garden yesterday, and the joy of that is it costs nothing.  Well, I bought a gardening fork when we moved here 7 years ago, and was given the spade, but, apart from the sweat (and pink gardening gloves) it cost me nothing (not including the mortgage, of course)...

And the joy of digging in my garden.... even though I was putting right the part of the vegetable patch which had suffered in the sewage flooding in January and February, and parts of it didn't smell quite right, not bad, but not quite as it should... if you know what I mean.... the joy of just digging, and weeding, and pulling the crouch grass roots (yes, I mean crouch grass, because you have to crouch to get to them, and they may also be called couch grass, just so you know that I know), and making a pile, the satisfaction was purely in being in the moment, no radio, no distraction, just the breeze and the birdsong, and the sound of the crowd cheering on the Wantage Town Football Club game, no pressure, no demands, no thoughts to bother me, no distractions, no choices, no analysis.  Freedom. Which is good for the soul, and fresh air and exercise, which is good for the body.

Nuff said.

Night night, y'all.

Kat.

I don't want

to complain all the time.

But it often feels like that's just what I do.  And try as I might to be positive, there's so much going on that I want to speak about that it overwhelms and disables me.

For example. The situation with our drains and the problem with the sewers in the main road is something I'd prefer not to be involved in.  I mean.  The drains.  Not very glamorous, is it?  It's not a usual topic of conversation in 'polite society'.  We flush, we wash, and we don't think any further than that.....

But, having endured the problems with the drains/sewers that we've had, recently as well as historically, and the fact that the problem has been acknowledged by Thames Water, and the lack of a solution because it's not cost-effective to fix, and their budget, and the bigger problems in the region, and the frustration of going nowhere, knowing that nothing will improve, nothing will be done, and yet they're starting the demolition of the building next door to us on Monday, and in the next 12-18 months will build 18 houses on the field behind us, which as like as not (pending discharge of condition 22), will additionally drain into the main sewers and add to the problem, because, excuse me, I'm no civil engineer, but how can adding 18 houses not add to the problem if they're not going to fix the problem as it exists at the moment???

I'd prefer to spend my time joyfully, positively, energetically, life-affirmingly.  And being cross about Thames Water is making me feel like a child.  Indignant, I feel powerless, isolated unheard and unvalued.  Because the principle at stake is fairness, and like a child I want everything to be fair.

Still. Spring is well and truly here now, the days are finally starting to warm up and the garden is recovering from the flooding.

I've changed my dog walking routine.  Since we changed Tom's school in January we don't do the Faringdon routes any more.   On Tuesdays and Fridays when I start work at 9.30am it's a push, but I get dog walk, breakfasts, shower, Tom to school and me to Witney on time.

This last couple of weeks we've had a run-in with a rather boisterous pit-bull type 'puppy'.  It charges towards you, and leaps, behaviour which indicates poor training, lack of control and bad manners.  It's not the dog's fault, it's the owner, but the t-shirted bald-headed macho man attached to the puppy who says 'he's all right' as the missile heads towards you is the problem here, and I'm not certain how to tackle him.

The last time we crossed paths (literally, he walks round the park anti-clockwise, and I ambulate in a clockwise fashion) I was walking along with a more mature lady.  The dog careered towards me, I put my hand down to shield my skirt as I'd prefer not to have muddy paws on my clothes, said 'No', and the dog nipped my little finger through my gloves.  (I don't think the dog's aggressive per-se.  Rather it's young, energetic, enthusiastic, still has sharp puppy teeth, and hasn't been told 'no' by its owner).  She said to me 'that dog always does that', so I called out 'you should keep you dog under control', but didn't quite catch the verbal abuse I got in reply.  So, like a coward, I've been avoiding the park since then, and am considering reporting the owner to the police - before his puppy charges into a child and things take a turn for the worse.

On the life-affirming side of things, I had a lovely chat on the dog-walk yesterday.  Roly and I met a lady on the Letcombe path who was walking her two terriers and reading a book at the same time. I expressed amazement at her reading and walking and she confessed that she literally couldn't put the book down!  We chatted about the author (Orhan Pamuk, I got 2/3rds of the way through 'Snow', which is very good, but was slow going.  I ought to finish it as it's a 'do you good' sort of book - thought provoking, enlightening, educating and slightly claustrophobic, I seem to remember), and other authors/books we'd enjoyed, and it turned out she'd retired from publishing, and was recovering from cancer, but spending time with her and chatting about a shared passion left me feeling invigorated and uplifted.

We've a new little friend to look after in the house. Tom's had his 8th birthday, and as he'd been persistent (18 months of asking) in his desire to have a pet mouse, we got him one.

Tom's called his mouse 'Chocy' because of his dark chocolate colour coat. I think it suits him.

So we've a birthday party this weekend, 4 little boys to the Natural History Museum in Oxford for the 'Bang Goes the Theory - What? How?' free event, and then down to Giraffe (family friendly restaurant chain) for something to eat. Followed that evening with Tom's Beaver colony's swimming gala.

Should be fun.

ttfn. Kat :)

World Book Day 2014

My, it comes round so quickly again.  Last year Tom was dressed up as the Saucepan Man from Enid Blyton's 'The Magic Faraway Tree'.  This year things have got a bit more up to date, and we chose the Tom Gates series of books by Liz Pichon.

 http://www.worldbookday.com/storycrafts/liz-pichon/
Just a couple of the Tom Gates book covers, and their fabulous creator, Liz Pichon.

I have to admire these books for their zest for life, the verve, the sassiness, humour, true to life-ness and gorgeous illustrations, and the fact that they get boys to read them.  Many commendations and thanks to Liz Pichon then.

So, in honour of the above I embellished a plain white t-shirt, thus,

Preparation is everything, thank goodness for the 'enlarge' feature on the printer in the study...

Quite pleased with the effect, if I say so myself!

So this morning, Tom's ready to be his hero....

The hair is intentionally gelled to the side, a la Tom Gates....

And he was the only Tom Gates in his class (in the school, actually). In his class there were 4 Harry Potters (so last century!), 1 x Captain Underpants, 1x Dirty Bertie, and several witches (Worst Witch, Hermione Granger), 1 x Minnie the Minx and the rest, I forget.

I've been busy making biscuits for Tom's Beaver Colony/Scout Group to sell at the market on Saturday.

And, it seems the story in the newspaper isn't going to be linked to their website, so I've taken a photo of it for posterity!

I've no idea how to rotate this image in blogger, sorry, you'll just have to tilt your head or device.. 

Bed time again, I've been working extra hours this week, in Witney and Grove Libraries, and I've still got Friday and Saturday to go.  I'm in Wantage and Faringdon on Monday as well, then should slow down a bit.  Mustn't grumble, it's good to be getting extra hours - the contract change equates to a loss of 16 hours over a month, so the pay packet was a bit lower than I've been used to of late.

Night night y'all.
Kat

And another thing....

I'm the one in our house who goes round switching the lights off in the rooms that have been left vacant, but the last person left the light on.  I like to think I'm an environ-mentalist, with the emphasis on the mental.  You've got to laugh, or else you'd cry.

So, as usual, there's too much going on to capture it all.  I've worked today in Witney Library - not my usual day, but I was glad to cover, and the extra hours will be useful.  When I got home around 5.45pm the 'slow 20mph school' sign had been moved from in front of the derelict building next door, to the grass verge which is directly in front of our house.  It being the logical and available space.  Prior to the demolition of the building next door.  In the process of moving it the sign they'd also knocked out the street light, so we're now bathed in an eerie darkness for the first time, which is more than a little unnerving.....

I'm trying not to let it get me down, but aside from the house next door having been boarded up (to stop squatters) for the last 18 months, it's the next visible sign that the developers and utilities are grinding away at the process and the inevitable is going to happen.  No. Not dwelling on it any longer, I'll only get wound up.

So, instead, to amuse one and all, and mainly myself, here's the follow up story to the saga of breaking my leg 10 years ago.....

When I broke my leg, and had it pinned, I'd no idea what the consequences would be.  14 weeks off work.  Not able to make myself a cup of tea.  Well.  I could hobble in the kitchen and make the tea, slowly and carefully, at a worktop, but once it was made, I couldn't carry it anywhere to sit down and drink it as I was on crutches....  argh.

And there was physio, and removal of stitches, and muscle atrophy (surprising how quickly those unused muscles waste away!).  And the biggest disappointment was not making the metal detectors in the airport go beep.  I mean, I had a 33cm long pin in my tibia, and they couldn't detect it. What's that all about?  I tried using the special gadget on my leg, which you use in DIY to check walls for electric wires and pipework before drilling and causing a disaster, and that would happily go 'beep' along my leg....

And, the consultant in the West Middlesex General Hospital explained that they wouldn't take the pin out unless there was a problem, and so it stayed in until December 2011.

So, here's the thing.  When the pin was in my leg, everything was fine, but it would give me a twinge every now and then, as if to say 'remember me?'.  If the weather was about to change, my leg would tell me - I felt like a wise woman, and would cackle witch-like to myself.  But as time wore on I could feel the pin. Inside my leg.  It wasn't painful. More of an awareness.  A knowing.  A sense that something wasn't quite right.  It didn't hurt, but I knew and became more aware.  And when I was trying to get fit and was out jogging (don't laugh) with a friend, she said that I jogged with a limp.  I favoured it.

So I went to my GP, who referred me to the specialist, who listened and explained that this was perfectly normal.  Under the circumstances.  Bone is flexible to a point.  Metal is flexible to a point.  But the two materials flex in different ways, hence my sensation, the feeling, the knowing.  It was time for the pin to come out.

The x-rays also confirmed something my friends had known for some time.  I had a screw loose.  No seriously.  One of the screws holding the pin in place in my leg had somehow broken the head off, which would also indicate that the bone repair was stronger than the metal.  Fantastic things bodies. Never underestimate them.

So the nice specialist at the Nuffield Orthopaedic Centre in Oxford said he'd take the pin out for me in the October.  And it was cancelled, and another date set, which was also cancelled, and the final date set was 19th December 2011 - should be home after 2 days, fantastic, Christmas on crutches, so no work for me!

My only concern was how would he remove the pin if the screw was broken?  No problem he said. He'd go in the way the screw went in, take the loose head out, then carefully hammer and chisel (?) it out the other side, so I'd get an extra scar.  I sort of wish I hadn't asked.

Everything went fine, and I once again became acquainted with the the indignity of the bedpan, but this time in an English hospital.  My ward consisted of 2 more mature ladies opposite me whose names I've forgotten, one who had fallen and broken her arm, and in the process of having it set had suffered a broken shoulder, so was quite incapacitated, I'll call her 'Doris'. The other lady had had knee surgery and was very chatty about her housing problems and the need for hand rails being installed in her bathroom before she was prepared to go home, I'll call her 'Rose'.

The bed next to me was initially empty but later on was filled by a younger woman who had had spinal surgery and was laid flat face down for the first 12 hours and was weeping quietly.  When she was eventually allowed to turn over she turned out to be a difficult patient, although what she'd been through must have been awful.  We didn't speak.

Although the surgery was a success the process of adjusting to using crutches and standing upright was again a challenge.  Whether my blood pressure was the thing, or the fact that you're lying down most of the day, but when first presented with crutches I felt dizzy again, like blacking out. They took no chances and put me straight back to bed.

Eventually, I think it was third day lucky.  The physio came round, I was dressed and ready to give it a go. I stood up and gave the thumbs up to Rose.  Doris was having a nap, but I was determined to go to the bathroom myself - using a bedpan in a great motivator.

Freedom!  I got into my stride, and made it to the bathroom, accompanied by the physio. And then I realised that I wasn't going to make it. I asked for a stool to sit on so I could concentrate on my breathing.  I think the physio said she'd get me a wheelchair - although I'm sure she never left me, and then the room started to spin, and when I woke up I was lying on my bed, with my head lowered and my feet raised, and a fan blowing in my face.

According to Rose it was the best thing she'd seen since she'd been admitted.  She said 'Gawd, they can run when they have to, and you were a funny colour, you look better now, can you do it again, Doris missed it, she was asleep!'

Ah me, happy daze.

Kat.