My dentist's secretary phoned yesterday to confirm today's appointment. I knew then, that because I would be charged a missed appointment fee, because they had bothered to reconfirm, because I had already postponed it once and was dreading it for all the impending jangling pain that renewing a filling would entail, that a spanner would be put in the works of that appointment.
It came, 3 hours later, in the shape of our elder son who repeatedly threw up on the way home from football practice - in someone else's car. As if that wasn't bad enough, said car was fairly posh with leather seats and the sort of owner who has probably vacuumed and polished it more than once on a Sunday morning.
I had taken my son and his friend to football training and the idea was that the friend's dad would bring them both home. It's a fairly new arrangement but benefits us both. I could crack on with making dinner (& doing some online 'research', of course!)
So after apologising and putting the freezing cold poorly boy in the bath and clearing up after him another two times before plonking him in our bed, banishing the husband to the spare room and steeling myself for a night of non-sleep, the non-sleep ensued. I won't go into the gory details but the poor child was up several times before 2 a.m. and then we were all woken by the automatic 'it's a school day' internal alarm clock.
Texts were sent, school was phoned and before long, a neighbour had taken younger son to school; said school had been phoned to forewarn them they'd be at least one child less for the Christmas lunch that day & appointments cancelled - except the pearly white one!
Then it snowed - but not enough to keep us in. Another near-miss thwarted. Along with the snow, an angel descended on my doorstep begging a favour. My neighbour needed me to babysit while she went to her son's Christmas nativity & she'd just found out that young siblings weren't allowed to attend. So I looked after her 18-month-old & managed to stop her from drawing on my furniture and sticking all my nearly-written Christmas cards together. In return, because her clan had just recovered from a week's lurgy, she didn't mind looking after poorly boy who told her where the teabags lived and, thankfully, wasn't at all ill in my absence. Meanwhile, I was injected, drilled and refilled to tunes from Classic FM.
And you know, the whole experience was fairly painless - aside from the bill. 90 quid for one tooth to be filled (with the white stuff not that old amalgam poison) and a scale & polish. No idea whether or not that was good value but after the injection, I felt not a thing and I'm happy to pay good money for that kind of non-pain.
So, here's my first posting about a potentially calamitous day that ended up not being and here's to the sisterhood for helping each other out when dire straits approach!
P.S. We all went on to get that horrid tummy bug - found out later it was norovirus.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
8) HOME SWEET HOME
"All I want is a room somewhere
Far away from the cold night air
With one enormous chair
Oh wouldn't it be luvverly."
I often hum that song when I'm online, searching property 'porn' for our dream home. We've found it several times, as I shall explain, but in my usual calamitous fashion, things have gone awry at the last minute.
Having lived in rented houses for the last seven years, getting our own place is hugely significant. We want to be able to redecorate and hang things on the walls without having to put it all back to how it was in a while. But, more importantly, we want to become part of a community - something that seems to take seven years to establish, especially in Britain.
The first house we put in an offer on was taken off the market after the separated couple who owned it got back together. We put in a cheeky offer on a second house, which was perfect inside but lacked a big enough garden, and were pipped to the post by someone who offered the full asking price.
Then we compromised on road noise because a bungalow was in the perfect village location - only to find via the HIP report and several calls to the local council, that neighbouring properties had been bought up by a developer and it would soon turn into a building site. So we withdrew our offer. Then I got an email from the same estate agent, informing me that the property was back on the market - followed by a hasty apology after I hit 'reply' and said, yes I know, we put it there! To my immense surprise, the big boss of the estate agency then rang me and had the temerity to ask what it would take for us to change our minds about withdrawing our offer. He seemed surprised when I asked, "Would you want to live on a building site? In what was formerly a quiet cul-de-sac and was now being turned into an estate with seven houses where two bungalows existed?" He said it would only be for about six months and then all would be well. He just didn't get it. And he's in the business. I felt like referring the honourable (?) gentleman to my previous post on disliked individuals.
So we've now reached chapter four in our house hunt: We made a reasonable offer on a gorgeous bungalow, in the wrong part of town (but that was our Location, Location Location-inspired compromise - there always has to be one apparently), only to find that the owner wanted a £2000 mutual deposit and contract signed which (a) consisted of various points that should happen in the normal course of events anyway and (b) so that we would adhere to some kind of unrealistic time schedule. So, again, we had to pull out.
I know houses are in short supply at the moment, but should it be this difficult? It's seriously tempting to throw in the towel. But we've decided to wait until after Christmas and stick to our list of requirements and just persist. Our list is simply: Character features, garden, garage or off-road parking, village near to current and prospective schools, park or field nearby for essential football playing, walking distance to shops, near train station if at all possible. Now I know that property exists but is £100K out of our price range, so playing the lottery is also on our to-do list! Meanwhile...
I know that's slightly more than a room somewhere with a huge Lemsip-advert style chair but is that too much to ask?
Far away from the cold night air
With one enormous chair
Oh wouldn't it be luvverly."
I often hum that song when I'm online, searching property 'porn' for our dream home. We've found it several times, as I shall explain, but in my usual calamitous fashion, things have gone awry at the last minute.
Having lived in rented houses for the last seven years, getting our own place is hugely significant. We want to be able to redecorate and hang things on the walls without having to put it all back to how it was in a while. But, more importantly, we want to become part of a community - something that seems to take seven years to establish, especially in Britain.
The first house we put in an offer on was taken off the market after the separated couple who owned it got back together. We put in a cheeky offer on a second house, which was perfect inside but lacked a big enough garden, and were pipped to the post by someone who offered the full asking price.
Then we compromised on road noise because a bungalow was in the perfect village location - only to find via the HIP report and several calls to the local council, that neighbouring properties had been bought up by a developer and it would soon turn into a building site. So we withdrew our offer. Then I got an email from the same estate agent, informing me that the property was back on the market - followed by a hasty apology after I hit 'reply' and said, yes I know, we put it there! To my immense surprise, the big boss of the estate agency then rang me and had the temerity to ask what it would take for us to change our minds about withdrawing our offer. He seemed surprised when I asked, "Would you want to live on a building site? In what was formerly a quiet cul-de-sac and was now being turned into an estate with seven houses where two bungalows existed?" He said it would only be for about six months and then all would be well. He just didn't get it. And he's in the business. I felt like referring the honourable (?) gentleman to my previous post on disliked individuals.
So we've now reached chapter four in our house hunt: We made a reasonable offer on a gorgeous bungalow, in the wrong part of town (but that was our Location, Location Location-inspired compromise - there always has to be one apparently), only to find that the owner wanted a £2000 mutual deposit and contract signed which (a) consisted of various points that should happen in the normal course of events anyway and (b) so that we would adhere to some kind of unrealistic time schedule. So, again, we had to pull out.
I know houses are in short supply at the moment, but should it be this difficult? It's seriously tempting to throw in the towel. But we've decided to wait until after Christmas and stick to our list of requirements and just persist. Our list is simply: Character features, garden, garage or off-road parking, village near to current and prospective schools, park or field nearby for essential football playing, walking distance to shops, near train station if at all possible. Now I know that property exists but is £100K out of our price range, so playing the lottery is also on our to-do list! Meanwhile...
I know that's slightly more than a room somewhere with a huge Lemsip-advert style chair but is that too much to ask?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
7) ROTA RANT
LOVE TO HATE
People who draw up staff rosters, bless `em, must rank next to traffic wardens, estate agents, bankers and scruples-less journalists in the least-liked list. It's a difficult job – factoring in people's leave, training, days' off and covering bank holidays fairly. So you have to be as obliging as possible to the roster king or queen in order to get a good deal. But when they make a mistake, it plays havoc with the lives of those staff. A whole two days were turned upside down in my case. I wouldn't mind if it was a one-off but this is the third time there's been an error in as many months.
To explain: I was expecting to be working on Thursday during the day but it turned out I was working overnight. No big deal, you might think. And, fortunately, I found this out before I'd bought my return train ticket – something I was just about to do in an extremely rare moment of over-organisation. But I HAD already humiliated myself by grovelling for some extra childcare as a one-off at after school club; I HAD agreed to give a friend a lift to a fitness class on Friday morning and, most importantly, I HAD just adjusted an important meeting for some voluntary work that I'm doing. Something I didn't feel I could adjust once I'd discovered, through phoning to double-check, that I was on a night shift. So struggling through the day yesterday, after very few zzzzzs, was not that pleasant for me or those around me.
Normal service should be resumed soon.......
Thursday, November 5, 2009
6) THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY
THINGS THAT GET MY GOAT
1) How supermarkets always stack bananas the wrong way up for maximum bruiseness.
2) Why you have to pay all those miscellaneous extra fees to banks and solicitors when you're buying a house - there's enough to fork out already!
3) How I always dwell on the past and my husband is forever planning the future.
4) How you always bump into people you admire/adore/don't want to see when you're at your worst in the hair, zits, fashion stakes.
5) The way chocolate muffins speak to me, but apples and oranges don't....
6) Shop-bought sandwiches in this country - why are they 90% mayo and not much else? And why do we accept that it's ok to pay £2 or more for them when we know full well they cost about 50p to make?
7) Adverts. They make me buy things I really shouldn't & make my children nag about things they really don't need.
8) Children - the way they throw back your own personality at you when you're trying to tell them off.
9) My siblings - the way they've only got to make one reference (usually at huge family gatherings like at Christmas) to something you did when you were seven and you're back there, seething.
10) Exercise. I think more people would do it if it didn't make you sweat and look like you're about to internally combust. And if it didn't give you a huge appetite.
11) Arrogance - in anyone, no matter how wealthy, wise, or well-known. We're all just human.
12) The way my feet get too cold or too hot really easily.
13) Hearing tales of awful, unjust illnesses affecting innocent children or really good people in the prime of their lives. So unfair.
14) Defeatist attitudes.
Things that get me 'up' rather than down:
1) Cinnamon
2) Good coffee
3) Cheese and tomato toasties
4) Blue skies
5) Blue Jeans
6) My three really squishy 'down' pillows
7) Good books
8) Hugs
9) Elderflower cordial and sparkling water
10) Lovely clean new stationery
11) Eating grilled fish al fresco
12) Orange juice - no bits!
13) Radio 4 or 2 or Classic FM, depending on the time of day and levels of stress
14) Kind people.
15) The smell of baking bread or cut grass or tiny babies.
16) Children's giggles.
17) When I've written something that I think is alright.
18) When I lost 4 pounds and Wii Fit gave me an age of 29. Yay!
19) A really good gossip with old friends, preferably over a glass of wine.
To be continued......
1) How supermarkets always stack bananas the wrong way up for maximum bruiseness.
2) Why you have to pay all those miscellaneous extra fees to banks and solicitors when you're buying a house - there's enough to fork out already!
3) How I always dwell on the past and my husband is forever planning the future.
4) How you always bump into people you admire/adore/don't want to see when you're at your worst in the hair, zits, fashion stakes.
5) The way chocolate muffins speak to me, but apples and oranges don't....
6) Shop-bought sandwiches in this country - why are they 90% mayo and not much else? And why do we accept that it's ok to pay £2 or more for them when we know full well they cost about 50p to make?
7) Adverts. They make me buy things I really shouldn't & make my children nag about things they really don't need.
8) Children - the way they throw back your own personality at you when you're trying to tell them off.
9) My siblings - the way they've only got to make one reference (usually at huge family gatherings like at Christmas) to something you did when you were seven and you're back there, seething.
10) Exercise. I think more people would do it if it didn't make you sweat and look like you're about to internally combust. And if it didn't give you a huge appetite.
11) Arrogance - in anyone, no matter how wealthy, wise, or well-known. We're all just human.
12) The way my feet get too cold or too hot really easily.
13) Hearing tales of awful, unjust illnesses affecting innocent children or really good people in the prime of their lives. So unfair.
14) Defeatist attitudes.
Things that get me 'up' rather than down:
1) Cinnamon
2) Good coffee
3) Cheese and tomato toasties
4) Blue skies
5) Blue Jeans
6) My three really squishy 'down' pillows
7) Good books
8) Hugs
9) Elderflower cordial and sparkling water
10) Lovely clean new stationery
11) Eating grilled fish al fresco
12) Orange juice - no bits!
13) Radio 4 or 2 or Classic FM, depending on the time of day and levels of stress
14) Kind people.
15) The smell of baking bread or cut grass or tiny babies.
16) Children's giggles.
17) When I've written something that I think is alright.
18) When I lost 4 pounds and Wii Fit gave me an age of 29. Yay!
19) A really good gossip with old friends, preferably over a glass of wine.
To be continued......
Sunday, November 1, 2009
5) TACT AND DIPLOMACY
You know how we mums have to carve out a network of people to help us achieve the unachievable? Like match working hours with school drop offs and pick ups somehow? Well, I've managed to do that with the help of an equally busy mother of two, who also owns a huge dog, and likes to keep herself fit through swimming and horse riding. So far, so much in common. The bad news, she's as tardy and disorganised as I am!
So, at parents' evening, having been told by my seven-year-old that he had to be at school for the register by 7:30 (when it's actually between 8:30 and 8:45) , I queried this with his teacher, to raise a laugh.
"Well, he would benefit from arriving at school a little earlier," was her exact response. That was me told! I hadn't realised that assembly was at ten to nine. So by showing up at quarter to, we weren't technically late but nor were we giving him much chance to take off his coat, hang up his bag, put his lunch bag on the trolley, hand in his homework, read a book and chat with his mates before being ushered into the hall.
Poor kid. I was a little chastened. Especially as he had truthfully told his teacher that he was always ready on time, but it was his mum or his neighbour that he always had to wait for! Oops! So how to broach this with my school-run sharer? My sister-in-arms. My fellow mum and tantrum-tolerator who's only too willing to divide up the odd bottle of wine or home-baked delight with me too?
Of course, I chose the coward's way out. At a night out with our other halves, after more than a few halves of the bottled kind, I told her a carefully edited version of the above story. I said we (noting to myself mentally that, of course, she was always waaaay later than I ever was when it was my turn to drop off) really must make a new half-term's resolution to get the kids to school earlier. Aim to leave home at ten past, then we might actually get to leave by quarter past and get to school by half past instead of quarter to.
She laughed, but my OH did tell me I'd handled it in a sneaky sort of way. How else could I have handled it without sounding obsessive-compulsive or seeming to rebuke her for being disorganised? Aside from that other playground etiquette dilemma where another child has hit or bitten your child (or vice versa, which is even worse) that must rank in the top ten of delicate matters we mums have to contemplate. Any tips?
So, at parents' evening, having been told by my seven-year-old that he had to be at school for the register by 7:30 (when it's actually between 8:30 and 8:45) , I queried this with his teacher, to raise a laugh.
"Well, he would benefit from arriving at school a little earlier," was her exact response. That was me told! I hadn't realised that assembly was at ten to nine. So by showing up at quarter to, we weren't technically late but nor were we giving him much chance to take off his coat, hang up his bag, put his lunch bag on the trolley, hand in his homework, read a book and chat with his mates before being ushered into the hall.
Poor kid. I was a little chastened. Especially as he had truthfully told his teacher that he was always ready on time, but it was his mum or his neighbour that he always had to wait for! Oops! So how to broach this with my school-run sharer? My sister-in-arms. My fellow mum and tantrum-tolerator who's only too willing to divide up the odd bottle of wine or home-baked delight with me too?
Of course, I chose the coward's way out. At a night out with our other halves, after more than a few halves of the bottled kind, I told her a carefully edited version of the above story. I said we (noting to myself mentally that, of course, she was always waaaay later than I ever was when it was my turn to drop off) really must make a new half-term's resolution to get the kids to school earlier. Aim to leave home at ten past, then we might actually get to leave by quarter past and get to school by half past instead of quarter to.
She laughed, but my OH did tell me I'd handled it in a sneaky sort of way. How else could I have handled it without sounding obsessive-compulsive or seeming to rebuke her for being disorganised? Aside from that other playground etiquette dilemma where another child has hit or bitten your child (or vice versa, which is even worse) that must rank in the top ten of delicate matters we mums have to contemplate. Any tips?
Friday, September 18, 2009
4) BY NAME AND NATURE
This week's crises: I decided to stick to my eco-friendly principles and reject the proferred carrier bag at lunchtime, only for the sticky, yoghurty oat dessert I'd bought to spill inside my handbag. I didn't know whether, credit-crunch stylie, to scrape it out and eat it or to feign denial and chuck out the bag altogether - thus completely mis-firing on any green credentials.
To add to that taking up time when I could have been on the phone to someone requesting something or other, I've been late numerous times recently. The worst time, I'd got permission to arrive late because I wanted to witness my children's summer concert, only for road works to completely magnify the lateness. I'd waited and waited for my eldest son's class to come on stage; only for other kids to disrupt the programme with extra twiddly bits on their guitar or recorder/piano. I was impatiently yelling at them inside my head, while outwardly smiling at their parents' beaming faces. Eventually, my son's class's X-Factor equivalent moment came and then I sprinted to the car park, stressed and tired.
Finally, on the very last day of the summer holidays in fact, I was feeling particularly blurry and tired, so spent most of the morning encouraging my lovely sons to avoid me. Then, we went to a friend's house for an innocent cup of tea and play in her garden. Twenty minutes later, I'm on my way to casualty with youngest son bleeding from a wounded mouth. An hour and three stitches later, we're on our way back home having been picked up by Dad who's had to bale out on a work engagement. My guilt-addled brain was firing on all cylinders by this point.
By way of consolation, the other voice in my head reassured that this was my first trip to casualty after nearly nine years of motherhood and it healed quickly and it wasn't that bad an injury, in the round. Also, the NHS facilities and staff were fabulous and the boy learned a lot about hospitals and is probably less fearful of them now. Maybe I am too! Though I couldn't watch them stitch him up, despite the reassuring noises I made to my son!
I was late for an interview and for a course and then completely missed one shift at work - not by design but because of a misunderstanding. Then I volunteered to take my sons and some school mates on a school trip. Of course, I was late for that, then had to get petrol, then had to park in such a tight spot that I had to let the children out and turn myself into an anorexic ant to escape the car's clutches. Then we couldn't find the meeting place amidst the vast university complex. Then, what could have been a moment of pride turned into an excrutiating moment - my son gets picked as a volunteer to help out the scientists with a demonstration of the digestive system. Yay! He's up there, looking proud but shy. What does he have to imitate? The rectum! That's a story to tell at his 18th. And I'm hoping, thanks to the incredible NHS, that we indeed make it that far!!
To add to that taking up time when I could have been on the phone to someone requesting something or other, I've been late numerous times recently. The worst time, I'd got permission to arrive late because I wanted to witness my children's summer concert, only for road works to completely magnify the lateness. I'd waited and waited for my eldest son's class to come on stage; only for other kids to disrupt the programme with extra twiddly bits on their guitar or recorder/piano. I was impatiently yelling at them inside my head, while outwardly smiling at their parents' beaming faces. Eventually, my son's class's X-Factor equivalent moment came and then I sprinted to the car park, stressed and tired.
Finally, on the very last day of the summer holidays in fact, I was feeling particularly blurry and tired, so spent most of the morning encouraging my lovely sons to avoid me. Then, we went to a friend's house for an innocent cup of tea and play in her garden. Twenty minutes later, I'm on my way to casualty with youngest son bleeding from a wounded mouth. An hour and three stitches later, we're on our way back home having been picked up by Dad who's had to bale out on a work engagement. My guilt-addled brain was firing on all cylinders by this point.
By way of consolation, the other voice in my head reassured that this was my first trip to casualty after nearly nine years of motherhood and it healed quickly and it wasn't that bad an injury, in the round. Also, the NHS facilities and staff were fabulous and the boy learned a lot about hospitals and is probably less fearful of them now. Maybe I am too! Though I couldn't watch them stitch him up, despite the reassuring noises I made to my son!
I was late for an interview and for a course and then completely missed one shift at work - not by design but because of a misunderstanding. Then I volunteered to take my sons and some school mates on a school trip. Of course, I was late for that, then had to get petrol, then had to park in such a tight spot that I had to let the children out and turn myself into an anorexic ant to escape the car's clutches. Then we couldn't find the meeting place amidst the vast university complex. Then, what could have been a moment of pride turned into an excrutiating moment - my son gets picked as a volunteer to help out the scientists with a demonstration of the digestive system. Yay! He's up there, looking proud but shy. What does he have to imitate? The rectum! That's a story to tell at his 18th. And I'm hoping, thanks to the incredible NHS, that we indeed make it that far!!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
3) THEN THREE COME AT ONCE.....
Despite being five minutes late for the first assessment; despite thinking I'd talked too much; missed the point; showed my outdated technological knowledge during the written exercise and despite thinking I'd gone round the houses in answer to a crucial question during the interview, I got the job!
That's all well and good. Much delight all round. Except that the fourth paragraph of the contract says:..."this does not constitute employment.." Well, I knew it was only 'half-a-job'. That's how I have to describe it to my financial adviser, who's trying to get us a mortgage. And that's what I have to say to fellow mums when asking for their help with the school run because I work such anti-social hours. But as I'm getting paid to do it, surely it constitutes employment? Well, not technically, it seems. I’m a "casual employee”. That sounds like I just rock up to work when I feel like it. I wish! It means that I'm freelance-ish. Obliged to be offered, and to carry out, at least one day's (or night's) work a week. But not entitled to it and not entitled to any staff benefits either.
To add to that, one of the people who was on the assessment panel for the aforementioned job went on to offer me some work within her own department. Fabulous! I'm really flattered. And I'm certainly not complaining. But I am slightly concerned that my calamitous reputation may be further enhanced by trying to juggle household, two school-age children, (which is already full-time work enough...) the 'half-a-job' and then these new shifts too.
Oh! And I forget to mention. I edit a monthly newsletter for the community we live in and I've just become a volunteer for an organisation that helps young families because I thought I could be useful and I read somewhere that voluntary work makes you a better person.
I'm ever so slightly concerned that I may be taking on too much. And also, that I've just fallen for a house that we might only just about be able to afford on this new income. But you know what they say, if you want something done, give it to a busy person!
That's all well and good. Much delight all round. Except that the fourth paragraph of the contract says:..."this does not constitute employment.." Well, I knew it was only 'half-a-job'. That's how I have to describe it to my financial adviser, who's trying to get us a mortgage. And that's what I have to say to fellow mums when asking for their help with the school run because I work such anti-social hours. But as I'm getting paid to do it, surely it constitutes employment? Well, not technically, it seems. I’m a "casual employee”. That sounds like I just rock up to work when I feel like it. I wish! It means that I'm freelance-ish. Obliged to be offered, and to carry out, at least one day's (or night's) work a week. But not entitled to it and not entitled to any staff benefits either.
To add to that, one of the people who was on the assessment panel for the aforementioned job went on to offer me some work within her own department. Fabulous! I'm really flattered. And I'm certainly not complaining. But I am slightly concerned that my calamitous reputation may be further enhanced by trying to juggle household, two school-age children, (which is already full-time work enough...) the 'half-a-job' and then these new shifts too.
Oh! And I forget to mention. I edit a monthly newsletter for the community we live in and I've just become a volunteer for an organisation that helps young families because I thought I could be useful and I read somewhere that voluntary work makes you a better person.
I'm ever so slightly concerned that I may be taking on too much. And also, that I've just fallen for a house that we might only just about be able to afford on this new income. But you know what they say, if you want something done, give it to a busy person!
Friday, May 15, 2009
2) ROAD TO NOWHERE
In which our heroine posts about trying to get to work on time again! Why is it so difficult in this country? Or is it just me?!
Having turned down the offer of a lift to work, on the grounds that the same person finished work earlier than me so couldn't give me a lift back home, I set off for the station. Chilled out, I was on time for once and though it made my rucksack heavy, I'd even remembered my credit crunch-worthy survival kit: water, fancy refillable coffee mug, nibbles, notebooks and numerous passes - be they for the underground or the office security swipe.
Once at the station and parked up, feeling smug with my newfound punctuality, I even had time to nip to the loo, (I have an aversion to the smelly, 'we know what you're doing' loos on the train!) before the train pulled in. But that's when things started to go wrong.
Having turned down the offer of a lift to work, on the grounds that the same person finished work earlier than me so couldn't give me a lift back home, I set off for the station. Chilled out, I was on time for once and though it made my rucksack heavy, I'd even remembered my credit crunch-worthy survival kit: water, fancy refillable coffee mug, nibbles, notebooks and numerous passes - be they for the underground or the office security swipe.
Once at the station and parked up, feeling smug with my newfound punctuality, I even had time to nip to the loo, (I have an aversion to the smelly, 'we know what you're doing' loos on the train!) before the train pulled in. But that's when things started to go wrong.
I had a great seat and was reading my book - The Night Train to Lisbon, which is tough going so requires a good seat and a certain level of concentration - when that VOICE FROM NOWHERE said the train had been cancelled. We'd only got as far as the next stop.
Off we pootled and I followed someone in front of me, blindly, having overheard him ask for directions to the nearest London train. Shuffling on to platform 2, we boarded the cramped train and heard there had been a major security alert at Queenstown Station, just outside Waterloo, so no trains were going into London. I later discovered that someone had abandoned a car underneath a bridge beneath the railway line there. I'd quite like a chat with that person!
Anyway, I phoned the office and explained that I'd be late. Why oh why did the same editor answer the phone today as the last time I was late? I'm not late for any of the others! I wanted to brandish a print-off from the Telegraph website and show that I wasn't making it up, I wasn't inventing an excuse for being late (like I have admittedly, once or twice in my youth), it was genuinely out of my control.
But it got worse. This bit was in my control. I had either forgotten to pick up the outward part of my train ticket from the machine or had put it on display instead of my parking ticket - which I had in my hand! So not only was my car going to get clamped, but I would have to fork out for a second return ticket too. I phoned Rail customer services and begged first one and then another anonymous voice at the end of the phone to contact the station and tell them I had a parking ticket, look here's my voucher number, please don't clamp my car. Thankfully, the second person I spoke to was sympathetic. I'd quite like to have a different sort of chat with him too - I was so grateful I could have proposed! But it was fear of my already-betrothed that was the driving force behind my thankfulness. If he found out I'd been clamped he would have reminded me of my carelessness for months!
Finally arriving at the office, there was nowhere to sit. With one-too-many people on the rota, and me being last in, I had to sit away from the normal 'cluster.' At least that meant I couldn't pick up the communal, incessantly ringing phone, but nor could I receive calls I needed. Then, I had to swallow my pride and negotiate all-eyes-on-me (which I detest) as I entered the morning planning meeting... late. Mercifully, I gritted my teeth and it passed without event. Things are never as bad as you envisage, I'm starting to learn.
I was asked to set up a discussion between two people on an issue and it just wasn't coming together, so, there was a late change of plan. I got the two guests sorted, after a flash of inspiration, and even had time for a cup of tea with the colleague who had offered me a lift. But after I'd googled all the websites I like and answered all my personal emails, scoffed some sushi and phoned home, suddenly I had to scrabble around again. The guest I'd booked had to be cancelled in favour of someone else and the beautiful brief I had prepared for the presenters, re-beautified.
It was a relief to get home, even if I almost ran over a fox and almost stepped on the world's biggest slug, on my doorstep, when I finally arrived back, in my not-clamped or towed away car. Phew! Next week, to drive or let the train take the strain? I'll have to re-read these two last posts before I decide! But, so far, it amuses me that the tribulations of getting to work are taking far more toll on me than the actual work itself.
Off we pootled and I followed someone in front of me, blindly, having overheard him ask for directions to the nearest London train. Shuffling on to platform 2, we boarded the cramped train and heard there had been a major security alert at Queenstown Station, just outside Waterloo, so no trains were going into London. I later discovered that someone had abandoned a car underneath a bridge beneath the railway line there. I'd quite like a chat with that person!
Anyway, I phoned the office and explained that I'd be late. Why oh why did the same editor answer the phone today as the last time I was late? I'm not late for any of the others! I wanted to brandish a print-off from the Telegraph website and show that I wasn't making it up, I wasn't inventing an excuse for being late (like I have admittedly, once or twice in my youth), it was genuinely out of my control.
But it got worse. This bit was in my control. I had either forgotten to pick up the outward part of my train ticket from the machine or had put it on display instead of my parking ticket - which I had in my hand! So not only was my car going to get clamped, but I would have to fork out for a second return ticket too. I phoned Rail customer services and begged first one and then another anonymous voice at the end of the phone to contact the station and tell them I had a parking ticket, look here's my voucher number, please don't clamp my car. Thankfully, the second person I spoke to was sympathetic. I'd quite like to have a different sort of chat with him too - I was so grateful I could have proposed! But it was fear of my already-betrothed that was the driving force behind my thankfulness. If he found out I'd been clamped he would have reminded me of my carelessness for months!
Finally arriving at the office, there was nowhere to sit. With one-too-many people on the rota, and me being last in, I had to sit away from the normal 'cluster.' At least that meant I couldn't pick up the communal, incessantly ringing phone, but nor could I receive calls I needed. Then, I had to swallow my pride and negotiate all-eyes-on-me (which I detest) as I entered the morning planning meeting... late. Mercifully, I gritted my teeth and it passed without event. Things are never as bad as you envisage, I'm starting to learn.
I was asked to set up a discussion between two people on an issue and it just wasn't coming together, so, there was a late change of plan. I got the two guests sorted, after a flash of inspiration, and even had time for a cup of tea with the colleague who had offered me a lift. But after I'd googled all the websites I like and answered all my personal emails, scoffed some sushi and phoned home, suddenly I had to scrabble around again. The guest I'd booked had to be cancelled in favour of someone else and the beautiful brief I had prepared for the presenters, re-beautified.
It was a relief to get home, even if I almost ran over a fox and almost stepped on the world's biggest slug, on my doorstep, when I finally arrived back, in my not-clamped or towed away car. Phew! Next week, to drive or let the train take the strain? I'll have to re-read these two last posts before I decide! But, so far, it amuses me that the tribulations of getting to work are taking far more toll on me than the actual work itself.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
1) RUSH HOUR
Disaster! I spent half an hour crafting the healthiest, omega-3 and vitamin-filled salad for my packed lunch, even going so far as to make a second one for the saintly husband. Then promptly forgot it on the side in the kitchen. If I hadn't been at the motorway junction, I would have risked being late and turned round to get it. The effort that had gone into making it was mammoth. And the temptation I was going to have to rise above while surrounded by Starbucks, Tesco, one of those expensive wheatgrass smoothie places, a huge shopping centre and various cafes was immense. Juxtapose those next to the mindset that you're going to need something to see you through a 12-hour day, while chained to a phone in pursuit of the unattainable, and it's hard to resist the lard-laden smorgasbord on offer. But resist we must in these straitened times - hence the de rigeur home-made munchies.
But I'm glad I didn't turn the car round because I got caught in traffic near the Hammersmith flyover and made the wrong call on which route to take. Normally, I opt for a newly-discovered route that avoids too many traffic lights, but today that looked equally crowded. How wrong was I? My left thigh muscles were shaking with overuse of the clutch control by the time I parked up in the straight-out-of-a-70s detective series multi-storey car park.
I was late for the morning meeting; there was a further meeting about job losses, which added to the doom-laden atmosphere, and the interviews I was trying to set up seemed to get ever more elusive. But, on the plus side, I managed to text my husband to rescue the neglected salad and send it fridge-wards, and I resisted all saturated fats until 9 pm when 2 slices of pizza came calling! They tasted all the more delicious because I'd held out for so long, and hey, a little bit of what you fancy does you good, doesn't it?
Why should anyone want to read about this in my first blog posting? Well, it's just a taster of a typical day in my life, and maybe your days are sometimes similar. The plan in your head goes: brain-nourishing radio programme on 45 minute trip to work; nutritious salad for lunch; svelte figure emerging; exclusive top story clinched - and the reality looks somewhat different....! Oh well. Such is life!
But I'm glad I didn't turn the car round because I got caught in traffic near the Hammersmith flyover and made the wrong call on which route to take. Normally, I opt for a newly-discovered route that avoids too many traffic lights, but today that looked equally crowded. How wrong was I? My left thigh muscles were shaking with overuse of the clutch control by the time I parked up in the straight-out-of-a-70s detective series multi-storey car park.
I was late for the morning meeting; there was a further meeting about job losses, which added to the doom-laden atmosphere, and the interviews I was trying to set up seemed to get ever more elusive. But, on the plus side, I managed to text my husband to rescue the neglected salad and send it fridge-wards, and I resisted all saturated fats until 9 pm when 2 slices of pizza came calling! They tasted all the more delicious because I'd held out for so long, and hey, a little bit of what you fancy does you good, doesn't it?
Why should anyone want to read about this in my first blog posting? Well, it's just a taster of a typical day in my life, and maybe your days are sometimes similar. The plan in your head goes: brain-nourishing radio programme on 45 minute trip to work; nutritious salad for lunch; svelte figure emerging; exclusive top story clinched - and the reality looks somewhat different....! Oh well. Such is life!
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