I gaze at my neighbour's toddler, standing before me, fixing me with his clear blue eyes. He delivers a long, complicated sentence about how his mummy is going to feed him his lunch and then he will have some quiet time. There isn't a flicker of a smile; this is a terribly serious business.
'How earnest he is!' I exclaim.
'Wide-eyed,' corrects his mother.
'Oh, right, wide-eyed,' I say, instantly abashed at my apparently incorrect description of this super-chic kid.
And yet, as I stumble along the road, un-ironed shirt rippling in the wind, I muse on this little exchange. Is there something wrong with being earnest?
Only the other day, I came in from hanging out the washing and chatting to the teenager who lives across the fence. 'Ah, Kirsty,' said Tom with a laugh, 'you like that girl, don't you? She reminds you of yourself at that age.'
I stopped in my tracks. Was that true?
'I mean,' continued Tom, 'she's so sincere about everything – her studies, her hobbies – just like you were!' Tom raised his eyebrows as if this were the most embarrassing predicament known to man.
'What's wrong with being sincere?' I protest, images of the seventeen-year-old me running through my mind – the intense look out of those dowdy specs. But no – next door's daughter has a lot more sparkle and humour about her. The young me without the painful shyness and terrible dress sense.
On reflection, I realise I have kept parts of this sombre trait well and truly alive since those days of weighty text-books and 3am essay crises. I find the other guests at parties exiting furtively from the room I am in, as I nail an unsuspecting victim to the sofa on the subject of the existence of God, or some such topic. I listen to the peals of laughter from more giggly friends, as I gulp down wine and twist my mouth upwards in an attempt to affect the same jollity and carefree air achieved by them – with little success. I feel my face grow hot with rage as those closest me spot a sober mood or a lengthy gaze out of the window and declare 'You seem to carry the world on your shoulders these days, Kirsty.' I want to shout 'THIS TIME LAST YEAR I NEARLY WASN'T IN THIS WRETCHED WORLD!' Is it so wrong to take one's existence seriously? Have we undervalued the importance of being earnest? I don't suggest that we all delete hilarity from our lives and go round in funereal solemnity, never being able to hoot at a man slipping on a banana skin just because we want to. But I wonder at our reticence about approaching the darker side of life, the challenging things, and the stuff described by that terrible word 'deep'.
Freddie sits on my lap, gesturing emphatically with his small hand. 'Mummy!' he says. 'How Daddy going to fix the loo? Men come and men break it. How Daddy fix it, Mummy?' Freddie's brow is furrowed, his eyes fixed on the phone that bore the bad news. Tom's WC in Leicester is broken and some men, namely plumbers, came to 'mend' it but ended up making it worse. It is a subject that is taxing all three of the Ridges right now. I pick up the phone to describe this small boy's touching concern to his father. 'Freddie's eyes are bulging out of his head!' I say. 'Ahh, is he being all wide-eyed again?' says Tom. 'No, I say. 'He's being earnest.'
Monday, 19 October 2009
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
What's in a Name?
'Is he OK, Mummy?' asks Tom.
'Yes, Daddy,' I say. I'm looking in the visor mirror at our toddler sitting in the back of the car, strapped to his child seat. His eyes are drooping, his thumb making its way to his mouth. 'He'll probably just drop off,' I say. If I'm honest Freddie is looking a little peaky, but I don't want to put Tom off his driving.
We are on the A421 towards Buckingham, heading for what must be our fifth roundabout. Cars are swishing past on all sides and Tom tenses as the stress of the crossing begins. I look at the sign proudly announcing where we are: Bottledump Roundabout. Who on earth chooses these names? When I was teaching English in France in my twenties, a student once exclaimed on learning the word 'cupboard' that our noble language was so literal, so unromantic. I was taken aback and offended, though on looking at this signpost in front of me, I have to admit that perhaps the Parisian pupil was right.
Now we're heading down the lane marked 'Milton Keynes, 6 miles', and Tom switches on the radio. The news presenter is interviewing a man from the army about something I can't quite focus on. Until the gentleman's identity is revealed: Sir Jock Stirrup. Now there's a name! I bet he was teased remorselessly at school about entering the equestrian world. I am picturing him donning Biggles spectacles and boarding a fighter plane in defiance at their rudeness.
There's a gulping noise from the back of the car.
'Is Freddie all right, Kirsty?' Tom asks.
I'm staring at the scrubby land to my left and becoming horrified at the warning notice that pedestrians might be crossing. What, here? Are they mad?
'Kirsty!' says Tom.
'Who? Oh!' I say. I often forget what my name is owing to my entire identity having been engulfed by motherhood. Kirsty rarely features in my life. It's almost always Mummy, Daddy and Freddie.
I twist round and look at the little man. He is awake and swallowing slowly and deliberately. 'Are you OK, Monkey?' I say. Here we go again. An inability to address people by their actual names. 'Mr Pooping?' I say. 'Are you feeling ill?'
Freddie shakes his head, but I'm not convinced.
Tom winds down the front window, and Sir Stirrup's voice gets muffled by the passing traffic.
Freddie's eyes are now bulging and the gulps are sounding more like hiccups.
'Are you going to throw up?' asks Tom. I'm not sure if Freddie understands this expression.
'Are you going to puke?' I say, 'Chunder? Bring up all your lunch?' I'm getting into the swing of this!
'No,' says Freddie, firmly. Then he proceeds to vomit quantities of red, lumpy liquid all over himself and the car seat.
'Mummy,' he says.
'Yes, Tiger,' I say.
'It's sick, Mummy,' Freddie says.
'Yes, darling, you're right,' I say. 'It's called sick.'
'Yes, Daddy,' I say. I'm looking in the visor mirror at our toddler sitting in the back of the car, strapped to his child seat. His eyes are drooping, his thumb making its way to his mouth. 'He'll probably just drop off,' I say. If I'm honest Freddie is looking a little peaky, but I don't want to put Tom off his driving.
We are on the A421 towards Buckingham, heading for what must be our fifth roundabout. Cars are swishing past on all sides and Tom tenses as the stress of the crossing begins. I look at the sign proudly announcing where we are: Bottledump Roundabout. Who on earth chooses these names? When I was teaching English in France in my twenties, a student once exclaimed on learning the word 'cupboard' that our noble language was so literal, so unromantic. I was taken aback and offended, though on looking at this signpost in front of me, I have to admit that perhaps the Parisian pupil was right.
Now we're heading down the lane marked 'Milton Keynes, 6 miles', and Tom switches on the radio. The news presenter is interviewing a man from the army about something I can't quite focus on. Until the gentleman's identity is revealed: Sir Jock Stirrup. Now there's a name! I bet he was teased remorselessly at school about entering the equestrian world. I am picturing him donning Biggles spectacles and boarding a fighter plane in defiance at their rudeness.
There's a gulping noise from the back of the car.
'Is Freddie all right, Kirsty?' Tom asks.
I'm staring at the scrubby land to my left and becoming horrified at the warning notice that pedestrians might be crossing. What, here? Are they mad?
'Kirsty!' says Tom.
'Who? Oh!' I say. I often forget what my name is owing to my entire identity having been engulfed by motherhood. Kirsty rarely features in my life. It's almost always Mummy, Daddy and Freddie.
I twist round and look at the little man. He is awake and swallowing slowly and deliberately. 'Are you OK, Monkey?' I say. Here we go again. An inability to address people by their actual names. 'Mr Pooping?' I say. 'Are you feeling ill?'
Freddie shakes his head, but I'm not convinced.
Tom winds down the front window, and Sir Stirrup's voice gets muffled by the passing traffic.
Freddie's eyes are now bulging and the gulps are sounding more like hiccups.
'Are you going to throw up?' asks Tom. I'm not sure if Freddie understands this expression.
'Are you going to puke?' I say, 'Chunder? Bring up all your lunch?' I'm getting into the swing of this!
'No,' says Freddie, firmly. Then he proceeds to vomit quantities of red, lumpy liquid all over himself and the car seat.
'Mummy,' he says.
'Yes, Tiger,' I say.
'It's sick, Mummy,' Freddie says.
'Yes, darling, you're right,' I say. 'It's called sick.'
Spider Man
I've just been watching tv and they've been reporting about a guy dressed as Spider Man who keeps scrambling up the sides of tall buildings in Paris illegally. Naughty Spider Man! I rather like him. He used to operate in La Defense when I worked in France myself. His favourite conquest was the block we called The Dark Tower, that loomed over Paris's business district, reflecting back the grey clouds and sheets of rain that often fell upon the office workers scuttling past its base. It was the tower whose lifts whooshed eerily into the ether, transporting immaculately groomed staff to landings filled with turnstiles and No Entry signs. Every week I turned up in my shabby attire, handed over my passport, and muttered my purpose of visit miserably to the receptionists. They would raise their eyebrows as they repeated back 'La professeur Anglaise' and announce my arrival to the waiting Madame Dupont, my pupil.
Madame Dupont herself would appear and lead me to her office, an operation that was no mean feat. Corridor after corridor of be-suited young men greeted us, filled with handshakes, kisses and old-fashioned charm. 'Ah Monsieur Boucher and Monsieur Fournier. Good day to you...' Madame Dupont would say, followed by a most startling display of attentions from the young men. 'Ah, but what a beautiful necklace you are wearing, Madame,' one would say. 'And what elegant trousers,' would add the other.
Inside Madame's office, the lesson would follow its course, filled with teasing exclamations of 'You bring zee bad wezer wiz you!' as we stared out at the persistent rain. Listening to my own dreary voice struggling to keep Madame's attention, I used to long for a Diet Coke break, complete with hunky man flashing cheesy grins at us from outside the window. But it never happened. Instead I would correct repeated utterances of 'What a dommage!' or undo unfortunate confusions about foreigners being 'strange' in place of 'etrange'. But then one day, we had just been doing conditional sentences where my example had been 'What would you do if Spider Man appeared?', when who should swing past the window, clutching a rope, but You Know Who. Madame shot out of her chair and shouted 'Zer iz ze Spider Man!' and we burst into peals of laughter and jollity for a whole thirty minutes, rendering my usually dismally executed English lesson a positive joy. Thank you, Spider Man. Keep on climbing!
Madame Dupont herself would appear and lead me to her office, an operation that was no mean feat. Corridor after corridor of be-suited young men greeted us, filled with handshakes, kisses and old-fashioned charm. 'Ah Monsieur Boucher and Monsieur Fournier. Good day to you...' Madame Dupont would say, followed by a most startling display of attentions from the young men. 'Ah, but what a beautiful necklace you are wearing, Madame,' one would say. 'And what elegant trousers,' would add the other.
Inside Madame's office, the lesson would follow its course, filled with teasing exclamations of 'You bring zee bad wezer wiz you!' as we stared out at the persistent rain. Listening to my own dreary voice struggling to keep Madame's attention, I used to long for a Diet Coke break, complete with hunky man flashing cheesy grins at us from outside the window. But it never happened. Instead I would correct repeated utterances of 'What a dommage!' or undo unfortunate confusions about foreigners being 'strange' in place of 'etrange'. But then one day, we had just been doing conditional sentences where my example had been 'What would you do if Spider Man appeared?', when who should swing past the window, clutching a rope, but You Know Who. Madame shot out of her chair and shouted 'Zer iz ze Spider Man!' and we burst into peals of laughter and jollity for a whole thirty minutes, rendering my usually dismally executed English lesson a positive joy. Thank you, Spider Man. Keep on climbing!
Chicken Run
So I'm cycling along Windsor Road, and I see three people ahead of me: a lady waving her arms in my direction, a man standing awkwardly outside a house, and a policewoman standing beside him holding a chicken under each arm. Here's how the scene goes:
Waving Lady (beckoning me over): 'Do you know anyone around here who keeps hens?'
Me (feeling strangely proud at this): 'Actually yes, there's a woman who sells eggs on a street round the corner...'
Policewoman (looking red-faced and flustered and in faltering English): 'Chickens, chickens, what do I do?'
Man Beside Policewoman: Silence.
Me: 'Would you like me to go to the egg lady and ask if her birds have escaped?'
Policewoman: 'Yes, you go, now.'
Waving Lady and Man Beside Policewoman: Silence.
I make moves to set off.
Man Beside Policewoman: 'Actually, the chickens belong to the house we're standing outside.'
I stop the bike. 'Oh.'
The policewoman marches round the back of the house to investigate. The man picks up his briefcase and rushes round the back too.
Waving Lady: 'Well, the officer really shouldn't have to spend her time chasing naughty hens, and why doesn't she speak English, and what a strange man...'
I smile and go on my way, feeling like I'm an extra on 'The Archers'. Then I enter the Post Office, where I see the woman from the day before with the dog, whom my darling toddler had been compelled to say 'Dirty dog' to for no reason. The woman doesn't have her hound with her today and gives me a beaming smile. I figure she wasn't too offended by Freddie's comment. Phew. Now I'm on the set of, perhaps, Neighbours?
The telephone rang the other day and a distant voice said, 'Hello, Mrs Raj?'. I said, 'Er, Mrs Ridge?'. The caller said, 'Yes, Mrs Ridge. How are you today?'. I said (and this was true that day), 'Well, actually, I've got breast cancer and am having a bad week.'. There was a pause. Then the caller said, 'Oh well, these things happen. Can I interest you in some accident insurance?...'.
I wrote an email to my oncologist recently with a list of questions which he diligently replied to, point by point. In answer to my query about what kind of injection my hormone jab would be (I asked: 'Will it be in my tummy?'), my oncologist wrote back, 'Yes, although we prefer to call it the abdomen.'. Perhaps next I can ask him about Freddie's dinky, my husband's bot bot and my tootsies and see what he says...
I'd better go to beddy bye-byes. Though I'm not feeling very sleepy, and sheep aren't doing it for me at the moment. Perhaps I should count those chickens...
Waving Lady (beckoning me over): 'Do you know anyone around here who keeps hens?'
Me (feeling strangely proud at this): 'Actually yes, there's a woman who sells eggs on a street round the corner...'
Policewoman (looking red-faced and flustered and in faltering English): 'Chickens, chickens, what do I do?'
Man Beside Policewoman: Silence.
Me: 'Would you like me to go to the egg lady and ask if her birds have escaped?'
Policewoman: 'Yes, you go, now.'
Waving Lady and Man Beside Policewoman: Silence.
I make moves to set off.
Man Beside Policewoman: 'Actually, the chickens belong to the house we're standing outside.'
I stop the bike. 'Oh.'
The policewoman marches round the back of the house to investigate. The man picks up his briefcase and rushes round the back too.
Waving Lady: 'Well, the officer really shouldn't have to spend her time chasing naughty hens, and why doesn't she speak English, and what a strange man...'
I smile and go on my way, feeling like I'm an extra on 'The Archers'. Then I enter the Post Office, where I see the woman from the day before with the dog, whom my darling toddler had been compelled to say 'Dirty dog' to for no reason. The woman doesn't have her hound with her today and gives me a beaming smile. I figure she wasn't too offended by Freddie's comment. Phew. Now I'm on the set of, perhaps, Neighbours?
The telephone rang the other day and a distant voice said, 'Hello, Mrs Raj?'. I said, 'Er, Mrs Ridge?'. The caller said, 'Yes, Mrs Ridge. How are you today?'. I said (and this was true that day), 'Well, actually, I've got breast cancer and am having a bad week.'. There was a pause. Then the caller said, 'Oh well, these things happen. Can I interest you in some accident insurance?...'.
I wrote an email to my oncologist recently with a list of questions which he diligently replied to, point by point. In answer to my query about what kind of injection my hormone jab would be (I asked: 'Will it be in my tummy?'), my oncologist wrote back, 'Yes, although we prefer to call it the abdomen.'. Perhaps next I can ask him about Freddie's dinky, my husband's bot bot and my tootsies and see what he says...
I'd better go to beddy bye-byes. Though I'm not feeling very sleepy, and sheep aren't doing it for me at the moment. Perhaps I should count those chickens...
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Pigs in Space
A little-known fact about me amongst my more recent friends is that I have a nickname at home. It's Piglet, or simply, Pig. If you switch on our Wii Sports player, and play a game of, say, baseball, a team will come rushing out onto the pitch with spookily familiar faces. There's Tom, the comic version, with a heavy beard and thick glasses, our friend Abigail with big blue eyes and yellow hair, my mum in a bat-wielding pose never before seen, and then there's me. My name flashes up as Pig, and I sport glasses just as thick as Tom's and a haircut chosen pre-chemo. The 'Pig' title always gives me a little start, seeming somehow rude, but I've never changed it. And now that a short, rather squat 'Fred' has joined the team, I'm realising that minimalist nomenclature is the order of the day.
So Pig I am, and rather spacey today with it. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, I'm suffering from Pig Flu right now. Or swine flu, if you will. Freddie had it last week and is right as rain now, whereas I'm not faring quite so well. Which is down to my immune system not quite recovered from that dratted chemo last year, according to the doctor. And I honestly thought I was fit as a fiddle and robust as the next person. Never mind. You might well ask how ill I can be if I'm sitting writing at my computer, but I say to you: if you've spent several days in bed with a nasty temperature, sweating like a, well, pig, running to the loo, and nursing aching bones in lukewarm water in the bath, you feel like doing something different to see if it will help. So here I am, 64 Zoo Lane on in the background (though Freddie's not actually watching it. He's in the garden playing football with a valiant Tom. More on Tom later), writing.
Well, here you have it. To all those who say the swine flu thing is a storm about nothing, and that it's no more than a nasty cold and that people should stop being melodramatic about it: Stuff off! Perhaps because of my fragile immunity, I've been dealt a big dose of the flu, and dealt it good. If you count making an imprint in sweat of your body on the sofa after frantic attempts with paracetamol, head coolers etc to get your temperature down from 38.6, doing a fart and then realising it was actually diahorrhea in your pants (sorry, but perhaps the nitty gritty will get the point across!), being so blocked up by night there is no way you're going to sleep unless sitting bolt upright (if you could just knock that temperature on the head), a hacking chesty cough that hurts every time, achey limbs and a mysterious tingling sensation in your fingers and toes as 'just a cold', then please don't come into work with a 'cold' anywhere near any establishment I'm ever associated with! It is utterly miserable, make no mistake. Not to mention sitting slumped on the pavement outside the out-of-hours doctors, head resting against the wall, waiting till I could be directed to a special room with a masked, gloved-up doctor in it so I can be checked out and given Tamiflu. All in all, a simply swell experience, I'm sure. And nothing to make a fuss about. Oh no!
Now Tom, as of this morning, has also come down with it. Would you believe it?! I suppose not that unlikely, considering. Just very unfortunate. The football game just now (ended just now due to rain) was a first attempt at entertaining Freddie with something other than the tv. Because, believe me, you don't feel like doing anything else when you've got this horrible lurgy. But Tom's done SO well. I couldn't even handle lying across the sofa with Freddie and had to go to bed today. So, thank you, Tom. You're a star!
I need to see to Tom's Tamiflu. Slight hitch on our 'flu friends' front, so an email needs to be sent to fix up someone else!
Good bye for now, from the Hogs of Sherlock Road.
xxxxx
So Pig I am, and rather spacey today with it. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, I'm suffering from Pig Flu right now. Or swine flu, if you will. Freddie had it last week and is right as rain now, whereas I'm not faring quite so well. Which is down to my immune system not quite recovered from that dratted chemo last year, according to the doctor. And I honestly thought I was fit as a fiddle and robust as the next person. Never mind. You might well ask how ill I can be if I'm sitting writing at my computer, but I say to you: if you've spent several days in bed with a nasty temperature, sweating like a, well, pig, running to the loo, and nursing aching bones in lukewarm water in the bath, you feel like doing something different to see if it will help. So here I am, 64 Zoo Lane on in the background (though Freddie's not actually watching it. He's in the garden playing football with a valiant Tom. More on Tom later), writing.
Well, here you have it. To all those who say the swine flu thing is a storm about nothing, and that it's no more than a nasty cold and that people should stop being melodramatic about it: Stuff off! Perhaps because of my fragile immunity, I've been dealt a big dose of the flu, and dealt it good. If you count making an imprint in sweat of your body on the sofa after frantic attempts with paracetamol, head coolers etc to get your temperature down from 38.6, doing a fart and then realising it was actually diahorrhea in your pants (sorry, but perhaps the nitty gritty will get the point across!), being so blocked up by night there is no way you're going to sleep unless sitting bolt upright (if you could just knock that temperature on the head), a hacking chesty cough that hurts every time, achey limbs and a mysterious tingling sensation in your fingers and toes as 'just a cold', then please don't come into work with a 'cold' anywhere near any establishment I'm ever associated with! It is utterly miserable, make no mistake. Not to mention sitting slumped on the pavement outside the out-of-hours doctors, head resting against the wall, waiting till I could be directed to a special room with a masked, gloved-up doctor in it so I can be checked out and given Tamiflu. All in all, a simply swell experience, I'm sure. And nothing to make a fuss about. Oh no!
Now Tom, as of this morning, has also come down with it. Would you believe it?! I suppose not that unlikely, considering. Just very unfortunate. The football game just now (ended just now due to rain) was a first attempt at entertaining Freddie with something other than the tv. Because, believe me, you don't feel like doing anything else when you've got this horrible lurgy. But Tom's done SO well. I couldn't even handle lying across the sofa with Freddie and had to go to bed today. So, thank you, Tom. You're a star!
I need to see to Tom's Tamiflu. Slight hitch on our 'flu friends' front, so an email needs to be sent to fix up someone else!
Good bye for now, from the Hogs of Sherlock Road.
xxxxx
Friday, 17 July 2009
I'm jiggling my legs, so it's hard to write, but I'm going to tap the keys anyway to distract myself. I've got a tummy ache, after contracting a yucky sicky bug that Freddie and Tom have both had this week. And I thought I was immune to the everyday germs that slay my child and husband on a regular basis. It's just the biggies that get me, I had thought. But no, I, too, have succumbed to this tummy-crunching, body-whacking delight that is gastric flu. Or some such actually rather minor bug that only seems to last for a couple of days. Last night I tossed and turned and then eventually soothed myself off to sleep whilst listening to 'Self-Hypnosis: Positive Thinking' on my MP3-player, while Freddie lay horizontally across the bed, feet batting my arm, breathing so silently I had to keep checking he was still alive. Until he jerked violently and cried out 'No, no' and grabbed at his nappy. I'm ashamed to say I didn't do anything about the heaving Pampers size 5 owing to my sicky stupor, and the plastic sheet wasn't even on the bed by this stage because all of our tossing had sent it flying with a 'ping' 'ping' from each corner (our sheets don't fit our bed properly despite claiming to be the right size).
We had the most almighty storm this morning. The rain was absolutely lashing the windows and the lightning and thunderclaps reminded me of Ancient Greek 'A' Level when Homer's Zeus got angry and let rip at his people. I felt quite scared under my duvet, trying to sleep off this stupid bug. I've now resorted to repeats of Jeremy Kyle and what appears to be It's A Knock-Out on Rikki Lake. Two people dressed in giant sumo costumes are skateboarding along an American street, cheered on by skantily clad ladies and a topless bouncer bearing rubber wheels. I've turned the sound down now.
We're going on a summer holiday after all! A very kind mother of one of our friends has offered us her posh caravan in Southwold to stay in for a week at the end of August. Can't wait! I think none of us can believe we're actually going! I asked Tom if there'd be a swimming pool and entertainments at the caravan park, and he said 'They've got loos. Oh, and showers.' But it's right by the sea and the ferry-ride to Warbleswick, and only a fifteen minute walk along the beach to Southwold town, so its perfectly placed. I think we'll have lots of fun.
Did I tell you about my Creative Writing class? It's so much fun. We've finished for the summer holidays now but I'm definitely signing up for next term. And I'm going to enter some writing competitions too. I know - you're thinking 'ahem, are you sure?'. But don't fret - my writing on the course is much better than this blog, though I shall aim to up my game on here soon too!
Going to need to sign off now as the tummy is still as bad and no amount of leg jiggling is settling it down. Hmm, where is that Imodium pack...?
Kirstyxxx
We had the most almighty storm this morning. The rain was absolutely lashing the windows and the lightning and thunderclaps reminded me of Ancient Greek 'A' Level when Homer's Zeus got angry and let rip at his people. I felt quite scared under my duvet, trying to sleep off this stupid bug. I've now resorted to repeats of Jeremy Kyle and what appears to be It's A Knock-Out on Rikki Lake. Two people dressed in giant sumo costumes are skateboarding along an American street, cheered on by skantily clad ladies and a topless bouncer bearing rubber wheels. I've turned the sound down now.
We're going on a summer holiday after all! A very kind mother of one of our friends has offered us her posh caravan in Southwold to stay in for a week at the end of August. Can't wait! I think none of us can believe we're actually going! I asked Tom if there'd be a swimming pool and entertainments at the caravan park, and he said 'They've got loos. Oh, and showers.' But it's right by the sea and the ferry-ride to Warbleswick, and only a fifteen minute walk along the beach to Southwold town, so its perfectly placed. I think we'll have lots of fun.
Did I tell you about my Creative Writing class? It's so much fun. We've finished for the summer holidays now but I'm definitely signing up for next term. And I'm going to enter some writing competitions too. I know - you're thinking 'ahem, are you sure?'. But don't fret - my writing on the course is much better than this blog, though I shall aim to up my game on here soon too!
Going to need to sign off now as the tummy is still as bad and no amount of leg jiggling is settling it down. Hmm, where is that Imodium pack...?
Kirstyxxx
Saturday, 27 June 2009
Red Leicester
Stop Press! Tom has just put the laptop in the fridge! Oh yes, I am writing this from the second shelf down, beside the cucumbers. No really, we have three laptops in the house (one of the few freebies available from the Cambridge Computer Lab, along with giant cardboard boxes that used to house giant computers), so I am writing on my very own laptop. And Tom is writing on his, but the new development for the one in the fridge is rather worrying. It is the laptop that controls our telly, and to say we'd be lost if it doesn't recover would be something of an understatement. Rather like Andy Murray overheating at Wimbledon (I'm predicting the future. He's actually about to play in the thunderstorm currently threatening SW19), our trusty tv control station needs an icepack and a fan.
Beside the cucumbers is a block of red leicester cheese. It is the second one I've bought in two days and says something significant about recent developments in our house. Last week we went on holiday for four days to house-sit for Tom's mum, and we spent the week working on The Decision. We went backwards and forwards, saying 'yes', then 'no', then 'yes' again, like Freddie in a particularly contrary mood. Then on Monday Tom made the call that sealed our fate: he rang Leicester University to accept the post of Lecturer of Computer Science, starting on 1st September this year. But we are not moving from Cambridge. Tom is going to commute weekly, renting a room there (hopefully in a kind old lady's house or some such setting) to work in during the week, and coming home at the weekends. It'll be a really tough wrench for all of us, but long discussions seemed to indicate that this was the best option. A brilliant career move for Tom, and the space and time to do all his evening work without a yelling monkey demanding his time and disrupting his sleep every night (we still get nightly visits and much wriggling beside us in bed). I'm going to use it as an excuse to try to lick Freddie into shape, when he can't play me and Tom off against each other, and when he discovers that with just Mummy around during the week, it's simply too boring to stay up beyond 8pm. Or this is the hope, anyway!
In honour of this momentous life change, I have finally booked our Willow Foundation Special Treat that we meant to take last year when I was still under the major treatment. I'm rather glad we left it till now, though, as we'll really be able to enjoy it, without any unshiftable weariness or nausea to fight off whilst doing it. We are booked into a posh hotel in Leicester, for a night in a family room (a room for us, with an adjoining bunk bed heaven for Freddie), plus breakfast and then £150 to spend on supper, drinks and snacks. Woooppeeee! Can't wait. I know it's Leicester, which everyone's been raising their eyebrows to, accompanied by mutters of 'I don't think you'll like it there', or 'Not the pleasantest town...' etc. But that's why we're not actually going to be based there. But as a welcome weekend to set us all off in the right direction, with Freddie having good associations with it (think: Space Centre to visit - he's robot and spaceship obsessed at the moment), wonderful curry houses for Tom to tick off on his curry tour list, and the hotel right by the station and the university for checking out where he's going to work and, hopefully, live. Yeehaa, it's only taken me nine months to organise, but I've finally sorted our Willow weekend. And thank you, Willow girl Hayley and her team for getting on to it the day I rang. She's booking and paying for our train trip there and everything. We just have to get ourselves to Cambridge station and the rest is laid on for us.
On the subject of last year's events, nobody much is keen to join me on the Pink Aerobics session in Regent's Park in September. Humph. I'll send out another email. Or reconsider, especially as weekends in Cambridge will be precious now with Tom and Freddie. Maybe another pink party of some description here would be better...
Freddie the other day did something really touching. We were sitting at the dining table eating lunch and all of a sudden, apropos of nothing, he said 'Mummy got breast cancer'. I said 'Yes, darling, I had breast cancer last year, but now I'm all better.' And then I realised why he might think I was still ill because I take pills twice a day and sometimes he has to witness me doing it because I can't persuade him to go into another room and I need them just before I eat breakfast. But don't worry, I've taught him that they would make him very sick if here were to even consider trying to eat one himself. 'Not Freddie's medicine!' he says, 'Mummy's medicine! Make Freddie very sick!'. That's right. Our conversation continued as we munched on homemade sarnies. 'What's breast cancer, Mummy?' said our little man. 'It's when Mummy had a hurt breast and the doctor took it away,' I said. 'Yeees,' said Freddie, all eager and nodding like he thoroughly understood. 'And the doctor gave Mummy very strong medicine but now she's better.' 'Yeeees.' 'But now she takes medicines every day just to stop the breast cancer coming back.' Oh dear, how do you explain preventative medicine to a two and a half year old? Mummy's not ill now. The next line out of his little mouth was accompanied by an emphatic pointing finger - 'Now, when you are sick, you ring the doctor!' 'Yes, darling, we'll ring the doctor,' I said, and this little fellow's curiosity and childlike concern took my breath away.
Listen out for those thundercracks tonight, people in the UK!
lots of love
Kirstyxx
Beside the cucumbers is a block of red leicester cheese. It is the second one I've bought in two days and says something significant about recent developments in our house. Last week we went on holiday for four days to house-sit for Tom's mum, and we spent the week working on The Decision. We went backwards and forwards, saying 'yes', then 'no', then 'yes' again, like Freddie in a particularly contrary mood. Then on Monday Tom made the call that sealed our fate: he rang Leicester University to accept the post of Lecturer of Computer Science, starting on 1st September this year. But we are not moving from Cambridge. Tom is going to commute weekly, renting a room there (hopefully in a kind old lady's house or some such setting) to work in during the week, and coming home at the weekends. It'll be a really tough wrench for all of us, but long discussions seemed to indicate that this was the best option. A brilliant career move for Tom, and the space and time to do all his evening work without a yelling monkey demanding his time and disrupting his sleep every night (we still get nightly visits and much wriggling beside us in bed). I'm going to use it as an excuse to try to lick Freddie into shape, when he can't play me and Tom off against each other, and when he discovers that with just Mummy around during the week, it's simply too boring to stay up beyond 8pm. Or this is the hope, anyway!
In honour of this momentous life change, I have finally booked our Willow Foundation Special Treat that we meant to take last year when I was still under the major treatment. I'm rather glad we left it till now, though, as we'll really be able to enjoy it, without any unshiftable weariness or nausea to fight off whilst doing it. We are booked into a posh hotel in Leicester, for a night in a family room (a room for us, with an adjoining bunk bed heaven for Freddie), plus breakfast and then £150 to spend on supper, drinks and snacks. Woooppeeee! Can't wait. I know it's Leicester, which everyone's been raising their eyebrows to, accompanied by mutters of 'I don't think you'll like it there', or 'Not the pleasantest town...' etc. But that's why we're not actually going to be based there. But as a welcome weekend to set us all off in the right direction, with Freddie having good associations with it (think: Space Centre to visit - he's robot and spaceship obsessed at the moment), wonderful curry houses for Tom to tick off on his curry tour list, and the hotel right by the station and the university for checking out where he's going to work and, hopefully, live. Yeehaa, it's only taken me nine months to organise, but I've finally sorted our Willow weekend. And thank you, Willow girl Hayley and her team for getting on to it the day I rang. She's booking and paying for our train trip there and everything. We just have to get ourselves to Cambridge station and the rest is laid on for us.
On the subject of last year's events, nobody much is keen to join me on the Pink Aerobics session in Regent's Park in September. Humph. I'll send out another email. Or reconsider, especially as weekends in Cambridge will be precious now with Tom and Freddie. Maybe another pink party of some description here would be better...
Freddie the other day did something really touching. We were sitting at the dining table eating lunch and all of a sudden, apropos of nothing, he said 'Mummy got breast cancer'. I said 'Yes, darling, I had breast cancer last year, but now I'm all better.' And then I realised why he might think I was still ill because I take pills twice a day and sometimes he has to witness me doing it because I can't persuade him to go into another room and I need them just before I eat breakfast. But don't worry, I've taught him that they would make him very sick if here were to even consider trying to eat one himself. 'Not Freddie's medicine!' he says, 'Mummy's medicine! Make Freddie very sick!'. That's right. Our conversation continued as we munched on homemade sarnies. 'What's breast cancer, Mummy?' said our little man. 'It's when Mummy had a hurt breast and the doctor took it away,' I said. 'Yeees,' said Freddie, all eager and nodding like he thoroughly understood. 'And the doctor gave Mummy very strong medicine but now she's better.' 'Yeeees.' 'But now she takes medicines every day just to stop the breast cancer coming back.' Oh dear, how do you explain preventative medicine to a two and a half year old? Mummy's not ill now. The next line out of his little mouth was accompanied by an emphatic pointing finger - 'Now, when you are sick, you ring the doctor!' 'Yes, darling, we'll ring the doctor,' I said, and this little fellow's curiosity and childlike concern took my breath away.
Listen out for those thundercracks tonight, people in the UK!
lots of love
Kirstyxx
Friday, 15 May 2009
A Bailey's, Anyone?
Freddie has changed his name to David Bailey. Last Sunday we had Barney, Debs and their little girl Katie round, and right at the end of the afternoon I heard Debs say 'Freddie, what are you doing?'. I turned to see Freddie standing in a corner with his back to us, up to something. On investigation, Debs discovered our digital camera in Freddie's sweaty hands, which must have been snatched up at some point by Mr Tickle himself, intent on no good.
After the guests had gone, we took at look at the photos stored on the camera, and this is what we found: The World According to Freddie, shot from two and a half feet (probably grossly inaccurate. I'm all metric, now, don't you know), and intriguingly informative about the workings of the mind of the mini photographer. Here we have Mummy and Daddy standing together, tall as giants, looming over Freddie, a look of amused impatience on their faces. And there's Mummy, still as tall, hands on hips, probably about to scold or try to remove the camera. And Katie and Barney, mostly their legs, sitting on the floor. In fact, lots more of the floor and our old-lady brown carpet, in all it's swirly floral glory. And the toy box, spilling over with all the favourite things. And, of course, Angel Bear, found snuggled beside the hoover in the corner, behind the door. You didn't think he was lost, did you?
But the best shots, I think, are the ones of Barney, several of them, all fitting well into the frame (as opposed to the headless Katie in other pictures, poor thing), showing an impressive patience and willingness to pose for our little David Bailey as he shouts 'Smile!' and angles another view, and listens to the satisfying Click of the button. Barney pulling a brilliant comic face, then another, then smiling, then smiling again. The willing model to our demon snapper. And then the following day, on picking up on the admiration of friends and family at his photographing prowess, Freddie proceeded to grab the camera at breakfast time and start again, to shouts of 'Ooooooh! Alpen!', which was followed by, you've guessed it, many delightful pictures of Freddie's breakfast, standing proud in the middle of the dining table. Bless him!
xxxxx
After the guests had gone, we took at look at the photos stored on the camera, and this is what we found: The World According to Freddie, shot from two and a half feet (probably grossly inaccurate. I'm all metric, now, don't you know), and intriguingly informative about the workings of the mind of the mini photographer. Here we have Mummy and Daddy standing together, tall as giants, looming over Freddie, a look of amused impatience on their faces. And there's Mummy, still as tall, hands on hips, probably about to scold or try to remove the camera. And Katie and Barney, mostly their legs, sitting on the floor. In fact, lots more of the floor and our old-lady brown carpet, in all it's swirly floral glory. And the toy box, spilling over with all the favourite things. And, of course, Angel Bear, found snuggled beside the hoover in the corner, behind the door. You didn't think he was lost, did you?
But the best shots, I think, are the ones of Barney, several of them, all fitting well into the frame (as opposed to the headless Katie in other pictures, poor thing), showing an impressive patience and willingness to pose for our little David Bailey as he shouts 'Smile!' and angles another view, and listens to the satisfying Click of the button. Barney pulling a brilliant comic face, then another, then smiling, then smiling again. The willing model to our demon snapper. And then the following day, on picking up on the admiration of friends and family at his photographing prowess, Freddie proceeded to grab the camera at breakfast time and start again, to shouts of 'Ooooooh! Alpen!', which was followed by, you've guessed it, many delightful pictures of Freddie's breakfast, standing proud in the middle of the dining table. Bless him!
xxxxx
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
May Mornings
The soft flutterings of blossom brush our cheeks like confetti and catch on our tongues, as do the seeds of just-blown dandelions and the tiny snowdrop scatterings of styrofoam from our skip. Oh yes. The infamous skip, that prompts exclamations of 'Still got builders there, then?' from local mummies at playgroups and a knock on the door from our Neighbourhood Watch representative. Oops. Not our fault, of course, that the skip is still there and that the contents of it keep spilling out onto the pavement in an unseemly fashion. No sooner do we pick it all up and put it back in, than that dratted early May wind whooshes it straight back out again, to the chagrin of Mr Neighbourhood Watch, smiley though he may be in his ticking-off. So I call Jason from Stress Management, to tell him about how the man from the skip company appeared earlier in the week to remove our big yellow eyesore, only to disappear about two minutes later on deciding that the skip was in the wrong position for him to be able to take it away. And that was the last we saw or heard of him. Jason is duly shocked and disapproving, and goes on to explain that the skip company is full of foreigners who don't know what they're doing. I never know quite what to say to this kind of remark, but in any case by the sound of his accent I think Mr Skip Man was in fact born under Bow Bells, gobbling on a plate of jellied eels and watching Eastenders.
While we wait with baited breath for the Return of Jellied Eel Man, Tom patiently clears up the outside mess and then turns his attention to inside. Forget Spring clean. We have All-Year cleans in our house. Oh yes. Although I'd like to rename them Fling Cleans. A Fling Clean a la Tom Ridge, consists of much clattering and rustling issuing from the spare room, followed by the appearance of boxes, both plastic and cardboard, deposited on the living room floor. Then a frenzy of activity ensues whereby items many and various from across the house are tossed into said boxes and shoved somewhere extremely high or out of sight to places only Tom knows about. And, no, this is not child-proofing or the squirreling away of late birthday presents for me (yes, a Standing Ovation please, all who forgot my birthday. It is, after all, no mean feat to be still alive at the grand old age of thirty-six. At least, not when you consider what went on last year... Only kidding! No cards, please. No really).
No, this is an ingenious game invented by Tom to keep me busy in dull moments, which involves me walking all round the house several times each day in search of Something Very Useful Which Has Now Vanished. One day it might be toothpaste, another it might be Freddie's hairbrush, another it might be the telephone. It's a bit like a treasure hunt, or Challenge Anneka. I have to gird my loins, pick up the phone if it's there, email if not, and receive clues from Tom as to where the sought-after item might be. And the prize is the satisfaction and relief of finding, perhaps, the tupperware in the wardrobe, or Freddie's comb in the bike-equipment box, or the batteries in Tom's sock drawer etc etc. All in a day's work...
Freddie himself, meanwhile, has been working on his Get-to-Sleep aids, which now require him to be something of a contortionist as he settles beside Angel Bear and Piggy each night (and hush yee who cry 'Girly!' at the mention of a white fluffy bear with wings and a pink pig as bedfellows. I admit, the handbag phase caused something of a stir, but we're over that now, and back onto boy stuff, with lots of 'Grrrs' and karate kicks and playing with Mummy's lipstick and Granny's washbag and ...). Sucking the thumb and pulling the ear were, in retrospect, child's play in comparison to the antics of Bedtime Hour of late. We now witness, on a nightly basis, the simultaneous sucking of the thumb, pulling of the ear, fiddling inside the pants and picking of the nose (followed by eating the spoils of the pickings) with a mixture of bafflement and disgust but also to sighs of 'Bless him. It's nice that he can settle himself off to sleep like that, isn't it?'
Talking of sleep, I nearly fell straight off to sleep on Friday when I went to my first Cranial Sacral Massage, given to me by my Pilates teacher. She is training in Cranial Sacral Therapy and needs volunteers to lie on a couch for her while she practises her skills, and I was happy to accommodate. What could be more apt, thought I, on my 'day off' when Freddie is at nursery, than a nice, soothing massage. And off I went on my bike down the tree-lined avenue that leads to the university farm site. Where, nestled between sheep fields and some empty-looking sheds, I found two little cottages in one of which lives my lovely Pilates teacher and all her trinkets and flowers and plants and pictures and papers and so on, all higgledy piggledy upon her floors, mantlepieces and walls and shouting 'Creative! Alternative!' at you as if you couldn't already tell from the hair falling messily out of the teacher's ever-escaping hairclips and the giggle as she asks you what the time is and gasps as she realises it's all getting rather late.
I must admit I wanted to giggle too as the massage began, and I tried but failed to take seriously the teaching behind the therapy philosophy. '...And this is what we call the Life Force, which surges through you from your feet to your scalp...'. My mind kept wandering to 'Ooh, double glazing. That's handy for when the tractors get loud', or 'Crumbs is that cow manure wafting through the window or what?' etc. However, I have to say that despite my scepticism, the whole experience was very relaxing, and boy, did I feel spacey afterwards! The teacher did warn me that I might, but I frowned and said I felt fine and scooted off on my bike thinking 'spacey' was for wimps, little realising that several hours later I'd be wandering round the house in a daze,b not knowing what on earth I was supposed to be doing, while Freddie tried to remind me from the sofa with shouts of 'Mummy! Supper time!'. And most impressively, when the teacher did her thing (don't know how to explain it exactly) over my chest area, I got a strong sense of a circle swirling round, and then the teacher said 'That's interesting. The flow is almost in a circular motion...' and all she had been doing was sitting very still with her hand on my spine but not moving at all. It's all incredibly subtle. Incredibly. But good. I'm looking forward to the next one.
So, have you all got your siege supplies in place? I only ask as when I went to the nurse on Friday for my injection, she said 'So, um, you might be as well to get some extra food in in case you get swine flu and feel too ill to go out, or the shops shut down or whatever...' I expect they've already thought of that in Bedfordshire County Council, where they've decided to relocate to a nuclear-style bunker should the alert level reach Six. Hang on, aren't we at Six now? I guess too, they can have fun trying on their supply of two hundred and fifty thousand face masks when life in the bunker gets a bit boring... Come to think of it, will anyone actually notice that the Bedford County Counsellors have disappeared?...
I shall sing off, nay, sign off now (would 'Wind the Bobbin Up' suffice?) and tune in again some time soon.
Kirstyx
While we wait with baited breath for the Return of Jellied Eel Man, Tom patiently clears up the outside mess and then turns his attention to inside. Forget Spring clean. We have All-Year cleans in our house. Oh yes. Although I'd like to rename them Fling Cleans. A Fling Clean a la Tom Ridge, consists of much clattering and rustling issuing from the spare room, followed by the appearance of boxes, both plastic and cardboard, deposited on the living room floor. Then a frenzy of activity ensues whereby items many and various from across the house are tossed into said boxes and shoved somewhere extremely high or out of sight to places only Tom knows about. And, no, this is not child-proofing or the squirreling away of late birthday presents for me (yes, a Standing Ovation please, all who forgot my birthday. It is, after all, no mean feat to be still alive at the grand old age of thirty-six. At least, not when you consider what went on last year... Only kidding! No cards, please. No really).
No, this is an ingenious game invented by Tom to keep me busy in dull moments, which involves me walking all round the house several times each day in search of Something Very Useful Which Has Now Vanished. One day it might be toothpaste, another it might be Freddie's hairbrush, another it might be the telephone. It's a bit like a treasure hunt, or Challenge Anneka. I have to gird my loins, pick up the phone if it's there, email if not, and receive clues from Tom as to where the sought-after item might be. And the prize is the satisfaction and relief of finding, perhaps, the tupperware in the wardrobe, or Freddie's comb in the bike-equipment box, or the batteries in Tom's sock drawer etc etc. All in a day's work...
Freddie himself, meanwhile, has been working on his Get-to-Sleep aids, which now require him to be something of a contortionist as he settles beside Angel Bear and Piggy each night (and hush yee who cry 'Girly!' at the mention of a white fluffy bear with wings and a pink pig as bedfellows. I admit, the handbag phase caused something of a stir, but we're over that now, and back onto boy stuff, with lots of 'Grrrs' and karate kicks and playing with Mummy's lipstick and Granny's washbag and ...). Sucking the thumb and pulling the ear were, in retrospect, child's play in comparison to the antics of Bedtime Hour of late. We now witness, on a nightly basis, the simultaneous sucking of the thumb, pulling of the ear, fiddling inside the pants and picking of the nose (followed by eating the spoils of the pickings) with a mixture of bafflement and disgust but also to sighs of 'Bless him. It's nice that he can settle himself off to sleep like that, isn't it?'
Talking of sleep, I nearly fell straight off to sleep on Friday when I went to my first Cranial Sacral Massage, given to me by my Pilates teacher. She is training in Cranial Sacral Therapy and needs volunteers to lie on a couch for her while she practises her skills, and I was happy to accommodate. What could be more apt, thought I, on my 'day off' when Freddie is at nursery, than a nice, soothing massage. And off I went on my bike down the tree-lined avenue that leads to the university farm site. Where, nestled between sheep fields and some empty-looking sheds, I found two little cottages in one of which lives my lovely Pilates teacher and all her trinkets and flowers and plants and pictures and papers and so on, all higgledy piggledy upon her floors, mantlepieces and walls and shouting 'Creative! Alternative!' at you as if you couldn't already tell from the hair falling messily out of the teacher's ever-escaping hairclips and the giggle as she asks you what the time is and gasps as she realises it's all getting rather late.
I must admit I wanted to giggle too as the massage began, and I tried but failed to take seriously the teaching behind the therapy philosophy. '...And this is what we call the Life Force, which surges through you from your feet to your scalp...'. My mind kept wandering to 'Ooh, double glazing. That's handy for when the tractors get loud', or 'Crumbs is that cow manure wafting through the window or what?' etc. However, I have to say that despite my scepticism, the whole experience was very relaxing, and boy, did I feel spacey afterwards! The teacher did warn me that I might, but I frowned and said I felt fine and scooted off on my bike thinking 'spacey' was for wimps, little realising that several hours later I'd be wandering round the house in a daze,b not knowing what on earth I was supposed to be doing, while Freddie tried to remind me from the sofa with shouts of 'Mummy! Supper time!'. And most impressively, when the teacher did her thing (don't know how to explain it exactly) over my chest area, I got a strong sense of a circle swirling round, and then the teacher said 'That's interesting. The flow is almost in a circular motion...' and all she had been doing was sitting very still with her hand on my spine but not moving at all. It's all incredibly subtle. Incredibly. But good. I'm looking forward to the next one.
So, have you all got your siege supplies in place? I only ask as when I went to the nurse on Friday for my injection, she said 'So, um, you might be as well to get some extra food in in case you get swine flu and feel too ill to go out, or the shops shut down or whatever...' I expect they've already thought of that in Bedfordshire County Council, where they've decided to relocate to a nuclear-style bunker should the alert level reach Six. Hang on, aren't we at Six now? I guess too, they can have fun trying on their supply of two hundred and fifty thousand face masks when life in the bunker gets a bit boring... Come to think of it, will anyone actually notice that the Bedford County Counsellors have disappeared?...
I shall sing off, nay, sign off now (would 'Wind the Bobbin Up' suffice?) and tune in again some time soon.
Kirstyx
Sunday, 26 April 2009
April Showers
The doorbell rings one morning, and a shortish, jolly-looking man is standing outside. He says, 'Hello, I'm Steve from Stress UK Limited.' Heavens, I think, has it come to this? They've got me on anti-anxiety tablets, two different waiting lists for therapy, and the GP is insisting on seeing me every three weeks to keep tabs on my 'panic'. NO NEED TO GET ALARMED, KIRSTY, WE JUST NEED TO SEE YOU RATHER OFTEN IN CASE YOU GO LOOPIER THAN YOU ALREADY ARE... But no, in fact Steve's company, Stress UK Ltd, is a Structural Repairs and Specialist Service, employed by our landlord to fix our wonky wall. And what a wall. Number 10 Downing Street would be pleased to get such service. We can currently boast a smart Portaloo on our premises, a very large skip, two wheelbarrows and a long, deep ditch with all sorts of interesting pointy things sticking out of it. And three rather polite builders who bring their own kettle, teacups and chairs, and don't require the use of our indoor WCs. What a result.
That evening, in the balmy April air, we are sitting in Pizza Express, enjoying a very rare family night out. Or rather, I am sitting in Pizza Express, and my husband is rushing after our toddler, who is marching down Jesus Lane in search of Entertainment. And it comes in the form of an inflatable toy stuck to the magazine of choice for all discerning preschoolers: 'In the Night Garden'. Young Freddie brings the toy to me excitedly, clamouring at me to get it working. So I sit, pizza half-eaten, blowing up a pink, knobbly airship and marvelling at the safety warning on the back. 'Not to be used as a buoyancy aid'. Drat it! And I had all those plans to cross the channel with my inflatable Pinky Ponk ready if the sharks came...
A few days later, and the soft petals of blossom are brushing our cheeks like confetti and catching on our tongues, as are the seeds of just-blown dandelions. Oh, and the tiny snowdrop scatterings of Styrofoam from that skip of ours. Oh yes. The April wind is whooshing up the contents of our big yellow monstrosity and strewing it across Sherlock Road willy nilly. A visit from our local Neighbourhood Watch representative reassures us that our fellow residents are duly concerned, so we resolve to take action. We get our big broom and Freddie's tiny pink one, and we sweep. And sweep. And sweep. At four o'clock we stagger inside for a well-earned break and a steaming brew, just like the builders do. We gaze out at the street by our house, with it's immaculately pruned bushes and discreetly stored bins. And little white flakes flutter by, dancing on the breeze. 'Look!' shouts Freddie. 'It's snowing!' 'No, Freddie,' we say, 'alas, it's not snowing. It's the polystyrene from our skip, escaping down the street. Again.'
That evening, in the balmy April air, we are sitting in Pizza Express, enjoying a very rare family night out. Or rather, I am sitting in Pizza Express, and my husband is rushing after our toddler, who is marching down Jesus Lane in search of Entertainment. And it comes in the form of an inflatable toy stuck to the magazine of choice for all discerning preschoolers: 'In the Night Garden'. Young Freddie brings the toy to me excitedly, clamouring at me to get it working. So I sit, pizza half-eaten, blowing up a pink, knobbly airship and marvelling at the safety warning on the back. 'Not to be used as a buoyancy aid'. Drat it! And I had all those plans to cross the channel with my inflatable Pinky Ponk ready if the sharks came...
A few days later, and the soft petals of blossom are brushing our cheeks like confetti and catching on our tongues, as are the seeds of just-blown dandelions. Oh, and the tiny snowdrop scatterings of Styrofoam from that skip of ours. Oh yes. The April wind is whooshing up the contents of our big yellow monstrosity and strewing it across Sherlock Road willy nilly. A visit from our local Neighbourhood Watch representative reassures us that our fellow residents are duly concerned, so we resolve to take action. We get our big broom and Freddie's tiny pink one, and we sweep. And sweep. And sweep. At four o'clock we stagger inside for a well-earned break and a steaming brew, just like the builders do. We gaze out at the street by our house, with it's immaculately pruned bushes and discreetly stored bins. And little white flakes flutter by, dancing on the breeze. 'Look!' shouts Freddie. 'It's snowing!' 'No, Freddie,' we say, 'alas, it's not snowing. It's the polystyrene from our skip, escaping down the street. Again.'
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Appointment palavers
Just to reassure anyone who's been waiting for news from my appointments. There haven't as yet been any appointments (or not the ones you'll be thinking of. We've seen the surprisingly glamorous psychiatrist at Addenbrooke's (I got clothes and boots envy at that one. Considered asking how to deal with the issue of 'envy' but left it!) and had other minor visits, but not to the breast unit. All a bit of a mix-up but I'm not too rattled by it.
They've booked me in for 9am tomorrow morning, ignoring my pleas to avoid that time due to my zoladex injection and blood test at that time. Zoladex is like a top-notch film - it's unmissable and very difficult to book in each time at the GP's so I won't be able to miss it. So I've left messages with the breast nurses to either fit me in later tomorrow (with Freddie in tow? Don't know how I'm going to do the childcare bit) or after Easter. We'll see what happens. I feel somewhat silly given I can no longer feel the Lump-that-isn't-a-lump and the pain on the other side is going down and the thickening area on the 'healthy' breast has probably been there all along (doesn't feel new). Still, can't just let is pass, so will press on and get myself checked out. Eventually!
How lovely it's been outside this week. None of the miserable grey and rain that was predicted.
Just tried to turn over the fish fingers with disastrous consequences. Why do they ALWAYS stick to the pan?
Freddie is in a bit of a paddy due to dropping his nap this afternoon (my idea) in an attempt to get him sleepy BEFORE 10pm at night. I now see why parents of children who have dropped their naps are completely frazzled by 5pm. The fishfingers have just had a taste of my temper! Poor Freddie. He's pooped. Time for supper, bath to wash off the poo he did in the middle of the park that wouldn't come off and still stinks in his pants, and then ... bed?
bye, bye, Bob the Builder. It's supper time. Hurray!¬
I'll tune in again when I've been for the Appointment that Wasn't an Appointment.
Kirstyxxx
They've booked me in for 9am tomorrow morning, ignoring my pleas to avoid that time due to my zoladex injection and blood test at that time. Zoladex is like a top-notch film - it's unmissable and very difficult to book in each time at the GP's so I won't be able to miss it. So I've left messages with the breast nurses to either fit me in later tomorrow (with Freddie in tow? Don't know how I'm going to do the childcare bit) or after Easter. We'll see what happens. I feel somewhat silly given I can no longer feel the Lump-that-isn't-a-lump and the pain on the other side is going down and the thickening area on the 'healthy' breast has probably been there all along (doesn't feel new). Still, can't just let is pass, so will press on and get myself checked out. Eventually!
How lovely it's been outside this week. None of the miserable grey and rain that was predicted.
Just tried to turn over the fish fingers with disastrous consequences. Why do they ALWAYS stick to the pan?
Freddie is in a bit of a paddy due to dropping his nap this afternoon (my idea) in an attempt to get him sleepy BEFORE 10pm at night. I now see why parents of children who have dropped their naps are completely frazzled by 5pm. The fishfingers have just had a taste of my temper! Poor Freddie. He's pooped. Time for supper, bath to wash off the poo he did in the middle of the park that wouldn't come off and still stinks in his pants, and then ... bed?
bye, bye, Bob the Builder. It's supper time. Hurray!¬
I'll tune in again when I've been for the Appointment that Wasn't an Appointment.
Kirstyxxx
Friday, 27 March 2009
Don't Panic! Don't Panic!
Must take my cue from Captain Mainwaring and not panic every time something happens. Oncologist has just sent me an email saying pain on operated side is really common in the first year after surgery and that he really doesn't think a bone scan is necessary. He wants to see me in clinic next week to feel the other side for this thickening thing, and my guess is he'll say it's fine and that I don't need ultrasound or whatever. Hopefully it'll be a case of Much Ado About Nothing. Sorry to alarm anyone. All in a day's work for Muggins.
Kxxx
Kxxx
Steal Magnolias
I want to steal magnolia flowers from our neighbours' gardens. They're so pretty. And I've also morbidly decided that at my own funeral, I'd like a magnolia tree planted in my honour, rather than a horrible coffin-in-the-ground jobby. This business with Jade Goody insists on creeping into my brain and running riot in my Fear of Terminal Diagnosis section. Though now she's died, I've got to see that it's all OK in the end really. You just die, and then are at peace, leaving those around you to be the ones to have to really deal with it. Poor them.
How black!
Start again: We're back from a great week in Dublin on holiday, staying with our lovely friends Jo, Rich and the girls. Freddie woke up every morning squealing 'Let's go see the girls!' and demanding we took him through to the playroom, nappy all sodden and pyjamas tossed aside. No time for formalities. He also picked up very quickly on the whole telling-off-siblings thing. Brow furrowed and voice gruff, he chimed in with 'Sit down, Charlotte!' or 'Get your shoes on, Kirsty!' (that's Little Kirsty, Jo and Rich's four-year-old girl, not me!) all too readily. I dread to think what a younger sibling of Freddie would be in for. Not to mention the nose-out-of-joint spectacular that would be bound to happen. Luckily, no little sisters or brothers (or even, bothers - I just mis-typed it!) are in store for our Petit Prince. Oh no. He shall be Number One, Numero Uno, King of all he surveys (and all those hiding from him behind the sofa). With bells on.
Where's my tea?
Just been to the GP to check out a little thing that felt like a lump on my 'good' breast a week ago but which I haven't been able to find again since. The GP couldn't find it either, but did find an area of thickening that's quite common in women generally, but that she thought we ought to check out just to confirm that nothing's wrong. So I've got to contact my oncologist to get him to book me into the breast unit for a mammogram or ultrasound session. And more worryingly, I've developed pain and tenderness on my operated-on side, on my ribs. So I've also got to go for a bone scan to check that the cancer hasn't travelled into my ribs. Marvelous. Some people get up on a Friday morning thinking of the projects they need to complete at work so they can have a nice weekend, or sighing at the thought of the struggle to get Naughty Toddler/s to nursery/playgroup/round to someone's house to screams of 'NO! Play with fire engine at home!' etc. And I get up, feel sick at the thought of yet another trip to the doctor's, get Naughty Toddler to nursery but have to have him peeled off me by the nursery staff because he doesn't want me to go, and then sit in that waiting room AGAIN, feeling like the energy that all this cancer business takes up is simply ridiculous and more than a little miserable at times. Though I'm writing all this actually to pep myself up and it IS working, believe it or not. I've just got to concentrate on fixing up the appointments and then leave the worrying to the doctors. Plus the GP said she wasn't too worried and that she didn't think that the pain or the lump-that-isn't-a-lump will turn out to be cancer. So I've just got to get on with today and act like normal.
On the telephone support group the counsellor lady posed the question: 'What is "normal" after a cancer diagnosis?"' You might well ask. I keep trying to do my version of 'normal', which consists of just doing what I did before, but with renewed vigour and adding in my new pursuits like running and Pilates etc. And most of the time that's great and really uplifting. At other times, I get a new symptom or someone famous dies of cancer, and a sadness sweeps over me for a little while and I ask 'Why me?'. Why can't I just be a normal person, with everyday concerns, irritations etc?
I think I already know the answer to that. In the era BC (Before Cancer), I was struggling through life, lurching from one melodrama to another, getting emotional and terribly angry at those around me at the drop of a hat. I took no exercise, did very little about the anxiety attacks, and didn't have enough get-up-and-go to really get to grips with all that motherhood and wifedom involves. But now, in the AD era (After Diagnosis), I've addressed my issues (and am still doing so), taken up a healthy lifestyle and all that that involves, do loads of cooking and housework on top of doing all the other mummy things, and have met some really special, lovely people over the last year. None of that would have happened BC, nor the Carpe Diem spirit. And I was a fool if I thought BC that it would happen at some point in the future, just naturally in the course of time. It wouldn't have. It would have been on my to-do list till my deathbed, for sure.
Now is the time for really living and savouring every moment, positive or negative. It's all the stuff of life and to be cherished. How cheesy weessy weesy, but almost definitely true. So don't miss even the littlest things, like the joy of hanging out the washing on a really sunny day, a particular bird cawing (I rather like crows even though most people hate them) reminding you of a childhood garden, and those magnolias. Oh, how I wish I could steal those magnolias!
xxxxxxxxx
How black!
Start again: We're back from a great week in Dublin on holiday, staying with our lovely friends Jo, Rich and the girls. Freddie woke up every morning squealing 'Let's go see the girls!' and demanding we took him through to the playroom, nappy all sodden and pyjamas tossed aside. No time for formalities. He also picked up very quickly on the whole telling-off-siblings thing. Brow furrowed and voice gruff, he chimed in with 'Sit down, Charlotte!' or 'Get your shoes on, Kirsty!' (that's Little Kirsty, Jo and Rich's four-year-old girl, not me!) all too readily. I dread to think what a younger sibling of Freddie would be in for. Not to mention the nose-out-of-joint spectacular that would be bound to happen. Luckily, no little sisters or brothers (or even, bothers - I just mis-typed it!) are in store for our Petit Prince. Oh no. He shall be Number One, Numero Uno, King of all he surveys (and all those hiding from him behind the sofa). With bells on.
Where's my tea?
Just been to the GP to check out a little thing that felt like a lump on my 'good' breast a week ago but which I haven't been able to find again since. The GP couldn't find it either, but did find an area of thickening that's quite common in women generally, but that she thought we ought to check out just to confirm that nothing's wrong. So I've got to contact my oncologist to get him to book me into the breast unit for a mammogram or ultrasound session. And more worryingly, I've developed pain and tenderness on my operated-on side, on my ribs. So I've also got to go for a bone scan to check that the cancer hasn't travelled into my ribs. Marvelous. Some people get up on a Friday morning thinking of the projects they need to complete at work so they can have a nice weekend, or sighing at the thought of the struggle to get Naughty Toddler/s to nursery/playgroup/round to someone's house to screams of 'NO! Play with fire engine at home!' etc. And I get up, feel sick at the thought of yet another trip to the doctor's, get Naughty Toddler to nursery but have to have him peeled off me by the nursery staff because he doesn't want me to go, and then sit in that waiting room AGAIN, feeling like the energy that all this cancer business takes up is simply ridiculous and more than a little miserable at times. Though I'm writing all this actually to pep myself up and it IS working, believe it or not. I've just got to concentrate on fixing up the appointments and then leave the worrying to the doctors. Plus the GP said she wasn't too worried and that she didn't think that the pain or the lump-that-isn't-a-lump will turn out to be cancer. So I've just got to get on with today and act like normal.
On the telephone support group the counsellor lady posed the question: 'What is "normal" after a cancer diagnosis?"' You might well ask. I keep trying to do my version of 'normal', which consists of just doing what I did before, but with renewed vigour and adding in my new pursuits like running and Pilates etc. And most of the time that's great and really uplifting. At other times, I get a new symptom or someone famous dies of cancer, and a sadness sweeps over me for a little while and I ask 'Why me?'. Why can't I just be a normal person, with everyday concerns, irritations etc?
I think I already know the answer to that. In the era BC (Before Cancer), I was struggling through life, lurching from one melodrama to another, getting emotional and terribly angry at those around me at the drop of a hat. I took no exercise, did very little about the anxiety attacks, and didn't have enough get-up-and-go to really get to grips with all that motherhood and wifedom involves. But now, in the AD era (After Diagnosis), I've addressed my issues (and am still doing so), taken up a healthy lifestyle and all that that involves, do loads of cooking and housework on top of doing all the other mummy things, and have met some really special, lovely people over the last year. None of that would have happened BC, nor the Carpe Diem spirit. And I was a fool if I thought BC that it would happen at some point in the future, just naturally in the course of time. It wouldn't have. It would have been on my to-do list till my deathbed, for sure.
Now is the time for really living and savouring every moment, positive or negative. It's all the stuff of life and to be cherished. How cheesy weessy weesy, but almost definitely true. So don't miss even the littlest things, like the joy of hanging out the washing on a really sunny day, a particular bird cawing (I rather like crows even though most people hate them) reminding you of a childhood garden, and those magnolias. Oh, how I wish I could steal those magnolias!
xxxxxxxxx
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