May 17 2012

Not whingeing but drowning

Hub and I took a week off to celebrate his birthday – not one of those big scary ones yet but I’ve been whimpering about needing a holiday or something and as  our boys have put the mockers on going away anywhere – it has to be something. (College Boy cannot be left alone for any length of time in case he has a wild party and the house ends up looking tidier, and Uni Boy is an expensive investment that has written off any chance of going away – ever).

Saturday was my first day of freedom – a gentle trip to town was mooted to get hub a few extra presents – this idea was quickly demolished by College Boy who insisted that we had to take him to a courier depot to pick up a vital piece of his armoury before 1230.

I made the most of it.  I downloaded ‘Falling and Laughing:The Restoration of Edwyn Collins’ to my Kindle.  It’s a wonderful read that made me cry all the way out to the courier’s at Speke but also proved invaluable research for my latest assignment on psychoneurology.

Then College Boy decided that he would let us take him food shopping.  I am very proud of the fact that he has stuck to a diet and lost at least a stone if not more.  I just wish he wasn’t such a pompous ass about it.  All the way round Asda  he commented in a very knowledgeable but negative way on everything I put in the trolley.

I’ve been eating for a long time now and I know what is good for me, what is bad for me and why I prefer the latter.  I don’t need some self-righteous seventeen year old who but a few short months ago was stuffing his face with Bombay Bad Boys and bacon-flavoured Super-Noodles laced with Tabasco sauce  (Ugh).

Bu the time we got to the tea and coffee aisles I was suicidal.  Then, my lovely hub, who is usually so supportive and a stalwart ally against the onslaught that is College Boy, made a comment about one of my more frivolous purchases. it was a perfectly relevant comment; logical and not in any way unkind but in terms of camels and backs it may just as well have been a whole bale of straw.

I so wanted to be the mother in the advert who throws herself to the ground in the supermarket aisle, screaming and drumming my heels against the floor, but I contained myself and limited my tantrum to some muttered threats and minor curses as I steered my trolley to the freezer section in order to cool down.

Hub tried to make amends.  This included sneaking said frivolous item back into the trolley when he thought I wasn’t looking (ha! some chance).  After College Boy’s initial words of reproach about showing him up in public – yeah Asda is SO full of his friends on a Saturday afternoon – he finally shut up and the rest of the trip continued in an icy silence.

I kept it up till we got home, then College Boy, realising finally that he might have gone too far again, unloaded the shopping and took it indoors whilst hub patted and soothed me back to civilisation again.

I spent most of Sunday sweating over a hot assignment and making arrangements for Uni Boy to pay us a flying visit for lunch the next day to celebrate his Dad’s birthday.  The assignment was in its first draft.  College Boy was shouting happily at his friends on Skype and all was reasonably pleasant.

Hub’s birthday went well.  We had a lovely lunch with Uni Boy and did a bit of birthday shopping.  Came back home and Uni Boy checked my assignment – pronouncing it reasonably scientific  (I had spelled positron emission tomography correctly and knew the difference between fMRI and MRI – I’ll make a pseudoscientist yet).  We took him back to the train and bought Chinese takeaway for us and the College Boy to make things even.  Feeling slightly smug I finished off the assignment and sent it electronically winging its way to me tutor feeling more than a little happy that we had the rest of the week to go to the gym, take my Dad out and ensure that hub spent his birthday money on himself – not on food for the family.

Sod’s law.  The virus goblin struck in the night leaving me with a throat filled with sandpaper and ground glass, a streaming nose and eyes that were blinded by the light.  My efforts to laugh it off as a cold and to carry on (forget the keeping calm stuff) managed to get me through more food shopping and by mid-afternoon we were in a very large camping shop looking for a megadocious sleeping bag for hub.

He is going away with his mates for a paintball weekend in July.  He did this last year in September but without me to keep him warm, got very cold and desolate.  My days of braving the storms under canvas have come and gone – both as a revolting houseparent thirty years ago and as an equally revolting parent when our own boys were younger and more malleable.  This is a body built for decent beds and non-leaking roofs, and whilst I will miss him in July, I’d  rather be here at home than freezing in the Brecon Beacons thanks very much.

We found the sleeping bag anyway; and some waterproof trousers and some very expensive socks.  Like a latterday Goldilocks I spent the time between admiring sock quality and sleeping bag thickness in finding something suitable to perch on before my wobbly legs gave way.  There were camping chairs of all descriptions but they mostly looked insubstantial or were almost impossible to get out of without falling onto your knees and crawling away in a very undignified manner. I eventually found a solid wood table covered in cut-price fleecy tops and shoving them to one side, sat my achy-breaky body down whilst hub deliberated between two almost identical pairs of waterproof trousers.

By the time we got home, I think we had both realised that this wasn’t just a cold and that maybe I should have stayed home in the warm.

The last thirty-six hours have been a blur of TV dozing punctuated by antique show programmes, caffeine, paracetamol, honey and lemon sucky sweets, hot chocolate and rum.  I have tried sleeping in bed at night but this poor old body is fluctuating between gas mark 9 and total freezer; it just wants to sleep fitfully wherever it can and all night is too long for it.  My nose is either snotty or bleeding from sneezing too much and although I sound sexy  – I’d rather have a throat that wasn’t tinder dry and sore.

But I got up at six this morning.  I have made my own hot chocolate and rum (with a slightly heavier hand than my hub’s I feel) and woken the College Boy for his exam.  Today I will throw myself into a shower that is redolent with Olbas Oil and put some slap on this tired visage so that hub and I go out for a drive somewhere.  Maybe to the seaside so that even if I don’t get out of the car, i can at least wind the window down and breathe a bit of fresh air. We won’t manage the gym, and I’m keeping my distance from Dad because I don’t want him to get my germs – some holiday.

I will not be beaten by this bug though.  I’m working Saturday night and then on Sunday – joy of joys – hub and I are off to the Lowry to see Jon Richardson – the only man I know that can make OCD seem sexy.  I won’t sleep through that.

May 7 2012

The year of laughing dangerously part 2

I really was supposed to be doing some work for my assignment on Friday morning – well I did some reading and took some notes anyway.  Then I took a little wander over to Facebook and discovered that Jason Manford was giving away pairs of tickets to the Laugh Inn at Chester.  Nothing ventured, I emailed and was successful in getting tickets for me and lovely hub for Saturday night.

In need of fresh air by mid afternoon on Friday, we drove off to Otterspool and watched the tide sliding out with some reasonable cider and crisps – a little too much cider in my case so that the subsequent food shopping trip took on a whole new and vaguely hysterical dimension.  Still managed to get the ingredients together for a reasonable curry that hub is still happily eating a couple of days later (I still cook for a family even if there’s only the two of us).  College Boy was offered curry but turned up his nose once he realised that I was putting  ‘seeds and pod-things’ (coriander and cardamom) in it.

All the more for us then 🙂

I ironed once I’d sobered up – nobody died or even got burned.

Saturday and I was on call from nine to five (six in the end due to a late call that had to be logged before I could finish).  It was a busy day and almost every crisis that could occur did occur – no births though just for a change.  Sorted them all out in the end but nine hours of having my bum glued to an office chair in my back bedroom and my ear glued to the phone,  is not the best preparation for an evening out.  Hub fed me at lunchtime and whingeing cat provided some respite by crying for a cuddle at least four times during the day.  The only way to quieten him down is to pick him up and hug till he’s had enough.  You can’t do much else with your hands full of cat so it’s a good stress reliever.  He does smell a bit though.  By ten past six I was in the shower and dropping hints that hub might like to put on a shirt instead of his usual polo shirt and jumper combo.

We liked the Laugh Inn a lot.  Nice atmosphere, our names were on the guest list, four excellent comics and Mr Manford lurking in the DJ box at the back of the room.  We didn’t feel old or unfashionable, there weren’t any mindless drunken hecklers and although the chairs were a tad wobbly – at least we got to sit down.  We’re going again and we’re quite happy to pay this time.  There’s something very liberating about spending the evening laughing till your ribs hurt with a bunch of other people who are laughing too. a far more palatable alternative to staying in and watching ‘The Voice’ or BGT.

Had the munchies on the way back but managed to restrain ourselves, avoid the kebab shop and wait till we got home to raid the fridge.  College Boy thinks we are dirty stop outs – yeah right.

My ribs had recovered by the following morning and we collected my Dad before lunch to do a small road trip to a food and craft fair in Macclesfield.  Not terribly exciting but we all like food, the sun was shining and Sundays are the worst day for Dad since Mum died because he can’t get out for one of his bus jaunts.  The fair was held in the grounds of a nice-ish stately home and lovely hub was immensely cheered to find birds of prey and a flying display scheduled. We got talking to the falconer, replete in moleskins and suitably torn tweed jacket; a lovely man who we could very happily have listened to for hours.

We bought cake.  We bought chocolate. We ate lunch and wandered over to the flying display.  We both like hawks and eagles and have seen dozens of these displays over the years.  In the early days of our relationship at a country fair in Michelmersh we both discovered this mutual affection for birds of prey and it was whilst watching my hub enthralled by an eagle owl swooping low over the crowd that I came to the conclusion that this was the man I’d rather like to spend the rest of my life with.

Flying displays are often tame and don’t really allow you to see the beauty of the flight or the real savagery of the birds; this one was different though.  The falconer took a few risks with his unpredictable birds and as a consequence what we saw was spontaneous, amusing and gave a rare insight into these lovely creatures. The falconer does a half day or a full day falconry at his farm and we were very tempted  – he says autumn is better though because he doesn’t like hunting young animals and he likes to get the ferrets out in the autumn.  Better start saving up.

Home for curry and a happy College Boy stuffing his face with chocolate and cake.  We were good parents.  It only lasted till bedtime when we became minging moaners for asking him not to scream, hoot and swear at his little (!) friends on Skype all night.

Happy anniversary for us today and we decided to stay home and chill (hub) study (me) eat and grumble (College Boy) whinge (cat).  Cards from the family, each other and the cat,  and a call from Uni Boy who may be coming home for a visit next week.  Hub and I are both on leave because he’s having a birthday in a week’s time and we don’t believe in working on birthdays

Chinese takeaway for all three of us tonight to celebrate 24 years together (have forgiven College Boy for his nocturnal screeching) .  A busy but very different weekend and more opportunity to expand the year of laughing dangerously (that just refers to my aching ribs and the dodgy chairs really).

Who cares about the crap government and the recession when you can go out and have a laugh?

 

May 3 2012

Simple pleasures, sparkling fingers and good friends

Happy Anniversary to Lovely hub and me on May 7th – the man deserves a chestful of medals after 24 years of marriage but says he’ll be happy with a card and a Chinese takeaway.  A week later and it is Lovely hub’s birthday but this year I think I’ve managed to actually buy things that he wants (that means that he has acquired them rather than letting me run amok on the Internet as usual).  Work first however.

So – the title of this month’s OU assignment is

 

‘Critically evaluate the contribution that patient case studies have made, not only to our understanding of cognitive processes, but also to the development of cognitive neuropsychology as a discipline in its own right’

 Not necessarily the most inspiring title but definitely less challenging than last month’s statistical horror – still having nightmares about two-tailed hypotheses and ANOVAs.  Shudder.

Lovely hub’s birthday falls on the day before the assignment is due in – we have the week off together and I am determined to get the assignment written well in advance so that my time off isn’t disrupted  by stress and teeth gnashing again.

That said – did I study last night?  Nah.  Caught up on some of the digibox goodies and dozed fitfully until hub came back from work at ten thirty.  Then we jumped into the car and drove off to Manch to collect College Boy and his friend from a gig.  We were a bit early and hub was hungry so midnight found us sitting outside a takeaway in downtown Manch eating kebab, listening to late night rock and waiting for the lads.  Had to make a detour on the way home to Maccy D’s to fuel up the starving teenagers who turned their noses up at the kebabs.  A carful of dubious looking youths pulled up next to us in the car park but ruined their street cred because they were all tucking into McFlurries – aah – bless.  It was quite un-middle-aged to be whizzing off anywhere at that time of the night and for once, my College Boy  was the lovely funny enthusiastic person that I know he can be – instead of the hulking,brooding stropmonster that frequently inhabits his body these days.

 And tonight – did I study tonight? Nah.  We voted.  Hub administered some mild words of warning about not haranguing the Tory Boy lurking outside the polling station again this year – he spoils ALL my fun.   I promised to be good but only if said Tory Boy didn’t accost me and ask me for my polling card number.   I wasn’t good.  I wasn’t that bad either although I vaguely remember muttering ‘Tory scum’ as we came back out of the hall.  He shouldn’t have stood in my way.  Them’s the rules.

We came home and ate, then fell asleep until College Boy’s return from the Astroturf brought a rude awakening – he cannot do anything quietly  so no future for him as a cat burglar or a ninja warrior then.  Hub was on nights but dropped me at the home of my dear friend who enables me to indulge in my vanity of vanities – my ravishing red fingernails.  Dear Friend (DF) is a woman of many and varied talents who transforms these fingernails into the stuff of dreams.  Her own magic fingers are adept at massage, reflexology, manicures and pedicures.  Lovely hub says that when DF has done his feet he feels like he is walking on air – I usually manage to bring him back down to earth with a bump though.

So I have scarlet fingernails with holographic sparkles that make me feel positively skittish and not all respectable.

Tomorrow I will be good. I’m taking a flexi day before my hours reach astronomical proportions.   Hub will be asleep all morning, College Boy will be off harassing his teachers and it will just be me, whingeing cat and reading up for the assignment.  When hub wakes up we may run away to the sea, or a river or somewhere with a view for a couple of hours – all work and no play and all that stuff.  Sometimes you just need to step aside from the things that you should be doing and do things that make you feel at ease again.

This makes it sound as if it’s been a dreadful week – it hasn’t.  It’s been busy and tiring but sprinkled with diversions much like the sparkles on my fingernails; hub’s silly (and sometimes naughty) texts, e-mails from a new friend that make me smile, the random banter of my team mates, whingeing cat’s enthusiastic purr when I pick him up for a cuddle, and the grudging admission from College Boy that we aren’t that bad as parents really (but we mustn’t let it go to our heads).

Bed beckons now and these eyes really won’t stay open for much longer unless I find some match sticks.   I purely love my fingernails.

 

Apr 27 2012

A cynical cock-eyed optimist?

During the past week I have been called several names, most of them more acceptable than those used by my eloquent College Boy.

I was branded a floosie (or floozy depending on which part of the country you come from) last week because I enjoy and appreciate  the conversation and company of my male colleagues – quite like that title actually. I’ve always been one for a bit of a hug too. No tongues please.

On Monday I became a hard-line cynic with a bit of anarchy thrown in for good measure.  I am of the opinion that my employers are trying to dupe us with a hefty dose of spin – with good reason – we have to recoup 14 million big ones and we aren’t going to do that without some blood on the carpet.  I’d prefer honesty but our comms and hr departments seem hell-bent on the using the mushroom technique (keep us in the dark and cover us with  ….compost?).

My wonderful partner in crime and I attended one of those rare meetings where you get to speak your mind – and we did. I also doodled a lot – it stops me from saying too much – sort of. We have been told that we shouldn’t sit next to each other in meetings because we encourage each other – that’s the idea actually.

We left the meeting still on speaking terms with comms and hr but they were looking a little hurt by our cynicism – ah shame.  Still – our chief exec has got a new job and WON’T be getting a golden handshake when she goes – I’d like to say she’ll be missed – I’d like to but she won’t.

Tuesday was hell.  Busy and at times I felt myself drowning under a sea of nobber-led idiocy.

By Wednesday my natural optimism had resurfaced having fought its usual battle with pessimism and a healthy dose of paranoia.  Later that date my boss commented that I would always be a bit of a rebel – and I quite liked that title too.

Yesterday was overwhelmingly  good to start off with because I went on a course and was a girly swot for knowing all the answers and being VERY helpful to the trainers who were undergoing an assessment themselves. By Zumba time however, my inability to tell my right from my left and to remember more than one piece of fancy footwork for more than three seconds had left me feeling deflated, knackered and in need of a glass (or three) of the hard stuff.

Today has been busy again so I have by turns been helpful, highly efficient(-ish), kind (to a colleague who was very apprehensive about a meeting we were in – it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be – I knew that) and generous – to my scavvy friend who came on a late afternoon biscuit trawl (I have it on good authority that his own team hide all their biscuits from him).  I got two compliments on my appearance today as well – something usually limited to my lovely hub.

I even managed to play the stern mother for a very brief period this evening although I ran out of umph rather too quickly and College Boy regained the dominant position – ah but he hugged me goodbye before going off to the cinema with his buddies.

So is it possible to be a cynical cock-eyed optimist then?  A happily married floosie?  A girly swot with two left feet and a decidedly rebellious streak?  If I ask  my hub he will undoubtedly say that I am all those things and several more – after twenty-five years together he has a lot of names for me and not all of them complimentary.  We won’t go into the fact that I will never qualify for the housewife of the year  title, I have no cleaning and tidying genes and whilst I have some habits that verge on the OC end of the scale I am too easily distracted by my kindle, my computer and anyone with the ability to make me laugh.

I managed to concentrate long enough to pass my assignment with a creditable 66% – and statistical testing is still a mystery to me – but I must mug up on it before residential school at the end of July or I will definitely lose my girly swot status.

College Boy has returned from the cinema – he’s seen The Avengers but informs me that unless I’ve seen both Iron Man films, the Hulk and Captain America then I won’t understand any of it.  I try to explain that these comics were part of my stable reading diet back in the day but he hurrumphs and reminds me that I am just an old fogie who knows nothing.

Then kisses me good night.  I am damned with his faint praise.

Apr 21 2012

When I thought I knew all the good insults already ….

Life has been taken up by the assignment from hell for the past two weeks but I finished it in the end and sent it off to my tutor with condolences.  This was the first time in nine years of OU study I’ve sent off an assignment and had doubts as to whether it would pass.  That sounds a bit arrogant but if you check that you’ve met all the criteria you’re usually onto a winner and I haven’t failed one yet – yet.  Uni Boy was very helpful with the sums bit – he gave me quite a few pitying looks (far worse than the fluent sarcasm) but did eventually admit that he may be an A* student but statistics was the one section of his Maths ‘A’ level that he hated.  Gave lovely Hub the first draft of the assignment to read and he had to go and sit in the bedroom with the curtains drawn.  He was gone for ages and when he emerged, his face was grey and very serious.  He handed me back the assignment and very solemnly informed me that his head was about to explode.  Shades of ‘Blazing Saddles’ – “You’re on your own”.

I like a challenge.  My own head nearly burst a couple of times but the relief once I’d finished it and sent it – and all its little attachments – tremendous.

Uni Boy has now gone back to Uni.  There have been a few fraught moments between him and College Boy over Easter – the green-eyed monster reared its ugly little head and they actually came to blows on one occasion.  I sought counsel from a mate who is a one of those policemen types – worried in case the boys did each other any damage or Hub got caught in the middle of the melee.  My mate was very practical and advised me to get a large alcoholic drink and tell them to take it elsewhere but not to call the rozzers because when all is said and done – it’s just testosterone.

College Boy is going through a dodgy time anyway – on Monday his Tweedledum teacher sent him out of class for talking – I spent his formative years trying teach him to talk and she tells him to shut up!  Everyone else in the class was talking too but she zoned in on him because he is six-foot tall, broad and loud – and he did actually say ‘whatever’ at her.  Classic control mechanism – go for the most dominant member of a troublesome group and remove them, the rest of the group will calm down and you’re back in control again. Yeah, well, she isn’t targeting MY BOY!  She stalked into the classroom where he’d sat down and set up his laptop and actually said ‘Don’t think you can call me a bad teacher either!’  Ummm – he didn’t actually say anything about her ability as a teacher – Freudian slip or what?

I got a call from his form teacher asking me to discipline him for his behaviour – but after I’d told her how disgusted Hub and I were with the way Tweedledum and Tweedledee spoke to us at parents’ evening – she kind of backed down and asked me if I would discuss it with him and perhaps come up with some coping mechanisms.  I suggested that Tweedledum try teaching the class instead of giving them handouts and tell them to read silently for the duration of the lesson. Does she not realise that teenagers don’t do ANYTHING in silence (unless they are doing something dubious that they don’t think you’ll find out about).

I think we still have to have a discussion with the head of college about College Boy’s attitude (and undoubtedly mine too ) but the heat is off – for the time being at least.

We took Uni Boy back to York on Wednesday – my last day off before going back to work – and a day on which I learned two new insults, one from each of my boys.  Good taste prevents me from reproducing them here but a swift trip round Google and a couple of unsubtle hints might help anyone curious enough to want to know what they were.

College Boy was a little agitated when we dropped him off in the morning – hence the insults – but he was grimacing not snarling when he delivered them so I see that as a term of endearment really (deluded mother).  According to Google, the insult was in Sk8ter Boi lingo and intimated that of all buffoons – I was the buffoon of buffoons – in Kolij Boi’s humble opinion anyway.

I left Hub and Uni Boy to pack the worldly goods into the car – smug in a post-assignment sort of way.  We collected my Dad – a now indispensable member of the York Road trip crew and set off in the rain.  Dad and Uni Boy slept through the journey – I stayed awake because it seems a bit disloyal to nod off when Hub doesn’t have a choice about it – SOMEBODY has to drive!

It took several trips to get everything upstairs and into Uni Boy’s bijou pad – noticed that the cleaners still haven’t got rid of all the flour from the carpet.  Last time we were there the room opposite had been covered with mini post its – each one bearing something crude and/or Anglo-Saxon in origin.  This time it was Uni Boy’s turn to have his door decorated – with a large white poster stating ‘I (heart) c*****’.  Hadn’t come across that one before – neither had Hub.  Googled it.  Another name for a particular part of a lady’s anatomy apparently.  I have been informed by those who know these things that it originates from ‘The Inbetweeners’.

I thought I knew all the best insults and rude words.  I even got Hub to teach me some really guttural German swear words when I worked with grotty adolescents – that way I had the chance to get my own back by smiling sweetly and trotting out my Teutonic insults in a light and pleasant tone.  Only I knew what I was really saying to them.

We went out for a meal and then took Uni Boy on the usual stocking up expedition to The ASDA – he seems to be living on spaghetti at the moment, but there was plenty of fruit and veg and only a couple of bottles of booze.  Each time we leave him it gets a little easier – he’s happy in his little room, he has a good social life and plenty of mates and his grades are excellent  – but oh I miss the boy.

College Boy was welly jeally that we’d been gone all day so we had to go on a kebab meat hunt after we’d dropped Dad off.  The Dukan diet has reared its ugly head again and though I don’t think Mr Dukan would be too chuffed at the idea of scoffing kebab meat – College Boy seems to think it is okay if you lose the pitta bread and salad!

Back to work on Thursday and whilst it was quite nice to have a two-day week, there was so much to catch up with and a lot of it was caused by  other people’s stooooopidity.  An added irritation was the numerous calls from the PPI sellers – now renamed ‘nobbers’ (Brian Cox’s favourite derogatory term for Twitter Idiots).  It’s bad enough when you get the recorded message but I had at least three calls from live personages who couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to talk to them about PPI.

So here we are – it’s the weekend and Hub is on lates so I’m cheating and watching trash TV (as in stuff that he looks disdainfully at but would never dream of stopping me watching if I wanted to – I just prefer his company)   The Voice – hmmm – according to College Boy the singing is too good and not funny  (all a bit too warbly for me) – he recommends BGT because there are crap performers on it – so I’ll watch till I get irritated.  Milli0n Pound Drop – Davina gets up my nose but Chris Doyle and Dawn Porter are on tonight – so I’ll just have to keep my finger on the mute button.

I’d be much happier in a world where I could just watch programmes that make me laugh.  Having said that  – Tom Jones just made the right choice – in my humble opinion.

Apr 6 2012

Sinclair Spectrum revisited

My latest OU module requires me to do programming with something called E-Prime.  I have to run an experiment, analyse the data and do a project report on the whole thing.

Pivotal to the whole experiment  is building a little programme first, running it and hoping that it will give me some results.

No problem.  Uni Boy assures me this is a doddle if you are numerate – knowing full well that I am not.  College Boy sniggers.  Lovely hub is sympathetic and says maybe I should leave it until I’ve had something to eat, drink and slept off the rigors of the working day (I can power nap standing up if necessary and sometimes it is).

Following the instructions meticulously I put the programme together on Monday.  It failed to run and came up with an insidious error message that made no sense to me.  Hub was on a late shift so I cut my losses, had a drink and watched Dave to cheer myself up until he came home  (Dave the channel – not the film – I can always find an episode of Mock the Week, HIGNFY or QI to banish my blues.)

I tried again on Tuesday – this is beginning to sound like Craig David.  Started from scratch and failed again.  Checked the OU website and discovered myself in good company with a lot of other sad losers with annoying error messages.  Hub went off to work on a night shift, Dave channel went on and I settled down for the third time to try to tame the beast.

I read the instructions again.  There, lurking insignificantly was a sentence about removing the original slides once you have copied them into the subsidiary programme.  Aha!  I did it.  It worked.  In College Boy terminology I am of the win! (as opposed to my usual status of epic fail.)

It took me back horribly to my first dabblings with programming in the shape of the Sinclair Spectrum.  It plugged into the TV and before they started putting the programmes on cassette tapes you had to sit there patiently (or not in my case) putting rows of numbers, back slashes and colons in only to find – if you were lucky – that it would run a very simple sequence  that was over in seconds or – and this was more often my experience – you would have put your colon in a totally inappropriate place (tricky?) and the error message that appeared gave you absolutely no clue about what was wrong , it just sat there on the TV screen blinking smugly at you.

Scarred by this early experience I abandoned any thought of working with numbers and computers and lurched off into the murky world of stage management (temporary blip), followed by the even murkier world of social work (there’s no way out).

I use computers all the time now – at work and at home  – but I rarely have to play around with the programming stuff.  Strangely enough I love statistics and the sight of a well-arranged spreadsheet fills my anorak heart with joy.  I can’t add up for toffee though.

Enough of the cerebral stuff.  Hub and I are abandoning Uni Boy and College Boy to their slumbers and heading for the seaside.  Off to Crosby to see the standing men (Anthony Gormley’s  ‘Another Place’).  they never fail to cheer me up and I could do with some fresh see air.  Hope the house is still standing when we get back.

Apr 1 2012

Not such a perfect weekend

Working from home yesterday – or trying to.  The laptop decided that it didn’t want to connect to the network  so I had to use the alternative method of connecting.  It’s a pain because the usual method gives me three hours continuous access at a time whereas using the other way only gives me an hour before I have to reboot.

Out of an eight-hour shift only two calls were genuine emergencies; the rest were the result of people  acting like dipsticks.  Lovely hub was working and boys were both asleep.  Whinging cat slept once fed but came up to the office  three times during the day to wail at me for more. Usually good conditions for working from home.  Ha!

Low lights of the day –  hospital staff who can’t be bothered to call when they should, leave it several hours and then complain when it’s too late to do anything because the person was sent home hours ago – oh yeah – that’s a real emergency.

The prize for total dipstick goes to a paediatric nurse who I spent nearly an hour chasing only to find out that she had no medical or parental consent to make her request anyway.  The first contact number she gave me was for an operating theatre recovery room, the second was for the path lab.  In between I tried to find her through the switchboard and she cut me off three times because she didn’t know how to use the phone.  They let this woman loose on sick children?  My son was on this ward a couple of months ago!

It took me another hour after my shift ended to get everything recorded and I went into our bedroom and pulled the duvet over my head. Go away world.

Lovely hub came to the rescue with a glass of sherry and a mild exhortation to come out and get some fresh air.  I could very easily have stayed where I was but  he was right to cajole.

Suitably booted and in warm coats we headed for the monument.  There’s something very levelling about watching the sun go down from the top of a hill.  All the idiocy fades into the background as the world just goes on doing its stuff whether you are there or not.  The irritations of the day faded away eventually.

Sunny again today though and as hub was on a late shift we headed down to the Mersey (our bit – not the Liverpool bit) to get some more fresh air and watch the river run.  We were just about to go home when we bumped into an old friend who’d brought his mum out for an airing.  An impromptu half pint at the Ferry Tavern – and we’re talking decent non-fizzy cider here – and we depart for home so that lovely hub can go off to work and I can get on with some work.

Four hours later I keep being seduced away from E-prime experiments and analysis by Twitter, Facebook and my blog.    Uni Boy has pulled another all-nighter – he does this every now and then in order to get his body clock stabilised (?).  His theory – not mine.  College Boy is shooting BBs all over the garden and has subjected the cat to a combing.  Said cat is now flat-out on the floor and totally traumatised.  I hope the sun is shining on Llandudno where my Dad is having a weekend away.

Back to work in the morning.  No more prevarication.  E-Prime here I come.

Mar 31 2012

Compensatory curry and the migraine from hell

I can always tell when College Boy is nervous  – he starts attacking my dress sense.  It didn’t matter that my early go turned into a much later go and that I barely had time to pat the whingeing cat and have a wee before we had to head back out again to college.  My sin this time was to be wearing double denim – or to be more accurate – double chambray – and this would cause him maximum embarrassment in front of his teachers and his mates.  Tough – if it’s good enough to go to work in  – and we do apparently  have some kind of a dress code – then it’s good enough to spend half an hour being lectured at by some snot-nosed teacher with an eye on the clock.

We parked in the wrong car park.  That would be the car park that we always park in but he wanted us to park in a different one, he just didn’t bother to tell us that until we stopped.  We don’t walk fast enough.  Some of us have been at work all day but work is nowhere near as arduous as college – apparently.

First of the five teachers on our hit list – Mrs Psych and Ms Soc – the Tweedledum and Tweedledee of social sciences.  I have been hearing about these two harpies for the past 6 months and am not impressed.  I already know that they are teachers who are teaching social sciences as a subsidiary of their main subjects  – so their hearts (and minds) are not really in it.  This is obvious from the copious amounts of photocopied handouts they send home and an over reliance on the text-book.  My suspicions are confirmed by flabby wet handshakes and a reluctance to look me in the eye.  They trot out a pre-programmed spiel designed to bamboozle the average parent and start moaning on about the fact that College Boy does all his work on a laptop.  We know this – we bought the laptop for Christmas at the suggestion of…..Mrs Psych and Ms Soc who said it would help the boy catch up on work after his mammoth battles with the quinsied tonsil.  Apparently he plays chess on it in class when he’s bored.  Why is he bored? Because he whizzes through the work and his teacher tells him to go over his work again – and again – and again until the bell sounds for the next lesson. We have been telling teachers for years that College Boy likes to help those who have trouble learning.  He is a good and patient teacher and when his maths teacher listened to me two years ago – not only did he get good grades but so did the other kids that he helped.  He is a pragmatic learner who learns better by doing and showing than reading the same chapter over and over again.

Using the word pragmatic was a bad move; I can see their hackles rising as I seek to question their teaching style. What kind of fool am I?  Don’t I understand that parents know nothing about their children? Or teaching?  Or learning?  My hub describes me as an eternal student and I suppose after nine years of Open University study I am.  I know schools have targets to reach and I know that teachers are under pressure.  I spent ten years working with grotty adolescents so I fully understand how obnoxious they are.   My own studies in Psych and Soc and the discussions College Boy and I have about them, would lead me to believe that he is genuinely interested but has questions that his teachers cannot answer because they only know what’s in the book.  We leave with a parting glare and Mum’s gauntlet well and truly thrown down.

As we wait in the corridor to see the science bods, the chill wind of College Boy’s disapproval is blowing over me again and I may have overstepped the mark somewhere.  So hard to know when the mark is invisible and keeps moving anyway.

We love College Boy’s Chemistry teacher – he is on YouTube dancing on the lab worktops to ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ and ‘Dancing in the Street’ and he knows all the words.  When he tells me my darling boy is bone idle but brilliant company in class, I love him even more.  He admits to having dropped out of college mid ‘A’ level himself and how hard it is to study when you are a party animal. This is a real teacher.   College Boy promises to knuckle under and the three of us promise not to kill him this week.  My heart lifts slightly.

The Physics duo are sweet and smile at College Boy a lot.  He smiles back and promises to try harder.  We all acknowledge that Physics is the hardest of his four subjects and the one that is likely to get dropped next year but these ladies are fighting hard for my boy and I can see in their eyes that they really want him to succeed. I kind of love them too therefore.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.  I find that if I really dread things then they seldom are that bad – which is at odds with my normal cock-eyed optimism.  We only live a five-minute drive away however and by the time we get back I want to strangle my boy – who has moved back into arrogant adolescent mode and is telling us that he will do what he wants because it is his life – not ours.  No – we are just the financiers.

My head is throbbing and the fairy lights are shooting around the periphery of my eyes. The black walls of tunnel vision are closing in and all I want is five minutes peace and quiet from College Boy’s pseudo-self-confident drone.  Lovely hub takes him away indoors and I sit in the car with my eyes closed and try to think about nice things.  Chocolate. No! Lent isn’t over yet. Wine. No! Can’t take it with migraine medication.  Dinner. No! Can’t order it whilst College Boy is playing up or we’ll be seen to be rewarding bad behaviour.

Hub returns about ten minutes later and we sit in silent sympathy in the car, holding hands and wanting to run away from it all.  The peace is broken by a distant thumping noise and the classical music that is the ringtone for Uni Boy’s mobile.  “Mother, where are you?  he appears to be trying to bash my door down again.  I’ve barricaded myself in.”

We leave the car.  Hub bellows at College Boy – who bellows back.  I mollify Uni Boy who I know has wound his brother up by using his own brand of exceptional fluent and razor-sharp sarcasm.  It’s times like these that I think back to another of my Grandma’s homey platitudes;  ‘I’d rather have had a set of jugs”. This used to cut me to the core when my own mother said it but I understand so well what she meant now.

The dust settled – as it always does.  I took the drugs and the takeaway was ordered.  I wish we’d had more to celebrate than another storm weathered but one sweet day my baby boy will wake up from his dream and realise  that he has to put in more of an effort if he wants the things that his dad and I have worked so hard to achieve.

What makes it harder is that I’m looking into a mirror of myself at seventeen.  His faults are my faults but so are his strengths and if I survived then so can he.  Now he’s talking about getting a motorbike.  Oh god…..

 

Mar 29 2012

Dreading this evening …..

College Boy has shed his melancholia  – at least for the time being anyway – although he hasn’t actually spoken to me this morning yet.  This may be due to a preoccupation with his beautiful hair or some unspoken crime that I’ve committed – ‘looking at him in a funny way’, ‘breathing in his direction’ or ‘smelling funny’ (that’s ‘perfume’ to the rest of the world).  I get off lightly compared to his Dad – who nearly caused an incident on the motorway by having a swig of squash whilst driving. The ensuing temper tantrum from College Boy because ‘the smell makes me want to vomit’ was awesome.  The suggestion that a dehydrated Dad does not a good driver make  – fell on adolescently deaf ears.

So it’s parents’ evening this evening and if it goes well all four of us will celebrate with a takeaway.  If it goes badly then he’s buying his own (that went down like a lead balloon but to be honest I’m running short of sanctions).  How do you discipline a six footer who has an independent income and an occasional scary manner.  In the words of my grandma ‘I’m mother yet!’ I say it but I’m not convinced.

Later z

Swift update – he has spoken and it appears that he has a test this morning and that’s why the air is stiff with tension.  Must watch my ‘p’s ‘q’s and every other letter in the alphabet for the next twenty minutes. (Grits teeth).

Mar 28 2012

“We’re all insignificant really, aren’t we Mum – in the big picture?”

The words of my melancholy College Boy last night before he went to bed.  It may have something to do with turning 17 or the fact that it’s parents’ evening on Thursday or just that sometimes the big picture is just too – big?

At the risk of being horribly philosophical first thing in the morning – and I’m sure this will have worn off by lunchtime – I don’t feel insignificant.  Not from an over-inflated ego point of view but from the stance that what I do – what we all do  – makes a difference.

I may get annoyed with the receptionists at the medical centre but for every person like me that they annoy, there are probably hundreds who go away happy with their appointment, their prescription, their sick note.

People are so suspicious about doing the right thing.  I did the right thing – as I saw it – the other night.  Didn’t take much effort – a quick phone call and a tweet.  I didn’t realise until the next day that my actions would be viewed with suspicion – because after all – why would you want to help someone who you don’t even know?

I don’t know who will be getting the benefit of my charity donations; like millions of others I donated to Sport Relief – partly because of John Bishop making me cry but also because my own life is comfortable and happy thank you very much.  I bought a daffodil from a lady collecting for Marie Curie, her hands were shaking and she didn’t look well at all.  How much less effort did it take from me to put some money in her collecting tin?

Everyday I work to help people who I’ll never meet, I get paid for it – not well but that’s local government for you – don’t believe what the private sector say about our perks I’m still waiting to see them after thirty odd years – tell a lie – I get 25 per cent off the price of the bus pass I use to get to work.

Time to go and do the job now – but my answer to my beautiful boy is –  No, we are not insignificant – big picture or small picture we still make a difference every day – we can’t solve all the big stuff but it’s the solving of the small stuff that is just as important and we all do that.

I’ll just have to regain this philosophical frame of mind when we turn up for parents’ evening on Thursday.