moving, just keep moving
I’ve set up home elsewhere.
My first post explains why I have decided to do this. Maybe I am irrational, having spent three years building up ‘a life’ here.?Maybe I will end up back here as I have in the past? I just feel the need to make it.
Please come with me. My blog is – and always has been – so much better with you:
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sticking two fingers up at 2009
I’m going to try and keep this post as positive as I can, given that this year has been a bit of a shitter wouldn’t you say? I think that is a fair statement.
In every negative situation, if you look hard enough (and sometimes you don’t really have to look hard at all), you can draw out some good as well. This past year might have stunk like a skunk on the attack, but it wasn’t all bad. It started off with a positive frame of mind and I think that’s the key to coming through the difficult times.
There’s been a lot of research done into recovering from set backs. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy is grounded in how you think about and interact with the world. You can greatly minimise the distress that a difficult life episode may impose by responding to the situation in a positive manner. I’m not saying that you dance a jig when your cat gets run over or anything – there’s nothing wrong with reacting to a hard time by feeling and expressing anger or sadness – but ultimately you control how you react, how long you allow yourself to wallow, how well you adapt and recover. I firmly believe that it doesn’t really matter where we end up in this life but we should be taking in all the opportunities that the world opens up for us. Life is about the journey. Look at the colours around you even on a grey day. Smell the wet soil after overnight rain. Doesn’t that Godminster Vintage taste incredible? What on earth is Lily doing chewing my sock, scampering off and then darting back to chew again? I know I sound like a walking cliche but maybe we should all be a little more appreciative of the little things that make up the bigger picture, maybe that would make us happier people?
This year I went through two rounds of redundancy consultation and it wasn’t a lot of fun. But that said, both rounds bonded me with my colleagues. We were up against each other as individuals, but we were also together as a team under threat. I have very mixed feelings about my place of work. Today is my last day and I am finishing up a handover document. As I look back, I can think of tears and stress and feeling unvalued because the senior management team cut us and cut us and, worst of all, they lied to us. But at the same time I have some great memories and have made some fantastic friends who I believe I will be friends with for years. All in, I like my current company. I don’t think the senior team is made up of bad people, I don’t think they meant any upset. The economic climate isn’t exactly pleasant. So I look back fondly and think of all I learnt as a result of the stresses and strains. The upside to going through two rounds of redundancy and coming out the other side is that on a good day I think “actually, I am good at my job!” and I had the confidence to go for a better job. Ok, so now I am stressing that I am not good enough for the new job, but a little bit of stress is healthy 
When 2008 drew to a close, I did a year round up in pictures, inspired by Miss Pinkjellybaby and a little later wrote a post in which I vowed not to put up with fuckwits in 2009, inspired by continuing bad behaviour from Fire Man. Sure, I FAILed in cutting him out of my life, but I think I succeeded with the fuckwit part of my promise: Fire Man and I still have a competitive relationship in which we constantly try to go one better than the other in EVERYTHING but the cruel streak on either side has gone. The greatest evidence that I’m not taking shit from people has been my handling of The Mother who has surpassed her fuckwit self in increasing leaps and bounds as the year has progressed. She’s now at arm’s length, teetering on the brink of extinction from my life. I’d prefer it if she sorted herself out if I am honest but I’m not holding my breath on that one. I do feel more in control of the situation though. I can’t dictate what she does and doesn’t do, but if she destroys the final threads of our relationship, well, that’s her doing and I feel in a better position to leave her to spontaneously combust on her own without taking me with her.
The Mechanic and I have been through the wringer this year too, with both our families turning into big messes. I suppose at least the upsets have been on both sides and we have come through them. It’s been hit and miss at times and I’ve been so angry with him sometimes that I am amazed I didn’t resort to physical violence out of sheer frustration, but here we are at the end of the year and we are together. There is a lot wrong with our relationship and sometimes I think it would be easier to just go our separate ways, that the upset of the end of the relationship would be lesser than the upset that staying together creates, but neither one of us wants to end it at the moment. The Mechanic is a good and kind man and he takes a lot of shit from me. He drives me insane when he doesn’t “get it” quickly enough for my liking or just doesn’t think before doing something (or not doing something) but the good still outweighs the bad right now and I could do with being a little more forgiving and a little less demanding. He has had plenty of good reasons to walk away from me – my temper is incredibly ugly for one – but he hasn’t. We are both grieving over extreme losses this year and we both realise that some of the barneys stem from general anger and upset at the world that needs to be let out. There are probably better ways to get this release – and I’m working to redirect the desire to lash out in more healthy and/or productive ways – but we both realise this. I’m not saying that we will be together always or that the day won’t come when we decide that we need to call time on ‘us’ but as 2010 comes round, I don’t think that is now. Who knows what the next year will bring for us? Like everyone else, we’ll just have to live it and see.
Of course, there is no escaping the big crisis of the year. I considered not mentioning it because it is a desperately sad event for me but it would be wrong to omit it from this final pondering of 2009. On 17 September 2009, my dear Dad died in an accident at home aged just 58. I’m not linking back, you can find it yourself through the archives if you like. I expect anyone reading this post was there at the time and witnessed the gut-wrenching emotional fall out. Not a day has passed without me thinking of him. I never understood people when they said that they always think of someone they love. I thought they were exaggerating. I mean, how can that be true? But it is. He’ll always pop up before the day is out. Sometimes I can hear his voice in my head. If I am fraught about something or if I have gone off the deep end at someone when perhaps I could have held back (usually The Mechanic), I can hear him saying my name three times over in that way that he used to down the telephone when I called him, cheeks tear-stained over some ridiculous worry or other. Sometimes I hear nothing at all. Sometimes I will him to say something to me but nothing comes, no voice, no picture in my head, nothing. I dunno, parents eh, always doing it their way.
I’ve been trying to take a positive from what happened. It’s not easy by any means. I haven’t found anything good to come out of him not being here anymore, but I am trying to experience life and appreciate every moment. I am living my life for me but also for him now. He gave me such a good start in life, he gave me opportunity and I would be selfish and ungrateful to waste it. With every obstacle I come across that I manage to pass, I will do it because he taught me how to be human. I hope that I’ll be able to make a life of which he can be proud and I hope to pass on to my own children the values that he helped me come to hold important.
So, I am glad to see the back of this horrible year, but I will never forget it and I will try to build on what I have learnt so that when the next horrible year comes along (it might not be 2010 – God I hope not, give me a break! – but there will be one because that is how life goes), I will be better able to face whatever needs to be faced.
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you know you are old when…
… your other half’s mother sends you a message on Facebook to let you know that your new iPhone has been delivered to her place of work and, rather than leaping up squealing like an excitable piglet to go and get it, you groan about having to get in the car to drive there.
… you don’t tear open the box in a frenzy to get at the Apple masterpiece within.
… you feel positively bewildered just looking at it.
… it takes ten minutes to muster up the courage to turn the thing on and requires support from Daniel (online) and Nanu (called from Blackberry) to go through the initial stages of set up.
… you feel too tired to sort out your contacts/iTunes/other synchy bollocks and “will do it later”
… EVERYTHING about it is confusing.
… but you’re dead impressed with the auto-orientation on the keyboard.
I’ve had the phone a couple of hours now I think and got four apps. That’s enough feeling old for one day.
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christmas part 2
Well, the blasted phone is dead. Dead. I don’t have the extender thing that makes the memory card a length that won’t get lost in the lap top’s card drive with me so no photos. Not that they were interesting anyway, just a couple of shots of a bare flower bed and a wooden garden love seat.
The Day After Boxing Day appeared as it tends to do but there was no let up from the minging cold. I was deeply unimpressed as I had to drive from Fareham up to Stock in Essex to spend the day with Dad’s brother and his wife. This meant leaving Aunty Sue’s at 8.30am because when you hit middle age in our family, you go mad and have to start every journey impossibly early to miss the traffic. Sue is one of those drivers that will do 90mph for ten minutes and then drop down to 60mph for a bit before inexplicably going up to, say, 80mph. There’s no consistency. It made for a fun fun fun journey in convoy.
On arriving at their enormous house, we all flaked out on the sofas while Uncle and his wife said goodbye to the other side of their family, who were heading back to Ireland. Hiss. There are a million nieces and nephews on that side of the family by marriage, all staking their claim to this house and the land where my Dad and his siblings grew up (on which the house is built since our Uncle and his wife tore down the old family home to replace it with this impressive modern dwelling). Half of our lot then headed off to a nearby nursing home to see my Dad’s favourite uncle, who we are losing to Alzheimer’s but I didn’t go as I was too unwell and if the uncle caught it, it could really do him harm because he’s so frail. So I slept in the lounge and then took advantage of the peace and quiet to make myself a cup of coffee, wrap up in jumpers and my coat and head down the end of the garden to sit by the flower bed mentioned at the start of this post.
This is where we scattered Dad two months ago. You can still see the coarser grains of grey ash mixed into the soil, where our uncle raked it all together.
When Dad first died, I used to openly talk to him, usually while driving some place because the car affords relative privacy. I tend to not vocalise my conversations with him anymore. I sat there in the bitter cold drinking my coffee from Uncle Chris’s Manchester United mug (“That’s his special coffee mug,” said my aunt as I poured the hot water) and just thinking to him. It wasn’t the easiest chat over coffee I’ve ever had and for those five minutes, it all felt as raw as the day it all happened. He didn’t have anything to say and no amount of willing a sign made any difference of course.
The others returned home and it was time for a big family meal, during which my Aunty Sue made her usual digs about my weight: “Your family does seem predisposed to putting on weight” (reference to Mother) and “You are nicely covered”. At the latter, I shot back with “well, at least I have tits” which she laughed at, thinking it was all good-natured. In all honesty, from my side it wasn’t. I’m not the skinniest girl in the world, but at a size 12 (UK), I’m not exactly huge. My jeans have actually been a little loose lately, although I’m not down to a 10 by any means.
There was more lolling around the lounge making conversation and swapping a few presents and before we knew it, it was 7pm and we really needed to be getting on as I had a journey back to Dorset to make of 186 miles. I was tired and coughy, sneezy and nose-runny and really couldn’t be arsed, but off we went. We made good time, and had I been going to TM’s rather than The Sister’s I’d've done the 160 mile journey in two and a bit hours’ but the windy roads to and from The Sister’s put paid to that and it was three hours before I crawled into bed.
You’d've thought that Christmas would be over by that point, but no. The next day was Christmas Day Mark 2 as The Mechanic’s family had spent Christmas Day Proper all over the place so his mother had chosen the bank holiday for their festive day together. Which meant more family stuff, another Christmas meal, and more smiles through (by this point) chesty cold.
And yesterday it was back to work until the evening when TM and I went over to his father’s partner’s house for dinner. When TM called her the day before she admitted that she had been avoiding him because she’s a coward (her words not mine). She had been over to visit TM’s Dad on the island and ended their relationship. On the one hand, I’m not surprised. After what’s happened, I wouldn’t blame anybody for walking away from him. On the other hand, she said she was in it for the long haul and was going to wait for him. While I fully expected time to take its toll and her to leave eventually, I hadn’t expected a u-turn quite so soon. Her sister was there last night and, while she was out in the kitchen with TM talking about his father, her sister and I made polite conversation in the lounge.
And all I can say is, who needs enemies when you have a sister like that!
She raised concerns about TM’s father’s input into the house they bought together, suggesting that the partner was pocketing all the money from it. Now, neither TM nor I know what the financial situation was there – not our business – but his father did a lot of improvement works to the house which saw its value shoot up, so it looks like there might be a big old financial mess ahead. How do you go about sorting that out from a cell??
And speaking of money. TM seriously pissed me off last night. The partner’s sister is about as subtle as a brick through the window when it comes to most things and she didn’t know the circumstances of my Dad’s death so, rather than waiting for us to leave and getting the gory details from her sister, she pressed and pressed me over our glasses of wine. Nobody stepped in to save me. She then said: “Well, hopefully there will be some money coming your way” to which I replied: “Yes, not a huge amount but some.”
The Mechanic then scoffed: “Your idea of ‘not a huge amount’ and mine are totally different” before letting out his stupid dumbarse country laugh. I think I visibly bristled. When we got home, I told him to mind his own about my father’s money and he can bet his bottom dollar (which he’d've spent a long time ago had I not been propping us up for so fucking long) that he won’t see a penny of it. I’ve decided to buy on my own and get a mortgage on my own. If I’m still with TM, which is looking more dubious by the day, he can pay me rent, but he isn’t going to be named on the mortgage. And if we do come to break up with a house to worry about, he can just pack his stuff up and jog on.
Happy Christmas.
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christmas part 1
And so Christmas is over for another year. It’s been uneventful. There has been a fair bit of travelling. There’s been a good dose of ill health.
I’ve dusted off the work laptop to work from home today, tomorrow and Thursday – got The Handover to write.
Christmas Eve came around and I was pleased that I didn’t work the event in London because I didn’t feel brilliant. I had had a sore throat the previous day and by the end of Christmas Eve, I was sneezing and coughing. I put it down to using so many cleaning products as the afternoon was spent cleaning the flat from top to bottom ahead of going away for the festive break.
The Mechanic returned from work and took his boots off in my hallway. Within five minutes, my beautiful clean flat stunk of nasty feet. We had an argument.
I got into my car – already loaded – and he got into his van and we headed off to Dorset, expecting a three or four hour journey (usually around two) because of Christmas traffic. As we trundled along down the M3, a traffic information board informed us that the A303 was closed so we took our other route through Salisbury and down to Blandford. The roads were clear the whole way and we got there in just over two hours, which is damn good going.
Last year, The Mechanic and I went down to the local pub with his sisters and other halves for a Christmas Eve drink or five, but this year the girls were all over the country so it was just us. We only had one, just to get out the house and try and get into a festive spirit, but given the maulings our respective families have taken this year and the enormous voids left by absent fathers, we knew it was going to be a long shot.
On Christmas Day, I woke up full of cold. We dragged ourselves out of bed around 10am and headed over to my sister’s house, which is where we were spending the day. From there, we drove over to The Mother’s. Yes, I know. Neither of us were happy about it, but we knew that if we didn’t get her anything for Christmas or if we didn’t see her, she’d use it as a weapon against us. She seemed pleased with her YSL Paris perfume, Jo Brand book, Winnie-the-Pooh nightwear, Christmas socks and “How intelligent is your dog” kit.
In return, we got a bag each of (individually wrapped) kitchen staples. I’m not joking. Highlights included a bag of tagliatelle, a pot of green olives, squeezy Marmite and a four-pack of tuna steaks (in spring water). Still, it was all M&S and Sainsburys stuff and I can’t afford to shop there so the luxury is appreciated. We also got a pair of slipper boots each and I am well chuffed with these because they are very comfy and my old ones are falling to pieces. Tucked into one of the boots was a cheque, which I have put towards a new point-and-shoot camera.
Back to The Sister’s village and we headed along to the local pub. It is tradition for the locals to head down the pub on Christmas lunchtime and the landlord gives everybody a free drink. My large glass of red wine didn’t do anything to help the cold, but it probably assisted the afternoon sleep straight after a big lunch cooked by The Fencer.
We did presents at some point, but my head was pounding and fuzzy so I can’t recall where they fit into the timeline. The Sister’s face was a picture as she watched me open a present from The Mechanic. He got me the new Eddie Izzard DVD and… an ice scraper for my car. She told me later that she was thinking: “Oh dear Lord, TM, she’s going to kill you.” I explained that we did Christmas presents earlier in the year – he got me a leather bike jacket and I’ve written off the remaining £250 he owed me for buying his Thunderace. Not exactly romantic, but it works for us.
I was really worried about The Sister’s presents. I had gone a bit more “all out” than usual, in a lame attempt at giving her as good a Christmas as I could without our Dad there. She knew what the Ferrero Rocher box was before opening it, of course, having been given the same gift every year by him since we were kids. I also got her some other bits and bobs, but it was the main present that was really making me nervous. I bought her a white gold locket – had to hunt high and low for a tiny one as she wears very delicate jewelery and most lockets are quite big and, dare I say it, chavvy. I spent an hour one day the previous week faffing around with tiny photos of The Sister with Dad, trying to get one in each side of the pendant. I was concerned that:
a. she wouldn’t like the locket at all. She wears a Tiffany heart that The Mother bought her a few years ago and I wasn’t sure she’d want to wear this necklace at all.
b. it might make her sad to be reminded that Dad isn’t here anymore.
It appears that I worried for nothing, however, as she seemed delighted with it and – I notice – has worn it ever since. She said she wants to wear it on her wedding day so that he’s with her at the wedding. So that is nice.
She got me the new Dylan Moran (LOVE HIM!) stand up, a Jodi Picoult novel (don’t judge me ok!), some wine, and a bit of cash towards my new camera.
The afternoon was spent covered in Vicks and lying across The Mechanic’s lap asleep, while he watched Christmas Day telly with The Sister, The Fencer and The Fencer’s parents. Who talked all the way through Dr Who (I woke up for that). I have no real idea what happened in this episode, but The Sister and I found it uncomfortable viewing because whenever we see Timothy Dalton, it reminds us of Dad as he looked a bit like him. So the second parter on New Year’s Day will be interesting.
Boxing Day saw a trip to Stubbington in Hants to see Dad’s sister, Aunty Sue, and our cousins. We headed down to Hillhead for lunch at a totally packed out Osborne View. Such a shame, as it’s a nice pub. We were there for three hours and it was, mostly, dreadful. The food was ok, but the service was a total shambles. I happened upon the manager when I went to the bar – he looked about 10 years old and scarily like El Presidento’s predecessor – and calmly explained that I was unimpressed and would like him to give us a round of drinks on the house. He apologised beyond the point I have ever experienced before – such humility was excrutiating to witness – and gave us our food for free – and knocked off some drinks too it appeared. Our bill, therefore, came to £42. For EIGHT of us, each with two drinks (and I was on the large reds again). So, very well done to me there and very well done to Mr Manager at The Osborne View too.
We returned home to play Articulate before I took my Beechams to bed.
This post has now gotten too long. So the rest can wait. Besides, I need to try and extract some photos from a broken mobile phone……
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t’was the night before christmas
I wonder how many thousands of blogs will start with that line today?
Anyway, the day hasn’t started off brilliantly – The Mechanic and I slept badly last night and I was actually awake staring at my digital alarm clock from 4.05am until I got up. TM has an upset tummy, I am a dreadful cook it appears.
First stop of the day was the GP to get the blasted implant out of my arm. I had booked my appointment over two weeks’ ago – today being the soonest that they could get me in with this particular doctor (and she is the only one at the surgery who is qualified to insert and remove the little plastic nightmare that has been wreaking havoc with my already wobbly hormones). I had the first appointment of the day and I arrived early. Fifteen minutes after I should have been called through, I went to the reception to ask if there had been a problem with booking me in? No, no problem, I’ll be called through in a bit.
Some twenty minutes later than booked, I went through to see my lovely – but bonkers – doctor who was all perky and smiles and endless chatter. I really like this particular GP, she just has a way of making you feel light. I felt incredibly UNSAFE, however, as she absent-mindedly faffed about while putting the implant in a few months ago, but she did it all fine so today I knew there was nothing to worry about. It takes about twenty minutes to get the bugger out, despite it being a slim piece of plastic, no longer than a hairgrip. Still, she did it in the end, commenting on the horrendous bruise already springing up and liberally applying steri-strips. One massive bandage later – you’d've thought my arm had been nearly amputated – and I headed off to work for my last morning in the office at my current company.
Predictably, most people have taken the day off, but I certainly don’t want to waste a day’s leave right now. I’d rather have the money so work it is and the payment in lieu of holiday will be most welcome in my final pay packet at the end of the month. I’ve cleared off my desk completely now and binned the junk that I kept, even though I probably didn’t need (for example) the minutes from a meeting held in August, a note from an admin assistant at The ENDS Report, potential story ideas to consider (email dated January 2009) and a million and one back issues of Water & Wastewater Treatment magazine (yeah, it’s a read and a half, but not as good as my personal favourite, Drain Trader).
I’ve got to persuade Polly to eat her baby food laced with Fruso, clean the rat cages out (one going down to TM’s for xmas and the other going to be set up so it’s ready for when we return home after Christmas), clean the kitchen and bathroom, do another load of washing, have a shower, pack up all the Christmas presents, pack a bag of clothes etc for me, load everything into the car and tidy the flat so it’s lovely to come back to. Nothing worse than coming back to a minging flat after a break.
I’m not sure how much opportunity there will be to get online until after The Big Day now, so I’d like to wish all readers a heartfelt Merry Christmas and hope that you have a wonderful – and peaceful – festive break.
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This morning, Polly was still unwell, and looked more “fluffed up” than she had previously. When rats are distressed, they adopt a hunched over posture and their fur becomes unkempt. Her breathing hasn’t improved much, despite continuing her on the Baytril for longer than prescribed and I suspected that it wasn’t a respiratory problem that was at the root of it all after all.
Heart disease is quite common in aged rats and can be very difficult to diagnose as the symptoms are so similar to respiratory problems combined with general old age:
* Tires more quickly.
* Inactive or sleeping more than usual.
* Weakness of the hind limbs not associated with arthritic conditions or neuropathies
* Dry cough, bronchial wheeze , or moist lung sounds, making breathing labored. May prop up head to breathe easier.
* Enlarged abdomen , and / or swelling in limb(s) and feet , and / or weight gain may be seen due to fluid retention. *Note: the enlarged abdomen and swelling in limbs and feet is not commonly seen in rats with this condition.
* Little to no appetite.
* Cool, pale extremities (e.g.,ears,feet,tail) due to poor circulation.
* A noticeable sign with CHF is cyanosis (a blue tinge due to poor oxygenation) of scrotum, toes and tip of tail. This is often a late sign.
* May show anxious behavior when breathing becomes harder (e.g., not willing to be held or stay in one place).
* Scant dark (concentrated) urine.
* Dilute Urine if kidney disease present.
Now, Polly is displaying the symptoms highlighted in red. She hasn’t got any swelling, but that is uncommon, and I can’t really tell about the blue tinge as her tail is quite dark. I’ve not checked her urine – this is hard to do, especially when more than one rat inhabits the cage.
I took her in to a nearby vet as an emergency this morning. She was in a dreadful state, all wheezing and breathing so labored that her head was moving back and forth with the effort to suck air into her lungs. I explained her history and my suspicions of heart disease.
The vet looked at her like she was an alien lifeform and gingerly picked her front legs up to listen to her chest. He then picked Lily out of the carrier (all the rats had come along for the journey to help with bonding) and compared the sound of her chest to that of Polly’s. I was astonished. A small animal vet should know what a rat’s chest should sound like without having to compare with a healthier cagemate. What if I hadn’t taken Lily along? Rats aren’t exactly uncommon.
He then told me that the red staining around her nose and sprayed onto the inside of the carrier – from where she sneezes – was blood from her lungs.
Excuse me? Did you really go to university and train to become a vet? I raised my eyebrows at him as I explained what it was. That red liquid is call Porphyrin. It’s not blood. Rats tend to get Porphyrin staining around their noses and eyes when they are distressed or ill, and Polly has had it since Sybil died. Polly is clearly unwell, she has Porphyrin staining and trouble breathing, she’s making funny noises in her nose and chest. I’m bringing her here to the vet for treatment to make her well again.
He asked me if I should be keeping her in with the other three? By now, I was miles ahead of astonished. I mean, hello, you are the vet! I explained that they need to be kept in groups as they are pack animals and need to be part of a rat society.
He looked at me blankly.
“So, what are you going to prescribe for the heart disease?” I said, expecting some type of diuretic.
“There is nothing I can give. She’s too small. We have ACE inhibitors but only for larger animals like dogs,” he said. “All you can do now is decide whether her quality of life is good enough, and maybe have her put to sleep.”
“Right,” I replied, picking up the carrier. “I’ll take her home and keep an eye on her.”
I left and, because I am British and cursed with politeness, I actually paid for the consultation rather than kicking up a fuss about the piss poor service that my rat and I had received. This vet had the cheek to charge me nearly £20 for me to teach him about rat health. If I had been giving a seminar, I would have charged him!
In the car outside, The Mechanic put the carrier on his knee and looked at me: “What are you going to do then?”
I was already dialing the number of an excellent veterinary surgery down in Godalming (much further away), Rivendell Vets. They said they could get me in at 4pm. I took Polly home and settled her in the hammock tube that I recently made out of an old pair of jeans (I went through the arse pretty spectacularly) and kept her warm until the time came to leave home again.
The vet at Godalming listened to her heart and agreed that it looks like heart disease, especially as the Baytril has seen little improvement in her health. I asked her if she felt that it was just time to have Polly put to sleep, and she shook her head.
“No, she’s still active and interested in her surroundings,” she said, as Polly pulled her upper body upright against the carrier side to peek out over the top. “She’s not lost any weight and she’s still quite muscular. We should try her on Fruso and see how that goes. If there’s sign of improvement over the next ten days, she can stay on it permanently. We can maybe later consider adding in some ACE inhibitors too.”
I paid less at this vet surgery for the consultation fee AND the prescription than I did at the other surgery!
So, as usual, I am furious. I’m in the office tomorrow for a half day and, with very little to do, I will be writing a strongly worded letter of complaint to the head of the other practice and ask for a refund. I’m also reporting the vet to the RCVS. He was prepared to leave Polly to suffer, when there’s a relatively easy treatment: I have to get her to take 0.1m of Fruso twice daily, the same dose as Baytril and the same method – hide it in baby food, bread or scrambled egg. I’m so glad I sought a second opinion and hope that the Fruso helps to clear the fluid from her chest. If it doesn’t, it may be time to say goodbye to my old girl, but the vet thinks she’s got a lot of life in her yet, and I feel confident in her knowledge of small animal health.
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Well, not for me, but for The Mechanic’s Sister 1 maybe…
The Mechanic and I have tonight had a fight, one that ended with me snarling: “You can go to your fucking aunt’s for Christmas dinner because you’re not fucking coming with me.”
So, let’s take that delightful remark and rewind a little to earlier tonight, where you find your host here in her kitchen with a large knife in hand and a ma-hoo-sive potato with lots of stab wounds in it (jacket potato for dinner, need to stab it to improve cooking throughout). Your host’s mobile starts buzzing on the rug in the living room and she puts down the knife to go and answer it.
It’s TM’s Sister 1.
“Thank you for putting up Sister 2 and Friend last night,” she begins. “I’m just checking you’re on for tomorrow still?”
I paused: “Well, no Sister 1, I’m not going to do it. TM told me that Stupid Rah-y Cow won’t cover my travel and for £x, it’s not really worth my while. I still haven’t had any response from my email to Events Coordinator Colleague and I don’t even know where it is.”
The silence hung and I could hear her scowling, sitting there in her hotel room.
“Well,” I continued, ignoring the silence, “TM wanted to have a chat with you, but hasn’t called as he has been driving all day, shall I pass you over?” and with that I gave the handset to The Mechanic.
Their conversation included his complaint that he had picked up Stupid Rah-y Cow’s company van from the business only to discover that there was barely any fuel in it. It’s not on to expect him to up front fuel for her events. He went upstairs – as if to get privacy, which is laughable in a mezzanine flat. I heard the subject switch to me, and it was clear that Sister 1 had a few choice words for me.
Now, I wouldn’t necessarily mind because I am leaving her in the lurch somewhat, but I’m furious because I have done her stupid favours lately. She might like to remember who she has relied on, who her friends are. The Mechanic might also like to remember who’s just bought ALL of his family’s Christmas presents because he hasn’t bothered. And who took the time to think about what people wanted and choose suitable gifts. And who’s wrapped them all. And written the sodding cards. And done stupid favours for his spoilt brat of a sister.
I bust her slating me to him and guess what, he’s silent, doesn’t think he ought to remind her that her car is parked in my parking space and has been for three days now.
That it’s parked there for free while she works up in London for the week.
That she could have paid for a flipping car park in London instead.
That she could have got the flipping train from Dorset and got the train back to get her car before driving up to Chesterfield to spend her Christmas with her boyfriend – and therefore had to drive an extra 100 miles out of her way if she’d left her car at her own house.
That I didn’t have to put a couple of the girls who are working with her up at my flat last night with just ONE HOUR’S NOTICE and FOR FREE.
That I drove up to Clapham to pick the pair of them up and drive them back out to mine in icy conditions and that was MY DIESEL MONEY that went on those journeys.
That I didn’t have to give up my duvet and pillows to them and that I didn’t have to get them up and out to Woking station, or feed them breakfast.
That I didn’t have to look up their route online so that they knew exactly where they were going on the Underground.
And all this on the back of a begging phone call last week: they’re a ‘princess’ down for their party on 23rd, would I do it? I said to send over details. I got a one line email with a contract offering me a pathetic amount for 11 hours of my time. I only found out that they wouldn’t pay the £20 train fares to get in and out again because The Mechanic happened to ask his sister the other day in casual conversation and then told me. You know, when I sent back a reply email asking for some more information guess what I got in return…? NOTHING. No email with answers. No phone call. Not even a text.
And so I didn’t send back the contract.
For the paltry sum they’re offering to pay, they must be mad. I’d rather lie on the sofa reading a book and picking fluff out of my bellybutton. Maybe I am too middle class and shouldn’t turn my nose up at any extra money, but oh well, that’s what I am.
And tonight, she thinks she’s justified in getting huffy with me.
Apparently it was my responsibility to go chasing them for details about their event, about a day-long job that I don’t give two hoots about. Last time I checked, they were asking me to do it as a favour. She claimed that they called me and left me a voicemail. Er, no they didn’t. Here’s my phone. Here’s my 901. Oh, and here’s NO messages.
And even if they had, they hadn’t had anything from me in the four days since they apparently left the message. Didn’t occur to them to call sooner? She had the cheek to say: “It would only have taken Soupy one phone call to us.”
Yeah it works both ways, sweet cheeks. Word of advice in your lug’ole: If you are desperate for staff for an event, best not to piss them off.
After the call, we left it maybe 15 minutes and then I felt bad about leaving her in the lurch – apparently four other girls had also pulled out – so we called back and asked if they really needed me to do it. Sister 1 said to TM: “I don’t want her there if she’s going to be miserable.”
Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face. That one sentence (which I heard, I could hear everything she was saying) saw me shake my head and say: “Not a chance of me doing it now.”
And The Mechanic didn’t stick up for me, so he felt the force of my wrath.
Sister 1 got a short text saying: “I did you guys a favour. I don’t deserve to be spoken about like that.”
Sister 1 and Stupid Rah-y Cow are made from the same mold. A temper tantrum and demands get you nowhere, my princess. And so they find themselves five girls down the night before a massive event. Oh. Dear.
Filed under: Blogging | 9 Comments
rescue mission
I was hoping for a quiet evening last night. I went along to ‘Spoons for a glass of wine (one!) to bid farewell to a small number of work colleagues, and then headed over to Nandos with The Mechanic and my former PR Officer colleague and her husband.
As we were finishing our amazing creamy mash (A-mazing, I tell ye), I got a phone call from The Mechanic’s sister, begging me for a favour. Their other sister and her friend were currently stranded in Basingstoke, on their way up to London from Dorset. The Mechanic’s eldest younger sister (the one on the phone, who I shall call Sister 1 for this story) works for a posh events company that runs children’s parties for the Rich and Famous (and also Downing Street, hello there Mr Darling posing with fairy princesses in the week that you announced the PBR, fuel for “Have I got news for you?” or what?). Sister 2 (the sister stranded in Basingstoke) was heading up with her friend to work a couple of days for the company, initially setting up an event and then dressing up as an Umpa Lumpa to entertain the kids (I think the party is later today, I’m not sure, maybe tomorrow, and anyway, I am not joking about the Umpa Lumpa thing).
The thing is, the Stupid Rah-y Cow that owns the events company was too tight to arrange accomodation for the girls, so on their journey up from deepest darkest Dorset, they discovered that she had been intending on trying to sneak four girls into the hotel room that she had booked for the two permanent staff (Sister 1 and her Events Coordinator friend). There was no way they were going to sneak four girls in, two would be a push, so Sister 1 called me to beg that I put them up.
In my tiny little flat, which is effectively one open plan space (apart from the tiny bathroom).
Of course, I said that I would, but they’d have to sleep on the floor in the lounge. I had a sleeping bag and pillows and I have one of those two-in-one duvets that you separate for summer and double up for winter so they could have the thicker one of those too. I even promised to sort out their journey into London this morning. Yes, I am a star.
So we called Sister 2 to tell her to get off the train at Woking.
We then got a call back a bit later to tell us that the train that they had gotten on wasn’t stopping at Woking and they were going to have to get off at Clapham Junction. Now, these two girls are lovely, but they are Dorset born and bred, country girls. I’m not saying that they are bumpkins or anything, certainly nothing of the sort, they are both lovely and clever girls. But I wasn’t going to have them wandering around Clapham Junction station at night trying to sort out a train back to Woking.
We braved the icy roads to bomb up the A3 to Clapham Junction – a good 20 miles – and collected them just five minutes after their train arrived. A pit stop in Mcdonalds at Wandsworth perked them up, before bombing back out to the Stockbroker belt for a “comfortable” night on my lounge floor. I had, of course, packed the rat pen away by that point.
Toast and tea out of the way this morning, and the girls got the 8.06am train up to Waterloo to trek over to Angel for this blasted event.
Stupid Rah-y Cow wants me to work the 23rd. Sister 1 called me last week begging another favour and they are short of “pretty girls to be princesses”, would I cover? I initially said yes, it would be nice to get out the house and entertain some kids, but Stupid Rah-y Cow wants me to cover my costs up there, which I might do if I was living in Clapham and it would just be an Oyster card jump away, but coming from Woking… I’m not Linda Evangelista, but it’s just not worth my while getting out of bed for the pittance that they want to pay for the 11-hour day, especially if £20 of that will go on just getting me there and back. As Stupid Rah-y Cow hasn’t bothered replying to my email about travel costs (I found out they won’t cover them third-hand from TM, who happened to ask Sister 1 in passing), I sure as hell can’t be bothered to email her back my one-day contract form and tell her I’m not doing it, so I’m just not going to turn up.
Stupid Rah-y Cow. Apparently she has a hairdo like a mullet.
Filed under: Blogging | 4 Comments
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