So, it’s been a while, guys, hasn’t it? Sorry.
Babe came down with foot and mouth when we got back from holiday. Well, the nurse at NHS direct said it wasn’t actually, but the spots on his mouth, soles and palms were exactly like the ones I found on the web (so to speak), and he really wasn’t very well. So as far as I’m concerned, that’s what he had – especially as I know there have been one or two outbreaks at nursery recently. Nice.
I am writing this against the clock, as Other Half has taken Babe off while I cook the tea, to find me a hot water bottle. God knows how I lost the two I had, but I have, and I am freezing. In fact I have been ill and shivery for nearly a fortnight, and going to bed very early every night. Hence the absence of blogging. Now Other Half is feeling ill and acting as though he’s on death’s door, despite absence of temperature and ability to go to gym for ‘medicinal sauna’ and watch TV ‘til the early hours each night.
Why are most men so utterly crap when they’re ill? It’s like they’re goading you into telling them they are annoying, useless idiots so that they can slink off with the hump and end up watching TV in bed. Grrrrrrr, I don’t know. (Any men reading who feel annoyed by this, please search deep into your innermost beings and then tell me, hand on heart, that it’s not true.)
Now Babe is unwell again too. It’s all go. Incidentally, my sister gave me a ‘bloggers egg-timer’ for my birthday, to help encourage me to write more often and limit how long I spend on it.
So, what of import do I have to share with you? Precious little actually. I have, as usual, been questioning my life’s path and the obvious mistakes I have made. I’ve been having quite a lot of anxiety dreams about work, including one particularly nasty one in which I was back at Uni – in Italy, for some reason, thinking I should jack it all in and start afresh, studying law as my mum had wanted me to. I woke with an exhausted groan, wondering where and how I should start, before I realised that I am a wife and mother with Responsibilities, and a career path that has not been without direction if not hugely successful.
A very dear friend and honorary sister (we both consider ourselves honoured) has moved from working as a volunteer supervised by me, to writing GB’s answers for PM’s question time. So, suffice to say that news of this has urged me to once again consider what I am doing with my skills and talents, and wonder in what new and exciting direction I and my appendages could move.
The construction industry has frozen up and Other Half has not worked since we got back from holiday. He can’t find anything at all, and to say we are stressed about money would be an understatement. Given the fact that I feel nothing short of a red hot poker is going to get me making a career move, that some unhappy decisions are making me feel unhappy at work, the fact that Other Half is without work, and the fact that I am so unbelievably bloody cold, I am wondering if we should rent out our house and move to Greece, where it’s easier to live in poverty and one can at least stay warm. Although I fear that if I left the UK job market, I wouldn’t know how to return to it. There are plenty of people half my age at work who could do my job much better than I can. Motherhood has robbed me of so much more grey matter than I care to admit.
I am in the meantime, considering becoming one of those people who lead humanist funerals, on the advice of another dear friend whose opinions I admire and respect. Incidentally, these references to ‘dear’ friends must be quite annoying, but I feel that in these days of meaningless Facebook friendships, I need to draw some distinctions in the terminology I’m using.
So, while you all smile at the thought, or groan, or whatever, I am going to google that very thing, for more info, before the men in my life (god, I wish there were a few more) return.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Mad cows and Albanianmen
Apologies for not sticking to my 'two posts per week' promise lately. As you might have guessed, our holiday got pretty hairy, and Babe has had mad cow disease since we got back.
When I left you last, I was hoping that our car would be fixed when I got home. It nearly was, but we didn't know this, we were just worried sick as Other Half had left the house three hours earlier with a restless Babe and not yet returned. So his mum - who can barely walk and stops every three paces and jolts backwards, arching and pawing at her spine and gasping for breath - grabbed me by the arm, put her best jacket on and grabbed her huge, black, patent (and empty) handbag, and announced that we were going to look for him. She had an idea that if we walked up a particular road far enough, we would find him.
I didn't have the energy to refuse, so off we set. You can imagine what we looked like. I'm sure her grimaces and stretches were particularly exaggerated that day, so that she could explain to the many onlookers that the blonde with her was her English daughter-in-law. And add the entire story of our holiday so far that lead us to be walking up the road we were. And then ask at the end if anyone knew of a mechanic.
It wasn't filling me with confidence, I have to say, but eventually we did arrive at the top, and there was our car. Result! I understood the mechanic to say that Other Half had left half an hour earlier, but that the car was now ready for me to drive home. Bravo! Before I had time to explain that I hadn't actually driven on the right before and wasn't familiar with the one-way system and that I'm not really a confident driver, my mother-in-law had jumped in. Whatever. I joined her and started the car up. Three wrong turns and two jumped sets of red lights and a lot of shouting later, we arrived home, triumphant! And beeped the horn a lot :).
The next day we went off on our own to Other Half's dad's hometown. Not a day too soon. Saturday was spent with more family members who'd arrived to see us. And that evening, Other Half drove off to the border (the nearer crossing, to see where it was) to collect two nephews that wanted to see Babe.
I knew when he drove off, that something would go wrong. He got back close to midnight, the clutch having played up again, and he'd had to drive for two hours in second gear. It was supposedly fixed on the Sunday (by same mechanic - I forgot to mention that his breath stank of alcohol). And went again on the Monday. On the Wednesday, he re-fitted the old cylinder, saying that the new one was too small. For Pete's sake! (I am trying to reduce the number of expletives I use.)
He invited me to wait in his home and see some technical documents of car engines that his grandfather had drawn. (That 'honourary man' thing was kicking in again...) I embarrassed Other Half by saying in very basic Albanian: 'Look. I am not happy. I now have three clutch cylinders and the two new ones it seems I don't need. You told me to buy them. Now I have no money. I have a long journey ahead of me, to endure with a small child and a moron. This has not been a holiday, it has been a trip into hell. I beg you to fix my car now and I will send you a full set of Manchester United T-shirts when I return to my homeland.'
He got the drift and the car has got us home, but I dread to think what the service it is due will reveal.
We left on the Friday. I won't bore you with the intermittent detail. It includes a few happy hours on the beach, too much socialising with family members, and I spent four nights alone in a hotel across the road which was sheer bliss. I think we were all ready to leave, and I think the family were glad to see the back of me. Other Half said I had been a total pain in the arse, as usual. I think I did well to survive.
The journey home was 'seat of your pants' style - as is it tends to be, when Other Half is involved. Driving to the Greek border at dawn was incredibly beautiful though - through tiny villages, the scent of wild tea, thyme and origano in the air, and you even have to use a raft to cross a river at one point. Then we were hurtling along Greek roads - I've always thought of Greece as the back of beyond, but by comparison, it's like entering the gardens at Buckingham Palace. We joined the queue for the ferry to Venice with 20 mins to spare, but were told as we handed our tickets over to board, that we needed to drive back to the terminal building as we hadn't reserved our cabin. More sodding charges later, we ended up with a lovely cabin at the very front of the ship. In fact the captain called me at night-fall, asking me to close the curtains, so it seems we weren't the only ones with a good view.
The drive back was hell - although we did stop at Lake Como for lunch which was nice. And saw our friends in Switzerland which was wonderful but too brief, and before we knew it we were home again. And despite my fears, the trip does come highly recommended. If nothing else, because it felt like we were away for months, and boy, was I glad to get back...
More soon, on Babe. He's fine ;)
When I left you last, I was hoping that our car would be fixed when I got home. It nearly was, but we didn't know this, we were just worried sick as Other Half had left the house three hours earlier with a restless Babe and not yet returned. So his mum - who can barely walk and stops every three paces and jolts backwards, arching and pawing at her spine and gasping for breath - grabbed me by the arm, put her best jacket on and grabbed her huge, black, patent (and empty) handbag, and announced that we were going to look for him. She had an idea that if we walked up a particular road far enough, we would find him.
I didn't have the energy to refuse, so off we set. You can imagine what we looked like. I'm sure her grimaces and stretches were particularly exaggerated that day, so that she could explain to the many onlookers that the blonde with her was her English daughter-in-law. And add the entire story of our holiday so far that lead us to be walking up the road we were. And then ask at the end if anyone knew of a mechanic.
It wasn't filling me with confidence, I have to say, but eventually we did arrive at the top, and there was our car. Result! I understood the mechanic to say that Other Half had left half an hour earlier, but that the car was now ready for me to drive home. Bravo! Before I had time to explain that I hadn't actually driven on the right before and wasn't familiar with the one-way system and that I'm not really a confident driver, my mother-in-law had jumped in. Whatever. I joined her and started the car up. Three wrong turns and two jumped sets of red lights and a lot of shouting later, we arrived home, triumphant! And beeped the horn a lot :).
The next day we went off on our own to Other Half's dad's hometown. Not a day too soon. Saturday was spent with more family members who'd arrived to see us. And that evening, Other Half drove off to the border (the nearer crossing, to see where it was) to collect two nephews that wanted to see Babe.
I knew when he drove off, that something would go wrong. He got back close to midnight, the clutch having played up again, and he'd had to drive for two hours in second gear. It was supposedly fixed on the Sunday (by same mechanic - I forgot to mention that his breath stank of alcohol). And went again on the Monday. On the Wednesday, he re-fitted the old cylinder, saying that the new one was too small. For Pete's sake! (I am trying to reduce the number of expletives I use.)
He invited me to wait in his home and see some technical documents of car engines that his grandfather had drawn. (That 'honourary man' thing was kicking in again...) I embarrassed Other Half by saying in very basic Albanian: 'Look. I am not happy. I now have three clutch cylinders and the two new ones it seems I don't need. You told me to buy them. Now I have no money. I have a long journey ahead of me, to endure with a small child and a moron. This has not been a holiday, it has been a trip into hell. I beg you to fix my car now and I will send you a full set of Manchester United T-shirts when I return to my homeland.'
He got the drift and the car has got us home, but I dread to think what the service it is due will reveal.
We left on the Friday. I won't bore you with the intermittent detail. It includes a few happy hours on the beach, too much socialising with family members, and I spent four nights alone in a hotel across the road which was sheer bliss. I think we were all ready to leave, and I think the family were glad to see the back of me. Other Half said I had been a total pain in the arse, as usual. I think I did well to survive.
The journey home was 'seat of your pants' style - as is it tends to be, when Other Half is involved. Driving to the Greek border at dawn was incredibly beautiful though - through tiny villages, the scent of wild tea, thyme and origano in the air, and you even have to use a raft to cross a river at one point. Then we were hurtling along Greek roads - I've always thought of Greece as the back of beyond, but by comparison, it's like entering the gardens at Buckingham Palace. We joined the queue for the ferry to Venice with 20 mins to spare, but were told as we handed our tickets over to board, that we needed to drive back to the terminal building as we hadn't reserved our cabin. More sodding charges later, we ended up with a lovely cabin at the very front of the ship. In fact the captain called me at night-fall, asking me to close the curtains, so it seems we weren't the only ones with a good view.
The drive back was hell - although we did stop at Lake Como for lunch which was nice. And saw our friends in Switzerland which was wonderful but too brief, and before we knew it we were home again. And despite my fears, the trip does come highly recommended. If nothing else, because it felt like we were away for months, and boy, was I glad to get back...
More soon, on Babe. He's fine ;)
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