A routine evolves

I have never liked gyms. I am not very sporty, have flattish feet and am quite easily bored. And as it happens I also have largish baps which are a terrible encumbrance in the sporting field. I am not a particularly sedentary type though, and appreciate the need for physical activity. Aerobics I can get into, as long as the music is ok and I don't have to do those ridiculous grapevine moves. (It's a while since I did aerobics so it's possible they've phased those out by now.) I was good at hockey at school and wouldn't mind joining a team, although the last time I played the ball seemed to fly through the air at shoulder height a lot more than I was expecting it to and I'm not sure my wits are sufficiently about me to cope with that any more. I do however cycle, scoot (yes, scoot), run very occasionally and generally like things like yoga and pilates. Oh, and skiing. I've only been a few times but it is completely brilliant fun.

Despite my dislike of gyms, there are two pieces of gym equipment that I can tolerate. Only for very short bursts, mind, and because although it hurts like hell I can count down the seconds and minutes and push myself because the end is never far from sight. These pieces of equipment are the running machine, and that awful cross-country skiing thing.

I am sharing all this ahead of telling you what my life feels like right now, so that you will really appreciate the metaphor. It feels like I am on a running machine. Or more a treadmill, let's say, moving at a medium but definitely uncomfortable velocity. A treadmill that I can't get off but don't want to stay on. And I can't pace myself while I'm on the darn thing because some random bugger from the gym has put it on a program and cycle that I can't even see from where I'm standing. If I knew it was going to stop in ten minutes, or twenty, or maybe even a matter of hours at worst, I'd find a bit more welly from somewhere to enjoy the ride. Or at least cope with it. But I don't know when or if it is going to stop. It is uncomfortable and might be endless and I feel out of control, very stressed and fairly hacked off too.

I guess I've kind of made that obvious by now. And I know I know I know how much harder life is for billions around the world, and probably how much harder and more miserable life is for the brothers right now. (You're probably wondering how OH is. So am I.) But that is what I feel like. Yes, of course, there are moments of optimism. There have even been a few moments when the brothers and I have shared a joke. But mostly it feels as though my life, my home, my time and my energy have been taken over by an alien force that is plotting to reproduce and subsume me.

The brothers, and OH, have told me that they are taking one day at a time. That they are not thinking too much about how well or how badly things might go. They are simply doggedly determined to find work, make enough money to improve their accommodation and then up the stakes. In part, I can respect this perspective. But as someone who considers herself to be something of a strategic thinker and who likes to plan and know what the endgame is, their approach leaves me feeling quite agonisingly out of control.

I have, this morning, while Babe2 was at pre-school, been googling kitchen assistant and cleaning jobs and my eyes are going fuzzy and I'm feeling slow and useless and wondering if I could do any better for myself. If I had time to be looking for work for myself right now, that is. It is desperate. No, they do not have food hygiene certificates. No, their customer service skills are not great. Yes, they would clean windows beautifully but no, they don't have computer skills and they have been tactically avoiding situations that have me reaching for the A-Z. Is it worth trying to apply on their behalves for a six-hours per week cleaning job, spread over five days and to be carried out between the hours of five and seven o'clock in the morning?

I have emailed friends and a local emailing list marketing their practical skills. This has resulted in two potential small jobs. Which is better than nothing but won't feed them for a month and the effort involved in me translating what's required makes me reluctant to get too involved. My Greek is ok. But I don't know the words for things like plasterboard, turf, trowel or hammer. I am doing my best, but acting like their agent turning up to look at jobs is not especially easy.

As I got home from reading at Babe's school yesterday afternoon, DBrother rushed up to the front door with a man in a duffel coat.
'Ask him about work!' he said.
I was lost.
'This man was standing outside my house,' the man said.
'Oh,' I said.
'Is he looking for work?'
'Um, well, yes, but how do you know that?' I asked.
He ignored my question and asked what DBrother can do.
I reeled off a list. He then explained that he was doing up his house around the corner, which, it evolves, has been completely gutted. The three of us trooped round to take a look and were introduced to Mr Singh who, having been told they can build and plaster etc, asked what they would work for.
'You tell me,' I said. 'They're really good at what they do, I'd trust them with my place.' (That was a bit of a white lie, actually.) 'They are pretty desperate but I know what the minimum wage is, and they want more than that.'
'Ok,' he said. 'I'll call you in about ten days, when the roofers are finished.' He took my number and made a point of calling me to check he'd got it right. Let's hope it comes to something.

In the meantime, we've found a place in London where you can pay through the nose for training to get you construction industry cards, and OH is most likely taking them up this weekend, as he thinks one of them at least will be able to work with him. I have organised this, of course. And got them onto waiting lists for all the free English classes I can find. I hope to heck it comes off and won't result in them spending their last bit of cash for nothing. Their last bit of cash which would otherwise, incidentally, be covering their flights home.

They are still moaning about the room and house they're living in. That preparedness to 'live like gypsies if we have to' (their political incorrectness, not mine) went out of the window pretty fast. Khan has gone underground and the shower doesn't work. I went round again this morning and in fact the bathroom is not otherwise too bad and there is a bath. I checked out the kitchen and the truth is that I wouldn't really want to have to clean it or cook in it either, but then I'm not in desperate circumstances. Well I am, but... They had said that the fridge is too smelly to put their milk in. But it's not, it's fine and there is space. I think the bitter truth is that they feel outnumbered by the six or so individuals who get home from work in the evening, and cook curry together and have a bit of a laugh. I suspect there is also some latent racism at work, which I have not yet found the will to tackle.

I also, incidentally, noticed that in their room they have put photos around, of their children and families. And one of their dad. I haven't asked if they are missing them. I did suggest that they try skype using my laptop but they haven't taken me up on it and I can see how that might make things harder so I won't suggest it again.

The observant among you might have noticed that they have at least bought some milk:

The other night, several hours after our abortive attempt to discuss stuff, I asked OH if we could talk. He took a long time to answer because I woke him up to ask him this. He was on the sofa, not in bed. I'm not that mean.

I reminded him that before the brothers had even booked their tickets to come here they, and he, had insisted that they would find their own place to live in. Well, that he would find them their own place to live in. Their desire had been to be independent from the start. I also reminded him of the purpose of that decision - so that they would have somewhere to sleep, eat, wash and watch TV etc. Ie somewhere they could have a bit of space of their own, and so, presumably, that we would, too.

I then pointed out that despite having a room of their own, they are doing everything (and I mean pretty much everything), here. I asked if he could ask them to give us a bit of space maybe one or two evenings a week, and to perhaps request that they at least breakfast there so that I could have some space in the mornings when getting the kids ready for school etc. OH saw red and flatly refused. He accused me of being evil and selfish and a lot of other things I won't mention. I realise, in retrospect, that I hit that 'hospitality trigger'.

However, on Saturday, after taking them off on a pointless trip to open a bank account, despite my assertion (which proved to be correct as I had already investigated this myself) that they need National Insurance numbers first, OH took them to our local supermarket, and bought them a kettle, toaster and some basic supplies. I guess this was his way of making them self-sufficient and I have to accept that asking them to spend more time in their place was just not something he could do. And to be fair, that isn't something I could have easily asked of my own family, either.

So we have now slipped into something of a routine: the brothers are now not rising early, are trying to find ways of occupying their mornings ahead of coming round to cook at our place in the early afternoon, where they stay until some point in the late evening. A kind friend has given them a TV but there is no aerial connection, so hopefully OH will sort this out at the weekend for them. They are making use of our bicycles and the fact that we live near an amazing cycle path that takes you right out into the countryside to a nearby city, along what was a train line. Low moments include them encouraging the kids to jump between the coffee table and the sofa, screaming, for at least an hour every day when they get home from school. But a plus is that I can get off to evening meetings promptly, by not having to wait until OH gets home from work some time after six.

Strangely enough when they all went out and left me on my own on Saturday night, the house felt uncomfortably quiet. Perhaps our very bricks and mortar are feeling a bit shaken by the turbulence in the air, too.