Just at the moment, the milk of human kindness is not flowing through my veins. Or perhaps I mean the milk of feline kindness. IdiotCat is Not My Favourite Cat at the moment.
Over Christmas we went to visit GrannyBear, and LocalFriend kindly came in to feed and cuddle IdiotCat. He appears to have been mostly well-behaved and delighted to see LocalFriend when she came.
For the past two nights, we have visited GrandmaBear and GrandadBear in The North. Two nights is generally enough for IdiotCat to cope on his own, with full water and food bowls. Naturally, he's always delighted to see us come home, but doesn't otherwise appear to suffer any ill-effects from being temporarily abandoned. The trauma of the building work appears to have rendered this no longer true.
We arrived home today to find the house utterly reeking of cat wee.
IdiotCat had not only relieved himself in his favourite corner, behind the living room door, but all the way along the edge of the door. Some of it was still nauseatingly damp, and some of it was dry, stale and acrid. Hooray.
Which is how it came to pass that I dispatched BigBear and LittleBear upstairs to build a hydraulic robot arm, while I took the door off its hinges, lifted the carpet; prised carpet staples out of the floor and took a stanley knife to the underlay to remove a section of it. I then got down on hands and knees and scrubbed the (reeking) floorboards with vinegar and bicarbonate of soda. And then I washed and rinsed, and washed and rinsed, and washed and rinsed the (reeking) underlay. And finally, despairingly, I washed, rinsed, scrubbed, vinegared, washed, rinsed, scrubbed and vinegared the (reeking) carpet.
To survive the night, without IdiotCat marauding into our bedrooms and keeping us awake, I have (temporarily) re-hung the door, replaced the underlay with old towels, and semi re-fitted the carpet. It certainly looks considerably fluffier and cleaner and fresher than it did before. However, I am now sitting, watching television and sniffing the suspicious waft of stale cat urine that I am convinced is still emanating from the carpet nearby.
Merry Bloody Christmas.
Sunday, 30 December 2018
Thursday, 27 December 2018
Merry Christmas one and all
I hope that everyone has had a lovely Christmas, whether spent with friends, with family or alone. I hope that you've all found peace and joy in whichever way works for you. I hope your Christmas has not been besmirched by arguments or tears, by disappointments or strife.
I did, as I generally do, send Christmas cards, and some of you who are both friends and readers will perhaps have received one (I'm a bit scattergun some years, and my ability to engage with posting schedules is poor). I considered not sending cards, not because of any particular Grinch-like tendency, but because I was specifically asked not to. Not, I hasten to add, because any of my nearest and dearest particularly dislike my hand-drawn cards, but because one of my friends made the request that instead of spending money on cards and stamps, we might make a donation to charity. and she had a very, very, very good reason for making that request. She has spent a large chunk of December in isolation in hospital, having her immune system entirely destroyed before having her own stem cells re-infused to try to give her a new immune system back again. You could read it in her own words rather better here:
My Positive Living blog.
Unsurprisingly, Lorna's raising money for the charity looking for a cure for, and providing support to sufferers of, the cancer that's attacking her body - Myeloma UK.
And that got me thinking about another friend, who spent last Christmas in hospital, being operated on for lung cancer. She's now part of the #facethefear campaign being run by the Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation, and is raising money and awareness for them.
Sarah's story is here.
I thought about my friend with myotonic dystrophy, who is never without a smile, and a helping hand for others, despite her own never-ending hospital appointments.
I thought about the son-in-law of another friend, who is unable to eat or speak as ALS takes hold of his body, and yet he gives his time and effort to raising money for the ALS Hope Foundation.
I thought about my friend who continues to live with the terrible after-effects of a car accident quarter of a century ago, but who is one of the most loving and giving women that I know.
And slowly, I went through in my own mind the friends and family I have who are facing battles. I thought about Alzheimers, about cancer, about depression, about injury, about bereavement.
And amongst all of that, I remembered, because I rarely forget, Alan Kurdi. Maybe his name, and his image, are already lost in the mists of time to you, but they aren't to me. His death on a beach in the Mediterranean still haunts me, and I still give money every month to Médecins Sans Frontières.
I thought about the dispossessed, the scared, the lonely. Those fleeing for their lives in desperate hope of a better life. Those living on the streets because they have nowhere else to go.
I really know how to find the happy thoughts at Christmas.
But then I thought about what the point of Christmas really is, about giving, and sharing and loving.
I thought about people, like the Langdale and Ambleside Mountain Rescue, who don't stop giving their time and effort no matter what day of the year it is. I thought about the huge outpouring of donations Lorna has received, in part because she has given so much of her time and love to others, and they're now giving back. I thought about Sarah's determination to complete walking marathons and ultra-marathons to raise money for cancer research. I thought about my aunt, who always gives us charity gifts for Christmas (pigs this year). I thought about my cousin, who's quit his well-paid executive job to work for a charity dear to his heart. I thought about my LittleBear, willingly embracing the idea of putting a tasty treat in a box every day through Advent to take to the food bank. I thought about all the people who give their time, and love, and effort to run a huge football club for children like LittleBear, for no reason other than because the children want to play football. I thought about all the ways in which the people I know do try to make the world a better place.
It's Boxing Day. You've sent cards, you've given presents, you've imbibed wine, you're wondering if there's room for just one more chocolate. Maybe you're eyeing up the sales and wondering about a bargain. Maybe you're tightening the purse strings and wishing you hadn't spent so much. I won't judge, either way. But don't forget Lorna, or Sarah, or the volunteers all around the world trying to give all year, and not just at Christmas. If you can, help someone else. Help myeloma or lung cancer or myotonic dystrophy or ALS research. Help the homeless. Help the victims of the tsunami. Help. It's Christmas.
Here endeth the lesson.
I did, as I generally do, send Christmas cards, and some of you who are both friends and readers will perhaps have received one (I'm a bit scattergun some years, and my ability to engage with posting schedules is poor). I considered not sending cards, not because of any particular Grinch-like tendency, but because I was specifically asked not to. Not, I hasten to add, because any of my nearest and dearest particularly dislike my hand-drawn cards, but because one of my friends made the request that instead of spending money on cards and stamps, we might make a donation to charity. and she had a very, very, very good reason for making that request. She has spent a large chunk of December in isolation in hospital, having her immune system entirely destroyed before having her own stem cells re-infused to try to give her a new immune system back again. You could read it in her own words rather better here:
My Positive Living blog.
Unsurprisingly, Lorna's raising money for the charity looking for a cure for, and providing support to sufferers of, the cancer that's attacking her body - Myeloma UK.
And that got me thinking about another friend, who spent last Christmas in hospital, being operated on for lung cancer. She's now part of the #facethefear campaign being run by the Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation, and is raising money and awareness for them.
Sarah's story is here.
I thought about my friend with myotonic dystrophy, who is never without a smile, and a helping hand for others, despite her own never-ending hospital appointments.
I thought about the son-in-law of another friend, who is unable to eat or speak as ALS takes hold of his body, and yet he gives his time and effort to raising money for the ALS Hope Foundation.
I thought about my friend who continues to live with the terrible after-effects of a car accident quarter of a century ago, but who is one of the most loving and giving women that I know.
And slowly, I went through in my own mind the friends and family I have who are facing battles. I thought about Alzheimers, about cancer, about depression, about injury, about bereavement.
And amongst all of that, I remembered, because I rarely forget, Alan Kurdi. Maybe his name, and his image, are already lost in the mists of time to you, but they aren't to me. His death on a beach in the Mediterranean still haunts me, and I still give money every month to Médecins Sans Frontières.
I thought about the dispossessed, the scared, the lonely. Those fleeing for their lives in desperate hope of a better life. Those living on the streets because they have nowhere else to go.
I really know how to find the happy thoughts at Christmas.
But then I thought about what the point of Christmas really is, about giving, and sharing and loving.
I thought about people, like the Langdale and Ambleside Mountain Rescue, who don't stop giving their time and effort no matter what day of the year it is. I thought about the huge outpouring of donations Lorna has received, in part because she has given so much of her time and love to others, and they're now giving back. I thought about Sarah's determination to complete walking marathons and ultra-marathons to raise money for cancer research. I thought about my aunt, who always gives us charity gifts for Christmas (pigs this year). I thought about my cousin, who's quit his well-paid executive job to work for a charity dear to his heart. I thought about my LittleBear, willingly embracing the idea of putting a tasty treat in a box every day through Advent to take to the food bank. I thought about all the people who give their time, and love, and effort to run a huge football club for children like LittleBear, for no reason other than because the children want to play football. I thought about all the ways in which the people I know do try to make the world a better place.
It's Boxing Day. You've sent cards, you've given presents, you've imbibed wine, you're wondering if there's room for just one more chocolate. Maybe you're eyeing up the sales and wondering about a bargain. Maybe you're tightening the purse strings and wishing you hadn't spent so much. I won't judge, either way. But don't forget Lorna, or Sarah, or the volunteers all around the world trying to give all year, and not just at Christmas. If you can, help someone else. Help myeloma or lung cancer or myotonic dystrophy or ALS research. Help the homeless. Help the victims of the tsunami. Help. It's Christmas.
Here endeth the lesson.
Thursday, 20 December 2018
Lurching from triumph to disaster
I had thought that I would be posting some more splendid updates about the progress on our building site, and in theory I could be, as the ceiling and walls are now fully insulated; the first fit of wiring has gone in; the exterior cladding is almost complete along one wall; the roof is nearly complete (only awaiting lead flashing); the internal plasterboarding is all fitted and today the new floor is being poured.
But...
When I got home on Friday I found another poo-present from the cat, there were no windows, and the diligent all-weather builders had got a bit carried away and almost completely boxed in the planned storage area designated to be the "loft" above the downstairs bathroom. I hadn't been expecting them to start work on that yet, and had not imagined that my half-conversation in broken English on Wednesday about what the plans were would result in them misinterpreting my flapping hands and building a hopelessly wrong construction.
Filled with exhaustion, sadness and anger I wrote a rather long, and somewhat ranting, email to MrsBuilder. To my enormous relief she replied almost immediately, essentially saying, "they shouldn't have done that, we'll put it right." For once I was not left fretting day-and-night over the weekend that I'd over-reacted; or that my builders would walk off in a huff; or that I'd be told it was all my fault and I'd have to live with the mistake; or any of the other permutations that my brain was warming up to panic about.
Unfortunately she also let me know that there'd been an "incident" with the lorry bring the windows, and they were delayed. That was it, no further information about the nature of the incident, or the length of delay. Phew, for a moment there it was looking as though I wouldn't have anything to spend the weekend worrying about, but at the last minute something was pulled out of the hat.
Which brings us neatly to the start of the week, at which point we discovered that the lorry had crashed. On the plus side, the driver wasn't injured. On the minus side, the windows were. They have to be made again from scratch. The factory closes for two weeks over Christmas. The windows and doors are now due on site at the start of February.
February.
Only another six or seven weeks of living in a building site.
I know that it will be lovely when it's finished, and that many years of a solidly built, well-planned extension will make a month and a half delay pale into insignificance, but it's not exactly the Christmas present I was hoping for.
But...
When I got home on Friday I found another poo-present from the cat, there were no windows, and the diligent all-weather builders had got a bit carried away and almost completely boxed in the planned storage area designated to be the "loft" above the downstairs bathroom. I hadn't been expecting them to start work on that yet, and had not imagined that my half-conversation in broken English on Wednesday about what the plans were would result in them misinterpreting my flapping hands and building a hopelessly wrong construction.
Filled with exhaustion, sadness and anger I wrote a rather long, and somewhat ranting, email to MrsBuilder. To my enormous relief she replied almost immediately, essentially saying, "they shouldn't have done that, we'll put it right." For once I was not left fretting day-and-night over the weekend that I'd over-reacted; or that my builders would walk off in a huff; or that I'd be told it was all my fault and I'd have to live with the mistake; or any of the other permutations that my brain was warming up to panic about.
Unfortunately she also let me know that there'd been an "incident" with the lorry bring the windows, and they were delayed. That was it, no further information about the nature of the incident, or the length of delay. Phew, for a moment there it was looking as though I wouldn't have anything to spend the weekend worrying about, but at the last minute something was pulled out of the hat.
Which brings us neatly to the start of the week, at which point we discovered that the lorry had crashed. On the plus side, the driver wasn't injured. On the minus side, the windows were. They have to be made again from scratch. The factory closes for two weeks over Christmas. The windows and doors are now due on site at the start of February.
February.
Only another six or seven weeks of living in a building site.
I know that it will be lovely when it's finished, and that many years of a solidly built, well-planned extension will make a month and a half delay pale into insignificance, but it's not exactly the Christmas present I was hoping for.
Wednesday, 12 December 2018
Minor triumphs
Currently my life feels sufficiently out of control, that I am prepared to celebrate even the most minor victory. To put things in perspective, even my builders are now making fun of my incoherence and inability to make decisions. I had to send an email apologising for my deranged witterings over the weekend. (This was because I had realised that my impression that the roof had been put on at a different, lower height, was simply wrong. It's exactly where it used to be. So asking them why it was lower just made me look like the Crazy Lady.)
However, back to the minor triumphs...
Last Thursday, and again on Monday, BigBear and I went out. We went Out-out, for our respective Christmas dinners. LittleBear had babysitters both nights. Babysitters who had to tuck him up in bed and say goodnight. LittleBear did not have a sobbing meltdown. LittleBear was happy, and went peacefully to sleep, without upset. What was the secret of our success? I think I can put it down to two things...
1. I involved LittleBear in the process of discussing and choosing who he would like to babysit for him. He was absolutely clear that it needed to be someone who could cuddle him if necessary, which translates to it needing to be a "Mummy", who is capable of Mummy-cuddles should the need arise. We now have a short-list of four Mummies who are deemed The Right Sort of Mummy. Fortunately all four of them have expressed a willingness to trade babysitting duties, so I'm vaguely hopeful that we may be able to set up some kind of bartering-for-favours system, allowing BigBear and I to go out more than once a year.
2. Bribery. I promised LittleBear a packet of MatchAttax cards if he was good for each babysitter. First thing he's said to me in the morning when he's bounced into bed has been, "I was good Mummy, can I have MatchAttax cards?"
Our second minor triumph is that the cat has defecated in his litter tray. I have never been so happy to see cat poo in my life. Clearly valerian root and vetiver have a profound effect upon a sense of feline wellbeing, as he is now happy to sprawl in his usual spot on the sofa, legs wafting in the air, belly exposed, with apparently not a care in the world.
Just at the moment, I'm taking my victories where I find them.
However, back to the minor triumphs...
Last Thursday, and again on Monday, BigBear and I went out. We went Out-out, for our respective Christmas dinners. LittleBear had babysitters both nights. Babysitters who had to tuck him up in bed and say goodnight. LittleBear did not have a sobbing meltdown. LittleBear was happy, and went peacefully to sleep, without upset. What was the secret of our success? I think I can put it down to two things...
1. I involved LittleBear in the process of discussing and choosing who he would like to babysit for him. He was absolutely clear that it needed to be someone who could cuddle him if necessary, which translates to it needing to be a "Mummy", who is capable of Mummy-cuddles should the need arise. We now have a short-list of four Mummies who are deemed The Right Sort of Mummy. Fortunately all four of them have expressed a willingness to trade babysitting duties, so I'm vaguely hopeful that we may be able to set up some kind of bartering-for-favours system, allowing BigBear and I to go out more than once a year.
2. Bribery. I promised LittleBear a packet of MatchAttax cards if he was good for each babysitter. First thing he's said to me in the morning when he's bounced into bed has been, "I was good Mummy, can I have MatchAttax cards?"
Our second minor triumph is that the cat has defecated in his litter tray. I have never been so happy to see cat poo in my life. Clearly valerian root and vetiver have a profound effect upon a sense of feline wellbeing, as he is now happy to sprawl in his usual spot on the sofa, legs wafting in the air, belly exposed, with apparently not a care in the world.
Just at the moment, I'm taking my victories where I find them.
Sunday, 9 December 2018
A trying weekend
There's something about the first term of the school year that seems peculiarly, and unjustly, exhausting. Is it because the children are thrown into a new routine and worn out by it? Is it because they've just had the long summer holiday and have got out of the habit of getting up and concentrating five days a week? Or is it just because it's cold and dark and we all feel tired and miserable?
Whatever the reason, this weekend has been particularly emotionally draining. For all of us. LittleBear even calmly and happily accepted that it was time for an early bed tonight as he was too tired. This has happened perhaps twice in his entire life. I am planning to do much the same.
Friday was a slightly atypical variation on our normal Friday. A normal Friday involves bringing LittleBear and BestFriend home, getting them both into their football gear, feeding them biscuits and taking them to football training. Getting a small boy into football gear is not dissimilar to how I imagine it would be to try and get a squid into a onesie designed for a goat. Full length, skin-tight lycra underclothes, shin pads with velcro straps, long socks that snag on the velcro and (insult of insults) lace-up boots. Getting two small boys into football gear is about four times as hard as getting one small boy into football gear, due to the tendency of small boys to get sidetracked and start slapping each other with their socks, or trying to juggle with their underpants.
This Friday I'd rashly volunteered to take three small boys to football training. Knowing my own limitations however, I had declared that I would pick the other two up from their homes, leaving their own mothers to undertake the squid-wrestling. I did manage to get them all there, and back again, and only one of them got injured, and only one of them left his coat behind. Look, I never said I was good at this childcare stuff, OK?
Because it's that time of year, the football club then had a party almost straight after training, whilst I had volunteered to babysit for the Piglet family. No Piglets were injured or lost their coats, so my skills were clearly improving through the day. I did, however, have to abandon BigBear and LittleBear at the football club party; both looking somewhat shell-shocked and as though they'd rather be anywhere else. LittleBear still bears all the hallmarks of his younger years, and doesn't cope well with arriving at a party that's both loud and already in progress. And BigBear doesn't really like parties at all. So there they stood, hand-in-hand at the edge of the hall, my lost bears.
Apparently, however, LittleBear did enjoy himself, ate pizza, met Father Christmas and was given chocolate, so all was well.
Meanwhile, I didn't return from my babysitting duties till sometime after midnight, filled with rage at the swines who'd closed the road home (and with myself for having forgotten that they were doing this, despite the fact that they have done so nights for the past year or more). So I stayed awake wittering at BigBear for rather too long, so neither of us got enough sleep, and before we knew it, the diligent all-weather builders were hard at work hammering the roof. Not that that mattered overly much, as we had to be out of the house by 9 o'clock for LittleBear's football match.
As per the rules of the FA, the score or result of an under-7 match may not be publicised, because it is strictly friendly and non-competitive. So I will draw a discrete veil over the event and say only that every time the opposition scored, my little boy wilted into tears, and on at least two occasions I broke with convention and ran round the pitch to give him a cuddle. He's only seven after all. And by 11 o'clock he was a very, very tired seven, who was adamant that he hadn't enjoyed playing at all.
I have spent a large portion of the weekend feeling desperately sad about how easily his confidence is bruised, and how easily he turned from my confident little torpedo, shredding a defence to canon a ball into the top corner into a hesitant, nervous defender, hanging back, dropping off the ball, shying away from the tackle. As always I find myself wondering how I can help him build his resilience. How I can persuade him that winning or losing a game is not a judgement on his worth as a person. How I can convince him to keep picking himself and trying again if things don't go his way first time. And then I remember he's only seven, and it's asking a lot of him.
A morning of exhaustion and heartbreak set us up perfectly for going to a spy-mission themed birthday party in the afternoon. It may not come as much of a surprise that my LittleBear spent three-quarters of the party sat on my lap doing a word search while his little friends undertook the spy mission. He was too scared to want to join in. Fortunately(?) two of the other little friends were in similar state, so he wasn't plagued with the self-doubt of being the only child who didn't want to join in. And, by his own admission, he enjoyed the party. Funny little soul.
Today, which could have been restful, was punctuated instead by the screaming of a huge circular saw in the building site, as the diligent all-weather builders sliced up massive quantities of insulation to fit into the new roof. They elected to do this because it was going to be "quieter for us" than hammering the roof to put the rest of the slates up. They have a funny idea of quiet. But they are utter perfectionists and have done a beautiful job of fitting the insulation to my peculiar-shaped roof. So there's that.
BigBear was tired. I was tired. LittleBear was tired. IdiotCat was probably tired. He was certainly stressed, as the moment the rest of the bear family had finished breakfast and disappeared upstairs together, he voided his bowels on the carpet. It really improved the day. Again. He even chose a different patch to the one he'd just peed on and I'd already cleaned earlier in the morning.
One of the few high points of the weekend had been that our Beloved Burnley had finally won a match, so I installed my two bears on the sofa, watching Match of the Day, while I ripped out a vanity wash-basin upstairs (that has the eccentric outflow pipe). Before having any breakfast. Because tiredness had led to poor decision making.
Then we all shouted at each other a bit. Had I mentioned we were tired? And I was hungry. Hungry and tired is always a winning combination. Eventually, we had some food inside us, and I took LittleBear off to the garden centre to acquire a small tree for Christmas. We generally have a large tree, but inconveniently someone's pulled down the room we usually put our tree in.
Eventually, after two garden centres and a trip to see Father Christmas, we were home with the tree, and a bottle of cat-calming herbal spray, that we all hate the smell of. So we had a jolly time, with the windows open trying to clear the stench of valerian root and swapping affectionate comments like,
"Why does nobody let me make any suggestions?"
"I don't even like baubles"
"Do you have to put that there?"
There were two verified instances of tears while decorating the tree, because that's what Christmas is all about.
Eventually it was bedtime, and all was well.
The cat is calm and snoring, apparently enjoying the valerian root more than the rest of us did. There is a box of lego on the chair beside me, that LittleBear received from Father Christmas at the garden centre, that he would like me to wrap up so he can have it under the tree for Christmas. The lights are twinkling on the tree, and there are three little penguins hung on it in a row. I made them six years ago, one for each of us, and every year we hang them side-by-side on the tree. This year, LittleBear wanted them facing the door so they could welcome people into the room. So those are the three thoughts I shall take to bed with me. Not the yelling, not the tears, not the aching muscles, not the dust and the dirt and the soiled carpet, not the anxiety and insecurity of my boy and me. I will take to bed the thoughts of the loving, considerate, compassionate little boy who melts my heart.
Whatever the reason, this weekend has been particularly emotionally draining. For all of us. LittleBear even calmly and happily accepted that it was time for an early bed tonight as he was too tired. This has happened perhaps twice in his entire life. I am planning to do much the same.
Friday was a slightly atypical variation on our normal Friday. A normal Friday involves bringing LittleBear and BestFriend home, getting them both into their football gear, feeding them biscuits and taking them to football training. Getting a small boy into football gear is not dissimilar to how I imagine it would be to try and get a squid into a onesie designed for a goat. Full length, skin-tight lycra underclothes, shin pads with velcro straps, long socks that snag on the velcro and (insult of insults) lace-up boots. Getting two small boys into football gear is about four times as hard as getting one small boy into football gear, due to the tendency of small boys to get sidetracked and start slapping each other with their socks, or trying to juggle with their underpants.
This Friday I'd rashly volunteered to take three small boys to football training. Knowing my own limitations however, I had declared that I would pick the other two up from their homes, leaving their own mothers to undertake the squid-wrestling. I did manage to get them all there, and back again, and only one of them got injured, and only one of them left his coat behind. Look, I never said I was good at this childcare stuff, OK?
Because it's that time of year, the football club then had a party almost straight after training, whilst I had volunteered to babysit for the Piglet family. No Piglets were injured or lost their coats, so my skills were clearly improving through the day. I did, however, have to abandon BigBear and LittleBear at the football club party; both looking somewhat shell-shocked and as though they'd rather be anywhere else. LittleBear still bears all the hallmarks of his younger years, and doesn't cope well with arriving at a party that's both loud and already in progress. And BigBear doesn't really like parties at all. So there they stood, hand-in-hand at the edge of the hall, my lost bears.
Apparently, however, LittleBear did enjoy himself, ate pizza, met Father Christmas and was given chocolate, so all was well.
Meanwhile, I didn't return from my babysitting duties till sometime after midnight, filled with rage at the swines who'd closed the road home (and with myself for having forgotten that they were doing this, despite the fact that they have done so nights for the past year or more). So I stayed awake wittering at BigBear for rather too long, so neither of us got enough sleep, and before we knew it, the diligent all-weather builders were hard at work hammering the roof. Not that that mattered overly much, as we had to be out of the house by 9 o'clock for LittleBear's football match.
As per the rules of the FA, the score or result of an under-7 match may not be publicised, because it is strictly friendly and non-competitive. So I will draw a discrete veil over the event and say only that every time the opposition scored, my little boy wilted into tears, and on at least two occasions I broke with convention and ran round the pitch to give him a cuddle. He's only seven after all. And by 11 o'clock he was a very, very tired seven, who was adamant that he hadn't enjoyed playing at all.
I have spent a large portion of the weekend feeling desperately sad about how easily his confidence is bruised, and how easily he turned from my confident little torpedo, shredding a defence to canon a ball into the top corner into a hesitant, nervous defender, hanging back, dropping off the ball, shying away from the tackle. As always I find myself wondering how I can help him build his resilience. How I can persuade him that winning or losing a game is not a judgement on his worth as a person. How I can convince him to keep picking himself and trying again if things don't go his way first time. And then I remember he's only seven, and it's asking a lot of him.
A morning of exhaustion and heartbreak set us up perfectly for going to a spy-mission themed birthday party in the afternoon. It may not come as much of a surprise that my LittleBear spent three-quarters of the party sat on my lap doing a word search while his little friends undertook the spy mission. He was too scared to want to join in. Fortunately(?) two of the other little friends were in similar state, so he wasn't plagued with the self-doubt of being the only child who didn't want to join in. And, by his own admission, he enjoyed the party. Funny little soul.
Today, which could have been restful, was punctuated instead by the screaming of a huge circular saw in the building site, as the diligent all-weather builders sliced up massive quantities of insulation to fit into the new roof. They elected to do this because it was going to be "quieter for us" than hammering the roof to put the rest of the slates up. They have a funny idea of quiet. But they are utter perfectionists and have done a beautiful job of fitting the insulation to my peculiar-shaped roof. So there's that.
BigBear was tired. I was tired. LittleBear was tired. IdiotCat was probably tired. He was certainly stressed, as the moment the rest of the bear family had finished breakfast and disappeared upstairs together, he voided his bowels on the carpet. It really improved the day. Again. He even chose a different patch to the one he'd just peed on and I'd already cleaned earlier in the morning.
One of the few high points of the weekend had been that our Beloved Burnley had finally won a match, so I installed my two bears on the sofa, watching Match of the Day, while I ripped out a vanity wash-basin upstairs (that has the eccentric outflow pipe). Before having any breakfast. Because tiredness had led to poor decision making.
Then we all shouted at each other a bit. Had I mentioned we were tired? And I was hungry. Hungry and tired is always a winning combination. Eventually, we had some food inside us, and I took LittleBear off to the garden centre to acquire a small tree for Christmas. We generally have a large tree, but inconveniently someone's pulled down the room we usually put our tree in.
Eventually, after two garden centres and a trip to see Father Christmas, we were home with the tree, and a bottle of cat-calming herbal spray, that we all hate the smell of. So we had a jolly time, with the windows open trying to clear the stench of valerian root and swapping affectionate comments like,
"Why does nobody let me make any suggestions?"
"I don't even like baubles"
"Do you have to put that there?"
There were two verified instances of tears while decorating the tree, because that's what Christmas is all about.
Eventually it was bedtime, and all was well.
The cat is calm and snoring, apparently enjoying the valerian root more than the rest of us did. There is a box of lego on the chair beside me, that LittleBear received from Father Christmas at the garden centre, that he would like me to wrap up so he can have it under the tree for Christmas. The lights are twinkling on the tree, and there are three little penguins hung on it in a row. I made them six years ago, one for each of us, and every year we hang them side-by-side on the tree. This year, LittleBear wanted them facing the door so they could welcome people into the room. So those are the three thoughts I shall take to bed with me. Not the yelling, not the tears, not the aching muscles, not the dust and the dirt and the soiled carpet, not the anxiety and insecurity of my boy and me. I will take to bed the thoughts of the loving, considerate, compassionate little boy who melts my heart.
Friday, 7 December 2018
Roofs come and go
The adventures in re-building the extension continue apace. For a brief, dizzying period we had absolutely no roof at all over the extension. And since that included having no roof on top of the old, completely non-water-tight, flat roof that still covers part of the kitchen and the bathroom, and since that flat roof houses sizeable quantities of mains wiring for lights, there was a liberal application of tarpaulins. And there were high winds. And lashing rain. Which was fun.
Fortunately, the tarpaulins remained in situ over the leaky flat roof, and the rain remained on the outside of the tarpaulins, and hence the bathroom.
Unfortunately, the tarpaulins made loud, dramatic, flapping noises which scared IdiotCat. A lot. So, despite the presence of a litter tray, and despite the cat's evident ability to use said litter tray, we have returned to a time of receiving deposits on the carpet. Mostly fluid deposits. Poor old puss. And now, despite our best efforts to clean the favoured corner of carpet, and replace the noxious vapours with the delicate smell of synthetic carpet shampoo, there is a corner of the room that clearly smells just right to the IdiotCat, and he keeps using it.
You see my wits?
You see where the end of my wits are?
I'm well beyond that point now.
Meanwhile, it's beginning to look as though I was so traumatized by the disappearance of the roof that I didn't take a proper picture of it.
So here we have the beginnings of a new wall, featuring distinct evidence of the absence of a roof.
But, fear not! There was a flitch plate on the way. And it arrived, along with more strong wind and lashing rain. Despite the distinctly adverse weather conditions, the all-weather builders clambered around on the roof, chiselling out a hole in the wall into which to embed the flitch plate, and then proceeded to build a completely new roof. Substantially lower than the old roof. Which is odd.
The first thing that might strike the eagle-eyed among you is that shifting the roof line down was an eminently sensible thing to do... because the old roof line actually cut across the window sill of one of the upstairs windows. I'm pretty sure you won't find that as a design feature in many architecture books.
It's still not clear why the roof has moved down as much as it has. I did ask the all-weather builders why it was different, and discovered another endearing feature of the house that I hadn't known before - the old ridge beam of the roof had not been down the middle of the extension, so the two sides had had asymmetric slopes. So they've mounted the new ridge beam (flitch plate!) down the centre of the extension, just for the fun and symmetry of it.
One of my colleagues helpfully suggested that perhaps the roof was at the new height because the roof beams come in particular sizes/angles, so it had to be made like that to fit a standard size. At which point I had to explain to him that every single piece of timber is being cut to size and fitted by hand on site. None of this is off-the-shelf building.
So we're left with a little bit of a mystery. I have no doubt that there's a good reason, as the lovely builders haven't yet done anything without a good reason, it's just I don't know what it is yet. I'd like to know, because six inches lost from the height of the room makes a big difference. You can do a lot with six inches. It's enough for an entire extra shelf of books. I don't want to have lost book shelf space for no good reason.
Meanwhile the windows and doors are due to arrive in a week's time, and the all-weather, weekend-working builders are due to spend the weekend putting slates on the roof, which is Awfully Exciting.
I'm fondly hoping that as the room returns to being a place that doesn't make alarming and unpredictable noises, IdiotCat will stop making alarming and unpredictable deposits. I suspect I hope in vain...
Fortunately, the tarpaulins remained in situ over the leaky flat roof, and the rain remained on the outside of the tarpaulins, and hence the bathroom.
Unfortunately, the tarpaulins made loud, dramatic, flapping noises which scared IdiotCat. A lot. So, despite the presence of a litter tray, and despite the cat's evident ability to use said litter tray, we have returned to a time of receiving deposits on the carpet. Mostly fluid deposits. Poor old puss. And now, despite our best efforts to clean the favoured corner of carpet, and replace the noxious vapours with the delicate smell of synthetic carpet shampoo, there is a corner of the room that clearly smells just right to the IdiotCat, and he keeps using it.
You see my wits?
You see where the end of my wits are?
I'm well beyond that point now.
Meanwhile, it's beginning to look as though I was so traumatized by the disappearance of the roof that I didn't take a proper picture of it.
 |
| A view of the neighbour's garden |
But, fear not! There was a flitch plate on the way. And it arrived, along with more strong wind and lashing rain. Despite the distinctly adverse weather conditions, the all-weather builders clambered around on the roof, chiselling out a hole in the wall into which to embed the flitch plate, and then proceeded to build a completely new roof. Substantially lower than the old roof. Which is odd.
 |
| New vs Old |
It's still not clear why the roof has moved down as much as it has. I did ask the all-weather builders why it was different, and discovered another endearing feature of the house that I hadn't known before - the old ridge beam of the roof had not been down the middle of the extension, so the two sides had had asymmetric slopes. So they've mounted the new ridge beam (flitch plate!) down the centre of the extension, just for the fun and symmetry of it.
One of my colleagues helpfully suggested that perhaps the roof was at the new height because the roof beams come in particular sizes/angles, so it had to be made like that to fit a standard size. At which point I had to explain to him that every single piece of timber is being cut to size and fitted by hand on site. None of this is off-the-shelf building.
So we're left with a little bit of a mystery. I have no doubt that there's a good reason, as the lovely builders haven't yet done anything without a good reason, it's just I don't know what it is yet. I'd like to know, because six inches lost from the height of the room makes a big difference. You can do a lot with six inches. It's enough for an entire extra shelf of books. I don't want to have lost book shelf space for no good reason.
Meanwhile the windows and doors are due to arrive in a week's time, and the all-weather, weekend-working builders are due to spend the weekend putting slates on the roof, which is Awfully Exciting.
I'm fondly hoping that as the room returns to being a place that doesn't make alarming and unpredictable noises, IdiotCat will stop making alarming and unpredictable deposits. I suspect I hope in vain...
Saturday, 1 December 2018
Christmas-induced rage
It may be the case that I'm simply still so sleep-deprived that my anger levels are considerably elevated, or it may be that attempting to shop in LocalTown is akin to doing battle with the demon spawn of Hades.
I think it's the latter, though evidence suggests the former is in with a good shout.
I took the opportunity today to make a foray into LocalTown to attempt to purchase some of the things that are just too hard to buy online. I don't do this often, and I've now re-discovered why.
Was it because the electronic signs on the way into town informed me that all the carparks were full? It was not. I parked in my Cunning and Secret Place and therefore only paid £3 instead of the £7.80 it would have cost me had I parked in the carparks that were already full.
Was it because, in addition to all the people doing their Christmas shopping, LocalTown was still swarming with tourists, most of whom only appear to have the loosest grasp of the difference between roads and pavements? It was not. I've lived here for twenty-four years, and tourists are a bit like seagulls - annoying, noisy, and prone to eating all the ice-cream, but generally avoidable.
Was it because, once inside the shops, it was almost impossible to move without being kneecapped by someone's shopping bags, or elbowed in the face by someone reaching for the extra-special gift pack of novelty chocolate-flavoured gin on the highest shelf? It was not. My years of practice withseagulls tourists has ensured I'm good at dodging and weaving.
Was it because I was overwhelmed by the oppressive heat, the incessant, invasive, nerve-jangling music and the psychosis-inducing flashing lights? It was not. Though I confess to retreating to the ladies toilets in John Lewis and finding myself simply staying, sat upon my throne, enjoying the glorious peace and quiet of having a tiny cubicle all to myself.
Was it because I felt horrified by the sheer consumerist excess of people spending and spending and spending, when indubitably many of them probably couldn't really afford to? Yes. Yes, that was part of it, but not all.
Was it because I gazed around the shops and saw stretching before me, as far as the eye could see, acres of products that nobody wants or needs or will ever use, but that someone will buy as a present anyway? Yes. Now we're getting there.
The shops are filled with shiny gew-gaws and flim-flam. Knick-knacks and ornaments. "Amusing" mugs and plates and glasses. Novelty games that entertain no-one. Novelty clothes that suit no-one. Novelty foods that appeal to no-one. Slick, glossy, shiny accessories for the home that will sit, gathering dust at the back of a cupboard, or spend eternity stoically failing to decompose in a land-fill site.
And I hated it. I hated the pointless waste of the finite resources this planet possesses. Yes, Christmas is a lovely time; a time of giving; a time of sharing; a time of family, and of love, and of compassion. But it could be all of those things without raping the earth to give gifts to your friends and family that they don't want or need or like. I don't care what people spend, I don't care how much, or how, or where they spend it. It's not my money. But I do care about the pointless, hopeless, obscene waste of buying stuff for the sake of it.
Maybe I'm just a curmudgeon now. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's both those things. If however, you are amongst the small group of people with whom I do exchange presents at Christmas, I beg of you, please don't buy me a sparkly tinsel reindeer that shits chocolate drops. In return I promise not to buy you a tie with a Brussels sprout motif that plays an off-key version of "Jingle Bells". We'll all be happier that way.
I think it's the latter, though evidence suggests the former is in with a good shout.
I took the opportunity today to make a foray into LocalTown to attempt to purchase some of the things that are just too hard to buy online. I don't do this often, and I've now re-discovered why.
Was it because the electronic signs on the way into town informed me that all the carparks were full? It was not. I parked in my Cunning and Secret Place and therefore only paid £3 instead of the £7.80 it would have cost me had I parked in the carparks that were already full.
Was it because, in addition to all the people doing their Christmas shopping, LocalTown was still swarming with tourists, most of whom only appear to have the loosest grasp of the difference between roads and pavements? It was not. I've lived here for twenty-four years, and tourists are a bit like seagulls - annoying, noisy, and prone to eating all the ice-cream, but generally avoidable.
Was it because, once inside the shops, it was almost impossible to move without being kneecapped by someone's shopping bags, or elbowed in the face by someone reaching for the extra-special gift pack of novelty chocolate-flavoured gin on the highest shelf? It was not. My years of practice with
Was it because I was overwhelmed by the oppressive heat, the incessant, invasive, nerve-jangling music and the psychosis-inducing flashing lights? It was not. Though I confess to retreating to the ladies toilets in John Lewis and finding myself simply staying, sat upon my throne, enjoying the glorious peace and quiet of having a tiny cubicle all to myself.
Was it because I felt horrified by the sheer consumerist excess of people spending and spending and spending, when indubitably many of them probably couldn't really afford to? Yes. Yes, that was part of it, but not all.
Was it because I gazed around the shops and saw stretching before me, as far as the eye could see, acres of products that nobody wants or needs or will ever use, but that someone will buy as a present anyway? Yes. Now we're getting there.
The shops are filled with shiny gew-gaws and flim-flam. Knick-knacks and ornaments. "Amusing" mugs and plates and glasses. Novelty games that entertain no-one. Novelty clothes that suit no-one. Novelty foods that appeal to no-one. Slick, glossy, shiny accessories for the home that will sit, gathering dust at the back of a cupboard, or spend eternity stoically failing to decompose in a land-fill site.
And I hated it. I hated the pointless waste of the finite resources this planet possesses. Yes, Christmas is a lovely time; a time of giving; a time of sharing; a time of family, and of love, and of compassion. But it could be all of those things without raping the earth to give gifts to your friends and family that they don't want or need or like. I don't care what people spend, I don't care how much, or how, or where they spend it. It's not my money. But I do care about the pointless, hopeless, obscene waste of buying stuff for the sake of it.
Maybe I'm just a curmudgeon now. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's both those things. If however, you are amongst the small group of people with whom I do exchange presents at Christmas, I beg of you, please don't buy me a sparkly tinsel reindeer that shits chocolate drops. In return I promise not to buy you a tie with a Brussels sprout motif that plays an off-key version of "Jingle Bells". We'll all be happier that way.
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