Once upon a time there was a very brave LittleBear.
This LittleBear had a very stubborn little tooth. The little tooth had become old and tired, and had suffered a grievous injury many years before, that had left it sad and brown. The LittleBear's body didn't really know that the sad, brown tooth was there, and so had ignored it. Instead of absorbing all the goodness from the roots of the little tooth, the LittleBear's body just left it be. The LittleBear's body grew a lovely, strong, big, new tooth, which grew and grew as far as it could. But the lovely, strong, big, new tooth crashed into the little old tooth until neither of them could move any more. The LittleBear didn't know what to do. His body was stuck with both the teeth, and he knew that it was time to say goodbye to the little old tooth, but he didn't know how.
The LittleBear's Mummy knew a very special lady who could help. She was an expert in helping teeth to behave themselves, and it was certain that she would know how to help the little old tooth.
So the LittleBear and his Mummy went to visit the special tooth lady, and she offered to help the LittleBear to wiggle the little old tooth out, but the LittleBear was scared of being hurt and he wouldn't let her. He promised to spend three weeks trying to wiggle his poor old tooth out on his own, and to come back to see the special tooth lady if he couldn't.
The LittleBear tried and tried and tried. He wiggled his little old tooth backwards and forwards. He wiggled it to the left, and he wiggled it to the right. He even tried twisting it round, but it was a stubbord little old tooth and it wouldn't let go.
Back to the special tooth lady went the LittleBear and his Mummy. And the LittleBear was big and brave and he let the tooth lady put a strange, minty gel on his gums, but it made his tongue feel funny, and he didn't like it. Then the special tooth lady, ever so carefully, made a tiny pin-prick against the LittleBear's gum, to make the stubborn little tooth go to sleep. But the LittleBear didn't like it, and he flinched, and the little pin-prick scratched the LittleBear, and he really, really didn't like it.
The LittleBear's mouth started to bleed and he cried and cried and cried. His Mummy tried to soothe him, and the special tooth lady promised that if he could just try and stay still she could carry on without any more pain. But he didn't believe her, and he didn't believe his Mummy. All he believed was the pain, and the blood. And soon he was a red and blotchy LittleBear, and the tears were dribbling into his ears as he lay on the tooth lady's funny lying-down-chair.
But the LittleBear tried ever so very hard, and he breathed in with his Mummy, and he breathed out with his Mummy, and he sat up and was cuddled and dried his tears. And then he said, "I'll try and stay still, and you can have one more go."
And even though he was shaking and sweaty and scared, the LittleBear held his Mummy's hands tight, and he lay ever so very still, and the tooth lady made the tiniest of pin-pricks and suddenly the LittleBear couldn't feel his sad old tooth any more, and there wasn't any pain any more. And almost before he knew what had happened there was his poor little old tooth, lying in the palm of the tooth lady's hand.
The special tooth lady was very proud of the LittleBear, and told him that he was the first LittleBear that she'd ever known who had been so sad and so scared but had let her carry on anyway, and that he was the bravest LittleBear she'd met.
And his Mummy was very proud of him too, and she and the LittleBear had ever so very many cuddles for the rest of the afternoon, because he was the bravest LittleBear she knew too.
Friday 22 February 2019
Tuesday 19 February 2019
Hamster wheels again
I set off thinking about writing about the eternal hamster wheel that I inhabit in my mind, repetitive thoughts and arguments cycling round and round and round. Never ending, never concluding, never progressing, only an infinite loop of the same conversations where I supply both halves and somehow still lose the argument.
And then I looked back through old posts and discovered I have use the phrase "hamster wheel" to describe my endless, sleep-destroying, anxiety-inducing thoughts on at least four other occasions. So not only are my thoughts trapped in perpetual loops, returning to the same point with monotonous regularity, but so are my similes. I can't even manage to be original in my repetitiveness.
So what is it that my poor brain is doing to me?
It's still banging on about the windows.
Not the fact that the windows crashed (doesn't Windows always crash?)
Not even the fact that the window company someone managed to cancel the order to make the replacement windows without telling anyone.
No.
I'm still pointlessly fretting about the change in size of the windows.
I read and re-read emails where there is no hint that the specification is subject to change; emails where there is no suggestion of an apology or acknowledgement that anyone other than me is at fault.
I stare at the "finished" wall into which the bifold doors will be installed. I see all the spare wall that could be busy being window if it hadn't been turned into wall.
I study the diagrams I drew for the builders, and the 50 point text showing a 4000mm opening for bifold doors.
And I still cannot fathom why they changed the size of the doors when there is demonstrably space for the doors to be the size I specified.
I still cannot fathom why they would think it was OK to change the size of the doors without confirming it in writing with me first.
I still cannot fathom why they would ignore seven emails asking about the change in size, and then tell me it was what I wanted.
And so I have endless conversations in my head in which I point out that the builders are either unprofessional, incompetent or untruthful*. I explain why in nauseating detail, determined to demonstrate the rightness of my way of seeing things**.
I don't even know what response I would like in my head when I'm the one providing both sides of the conversation, let alone if I had the guts to actually try and express any of these thoughts and feelings out loud. Which I'm too much of a confrontation-averse munchkin to ever think about. Would an apology suffice? I don't know. Would I feel better if they simply said, "you're right, we screwed up, the bifolds should have been bigger?" What is it that I want?***
The true absurdity is that we're going to have massive bifold doors, through which sunlight will stream in all its unfettered glory. An extra thirty centimetres is unlikely to make one iota of difference.
So why can't my mind let go?
Why can't it shut up?
Why can't I be more like BigBear, with his phlegmatic shrug?
Is it because it feels like unfinished business? Is it because it is, literally, unfinished? Is it because after nearly four months living in a building site, I'm simply so stressed that there has to be a release valve for the stress, and my mind has latched onto the only thing that's demonstrably wrong on site and is venting through that?
One day I will go to bed without lying awake thinking about window sizes and the permutations of events that could lead to them being anything other than 4m. One day I will drive to work without explaining out loud, to nobody, what the problem with 3.7m windows is. One day I will sit in my new room, gazing through my new bifold doors and I won't care any more. One day.
* All, undoubtedly, massive over-reactions.
** This effect is not dissimilar to a situation identified by the cartoon xkcd, in which someone on the internet is wrong.
*** What I actually want is for someone to wave a magic wand and make both the hole and the windows that are on order 4m wide, as requested. This is clearly not going to happen, but I find magical thinking so helpful when trying to find practical solutions to my mental contortions.
And then I looked back through old posts and discovered I have use the phrase "hamster wheel" to describe my endless, sleep-destroying, anxiety-inducing thoughts on at least four other occasions. So not only are my thoughts trapped in perpetual loops, returning to the same point with monotonous regularity, but so are my similes. I can't even manage to be original in my repetitiveness.
So what is it that my poor brain is doing to me?
It's still banging on about the windows.
Not the fact that the windows crashed (doesn't Windows always crash?)
Not even the fact that the window company someone managed to cancel the order to make the replacement windows without telling anyone.
No.
I'm still pointlessly fretting about the change in size of the windows.
I read and re-read emails where there is no hint that the specification is subject to change; emails where there is no suggestion of an apology or acknowledgement that anyone other than me is at fault.
I stare at the "finished" wall into which the bifold doors will be installed. I see all the spare wall that could be busy being window if it hadn't been turned into wall.
I study the diagrams I drew for the builders, and the 50 point text showing a 4000mm opening for bifold doors.
And I still cannot fathom why they changed the size of the doors when there is demonstrably space for the doors to be the size I specified.
I still cannot fathom why they would think it was OK to change the size of the doors without confirming it in writing with me first.
I still cannot fathom why they would ignore seven emails asking about the change in size, and then tell me it was what I wanted.
And so I have endless conversations in my head in which I point out that the builders are either unprofessional, incompetent or untruthful*. I explain why in nauseating detail, determined to demonstrate the rightness of my way of seeing things**.
I don't even know what response I would like in my head when I'm the one providing both sides of the conversation, let alone if I had the guts to actually try and express any of these thoughts and feelings out loud. Which I'm too much of a confrontation-averse munchkin to ever think about. Would an apology suffice? I don't know. Would I feel better if they simply said, "you're right, we screwed up, the bifolds should have been bigger?" What is it that I want?***
The true absurdity is that we're going to have massive bifold doors, through which sunlight will stream in all its unfettered glory. An extra thirty centimetres is unlikely to make one iota of difference.
So why can't my mind let go?
Why can't it shut up?
Why can't I be more like BigBear, with his phlegmatic shrug?
Is it because it feels like unfinished business? Is it because it is, literally, unfinished? Is it because after nearly four months living in a building site, I'm simply so stressed that there has to be a release valve for the stress, and my mind has latched onto the only thing that's demonstrably wrong on site and is venting through that?
One day I will go to bed without lying awake thinking about window sizes and the permutations of events that could lead to them being anything other than 4m. One day I will drive to work without explaining out loud, to nobody, what the problem with 3.7m windows is. One day I will sit in my new room, gazing through my new bifold doors and I won't care any more. One day.
* All, undoubtedly, massive over-reactions.
** This effect is not dissimilar to a situation identified by the cartoon xkcd, in which someone on the internet is wrong.
*** What I actually want is for someone to wave a magic wand and make both the hole and the windows that are on order 4m wide, as requested. This is clearly not going to happen, but I find magical thinking so helpful when trying to find practical solutions to my mental contortions.
Wednesday 13 February 2019
In which disbelief reigns
Our building works have passed from comedy, through tragedy and straight into farce.
For those who are familiar with the oeuvre of Kevin McCloud, and his "Grand Designs", it is always the windows. Always.
Our windows and doors were due on Monday, but did not arrive.
Then they were due on Tuesday, but did not arrive.
LittleBear, in what I initially dismissed as a histrionic fit, declared, "That's it! If they're not here today, they're never coming!" He even put in a full-blown, lip-trembling half sob to complete the dramatic performance.
Being a mature, sensible adult, with a firm grasp on how the real world operates, I told him that this was not a sensible stance, and that of course they would arrive, it was only a matter of 'when'.
And then, today, MrsBuilder contacted me.
After the previously mentioned tragedy, in which the lorry carrying the windows crashed, naturally the windows were re-ordered. We were given an estimated delivery date. MrsBuilder pursued the manufacturers as the delivery date approached, and was assured that all was in order. Until now.
It turns out that the left hand and the right hand of the window company are not on speaking terms. I'm not convinced that Right Hand even knows Left Hand exists. Because Left Hand happily acknowledged that the original delivery had failed and that they needed to make replacements. Meanwhile, when Right Hand received this information they appear to have shrugged and said, "Pah! This is just a copy of that order we've just finished, what a silly mistake, we'll chuck the order in the bin."
And thus it is that Left Hand has been happily confirming things with MrsBuilder, while Right Hand have been happily not making any windows and doors at all.
And thus it is that four months after paying a quite considerable sum of money for some quite considerable doors and windows, not only do we not have any doors and windows, but nobody has even started making them.
I think I would probably be more angry and upset about this if I weren't in a state of utterly bewildered shock. I find it hard to imagine how a company can operate in this way. I have occasionally had cause to be disparaging about my own company, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot imagine one half of the company acknowledging and confirming an order, while the other half unilaterally abandons it.
To her great credit, MrsBuilder has been right on it from the moment she discovered this situation, and already has a quote through for an alternative supplier, and is pursuing others as I type.
The original window company have, apparently, offered a £500 refund as some form of apology for their incompetence. I am pressing for this to be the case even if (when) we don't get them to attempt to make the windows for a third time. I have no idea whether I will succeed in this quest, as I don't actually have a contract with the original window company, I have a contract with my builders.
To be honest, the thought of arguing about compensation with my builders makes me feel more stressed and anxious than the thought of weeks and weeks of waiting for more bloody windows. Waiting doesn't involved interacting with other human beings. Arguing that four months without a trace of a window is unacceptable does involved interacting with other human beings. I don't like other human beings. I don't like interacting with other human beings. I think I feel slightly sick now...
For those who are familiar with the oeuvre of Kevin McCloud, and his "Grand Designs", it is always the windows. Always.
Our windows and doors were due on Monday, but did not arrive.
Then they were due on Tuesday, but did not arrive.
LittleBear, in what I initially dismissed as a histrionic fit, declared, "That's it! If they're not here today, they're never coming!" He even put in a full-blown, lip-trembling half sob to complete the dramatic performance.
Being a mature, sensible adult, with a firm grasp on how the real world operates, I told him that this was not a sensible stance, and that of course they would arrive, it was only a matter of 'when'.
And then, today, MrsBuilder contacted me.
After the previously mentioned tragedy, in which the lorry carrying the windows crashed, naturally the windows were re-ordered. We were given an estimated delivery date. MrsBuilder pursued the manufacturers as the delivery date approached, and was assured that all was in order. Until now.
It turns out that the left hand and the right hand of the window company are not on speaking terms. I'm not convinced that Right Hand even knows Left Hand exists. Because Left Hand happily acknowledged that the original delivery had failed and that they needed to make replacements. Meanwhile, when Right Hand received this information they appear to have shrugged and said, "Pah! This is just a copy of that order we've just finished, what a silly mistake, we'll chuck the order in the bin."
And thus it is that Left Hand has been happily confirming things with MrsBuilder, while Right Hand have been happily not making any windows and doors at all.
And thus it is that four months after paying a quite considerable sum of money for some quite considerable doors and windows, not only do we not have any doors and windows, but nobody has even started making them.
I think I would probably be more angry and upset about this if I weren't in a state of utterly bewildered shock. I find it hard to imagine how a company can operate in this way. I have occasionally had cause to be disparaging about my own company, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot imagine one half of the company acknowledging and confirming an order, while the other half unilaterally abandons it.
To her great credit, MrsBuilder has been right on it from the moment she discovered this situation, and already has a quote through for an alternative supplier, and is pursuing others as I type.
The original window company have, apparently, offered a £500 refund as some form of apology for their incompetence. I am pressing for this to be the case even if (when) we don't get them to attempt to make the windows for a third time. I have no idea whether I will succeed in this quest, as I don't actually have a contract with the original window company, I have a contract with my builders.
To be honest, the thought of arguing about compensation with my builders makes me feel more stressed and anxious than the thought of weeks and weeks of waiting for more bloody windows. Waiting doesn't involved interacting with other human beings. Arguing that four months without a trace of a window is unacceptable does involved interacting with other human beings. I don't like other human beings. I don't like interacting with other human beings. I think I feel slightly sick now...
Friday 1 February 2019
A lightening of the mood
The last forty-eight hours have been even more fraught than the rest of the trauma of having building work done.
Having launched not one, but two, intemperate rants at the builders about two different issues on Wednesday, I then spent a discomfited night wondering whether this time I had Gone Too Far. Thursday morning dawned, and there was no sign of any builders arriving for the day. Relatively early on Thursday, however, MrsBuilder emailed me back...
Which made me feel a bit better. For a couple of hours. After three hours I was a little twitchy; once six hours had passed I began to feel a trifle anxious; by bedtime I felt sick and scared by the lack of response. Had I finally managed to piss them off so much they'd given up on me? Suffice to say, I did not sleep well last night. When there was still no sign of anyone arriving on site today, my sense of doom deepened and I drove to work in tears. I finally cracked at lunchtime today, and sent a friendly message including the line,
Several hours passed with no response.
I even psyched myself up to phoning MrsBuilder. No answer on her mobile or landline.
I drove home from work in tears.
I was genuinely convinced that they were downing tools and refusing to complete the job.
And then MrsBuilder emailed with comprehensive replies to all my questions, a plan to meet on Monday, details of when the carpet-man would be coming to measure up, reassurances about various issues, and the timings of when work would be starting again. And apologies because she'd had to go to an HMRC training course straight after her meeting.
A weight was lifted from my shoulders.
And once the weight was lifted, I gained some clarity on life again. I even gained enough clarity to suddenly see a way to solve the issue of The Thing That Is Built Wrong. Stress and anger and fear had stopped me seeing a solution. A deep breathe and it all seemed obvious.
More importantly, I was able to realise how lucky I am that after my last blog post multiple different friends texted and emailed me to check I was OK, to reassure me, to offer me a shoulder to cry on or a pub to meet in.
And I realised how lucky I am to have a friend how has insisted that she will babysit for LittleBear on Monday night so that BigBear and I can go out together.
And how lucky I am that my colleagues tolerate my arriving at work and ranting with the aid of diagrams on a whiteboard.
And how lucky I am that BigBear is considerably calmer than me.
And how lucky I am that for no reason other than we were all tired, and we all deserved a treat, me and my little family went to our local Indian restaurant for dinner tonight. (Yes, LittleBear only ate rice, naan and poppadom, but he loved it, and he loves coming out with us.)
And I finally dare to whisper that I am extra specially lucky that PoorPuss's world has been revolutionised by the addition of tablecloth to the floor, and for the past five days and nights, he has confined his output to his litter tray.
Having launched not one, but two, intemperate rants at the builders about two different issues on Wednesday, I then spent a discomfited night wondering whether this time I had Gone Too Far. Thursday morning dawned, and there was no sign of any builders arriving for the day. Relatively early on Thursday, however, MrsBuilder emailed me back...
"I am just about to head into a meeting but as soon as I am out I shall reply to your other emails."
Which made me feel a bit better. For a couple of hours. After three hours I was a little twitchy; once six hours had passed I began to feel a trifle anxious; by bedtime I felt sick and scared by the lack of response. Had I finally managed to piss them off so much they'd given up on me? Suffice to say, I did not sleep well last night. When there was still no sign of anyone arriving on site today, my sense of doom deepened and I drove to work in tears. I finally cracked at lunchtime today, and sent a friendly message including the line,
"I'm hoping the absence of diligent all-weather builders for the past two days is because of the weather and not because you've all got the hump with me for being a stroppy cow!"
Several hours passed with no response.
I even psyched myself up to phoning MrsBuilder. No answer on her mobile or landline.
I drove home from work in tears.
I was genuinely convinced that they were downing tools and refusing to complete the job.
And then MrsBuilder emailed with comprehensive replies to all my questions, a plan to meet on Monday, details of when the carpet-man would be coming to measure up, reassurances about various issues, and the timings of when work would be starting again. And apologies because she'd had to go to an HMRC training course straight after her meeting.
A weight was lifted from my shoulders.
And once the weight was lifted, I gained some clarity on life again. I even gained enough clarity to suddenly see a way to solve the issue of The Thing That Is Built Wrong. Stress and anger and fear had stopped me seeing a solution. A deep breathe and it all seemed obvious.
More importantly, I was able to realise how lucky I am that after my last blog post multiple different friends texted and emailed me to check I was OK, to reassure me, to offer me a shoulder to cry on or a pub to meet in.
And I realised how lucky I am to have a friend how has insisted that she will babysit for LittleBear on Monday night so that BigBear and I can go out together.
And how lucky I am that my colleagues tolerate my arriving at work and ranting with the aid of diagrams on a whiteboard.
And how lucky I am that BigBear is considerably calmer than me.
And how lucky I am that for no reason other than we were all tired, and we all deserved a treat, me and my little family went to our local Indian restaurant for dinner tonight. (Yes, LittleBear only ate rice, naan and poppadom, but he loved it, and he loves coming out with us.)
And I finally dare to whisper that I am extra specially lucky that PoorPuss's world has been revolutionised by the addition of tablecloth to the floor, and for the past five days and nights, he has confined his output to his litter tray.
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