More worrying than the books is the effect of cbeebies on my son. He doesn’t normally watch much TV but he’s had a bad case of chickenpox recently (add eczema and scratching and the result is infected bleeding skin). The only things that made him happy were the ‘chocolate stars’ Lemly brought him and standing in front of the TV. So I was soft for a few weeks. Now I regret it.
I can just about cope with Toddler announcing that he is “Iggle Piggle” and wants to visit Upsy Daisy. Dressing-up just requires wearing a blue t-shirt and trousers, and carrying a blanket. And he has a friend Daisy. So that works.
But what bothers me is the fact that my cup of tea, which he mustn’t touch, is no longer “hot”. According to Toddler it’s: “hot-hot”. I want to kill Big Cook.
And the repetition of words has spilt over into other areas. Just when we were starting to get proper sentences it all goes wobbly again. Take our conversation the other day:
Mummy: “Make sure you share your raisins”
Toddler: “Razins not for babies”
Mummy: “No, but Crawler is not really a baby anymore"
Toddler (thinks for a while, hands a few raisins to Crawler who immediately eats them, then observes): “She getting bigger-bigger like a toggler”.
Since when was bigger-bigger a word? Last month Crawler was simply getting bigger. Will she be bigger-bigger-bigger next month?
Like most parents of young children we’ve created a bedtime routine that involves reading Toddler and Crawler a bedtime story. This last week I suddenly realised what an influence the books were having on Toddler. And it’s not all good.
Toddler got new shoes on Tuesday. Daddy took him into town. The nice lady in the show measured his feet (large) and gave him a choice of three styles. He tried the first pair on. “Want those”. He reluctantly tired the second pair (with diggers on). “No, want those” (pointing at the first pair he’d tried). He refused to try the third pair. Daddy left the shop with Toddler wearing the wanted pair of Jungle ‘Doodles’ shoes. They have lion & tiger print sides, ants marching around the sole, and a velcro snake fastening. Mummy was suitably impressed when shown them.
Later that evening Toddler asked: “What snakes eat?”
Daddy: “mice, like in The Gruffalo.”
Mummy: “rats and baby rabbits, like Uncle Mark’s snake” (yes, Uncle Mark has a ‘pet’ Boa Constrictor).
Toddler: “NO Mummy, snakes eat mice”.
Another morning we’re having one of our usual conversations about imaginary beings while I'm trying to juggle breastfeeding Crawler and getting Toddler dressed without making myself late for work.
Toddler (pointing): “There’s a bear in the corner there”
Mummy: “Is it a scary bear?”
Toddler (thinking): “Ummm… yes”.
He pauses… then says, “Quick shut the door, Mummy!”
Mummy (shutting imaginary door in middle of room): “OK, it’s shut”
Toddler: “NO Mummy, it’s friendly bear. He’s just looking for friend”.
Mummy (remembering that Daddy often adds an extra bit at the end of “We’re going on a bear hunt” saying that the bear follows them home because he wants to make friends): “Sorry”.
So, there you have it. Mummy is always wrong. The books are always right.
Maybe I need to start writing my own stories to read to Toddler at bedtime.
(I'm so encouraged to find people actually read and comment on my blog I thought I'd continue posting!)
I'm off work at the moment. Sick. In the Feeling-VERY-Green sense. Normally Toddler and Baby go to nursery a couple of days a week so I should have got some rest. But 10-month old babe has had chickenpox so she's been at home too. So we gave up trying to pretend all was fine.
And on Sunday Husband went off to church on his own and told anyone who'd listen 'Hurrah! We're expecting another baby in October.' (Subtext: Help! We need a little support right now).
There were three kinds of responses:
1) The usual 'Congratulations' response.
2) The 'Gosh, that was quick' (Subtext: I'm curious to know if this was planned?) response.
And
3) The one mum-of-three who said, with feeling, 'Oh, I'm SO sorry'.
I think the mum had done the maths and realised that in just over 6 months' time we'll be dealing with three children under three in our house.
But I'm vomiting too much right now to be worrying about 'in 6 months' time'!
Toddler is now entering the world of imaginary play. Probably because Baby Sister is now crawling and stealing all the real toys. And he's pretty imaginative for a not-quite-two-and-a-half-year-old. And he does different voices for different characters - I love it.
Recently I overheard a conversation two of his imaginary friends were having with each other. The friends were clearly arguing about whose boat was better, and the conversation went along the lines of:
"this my boat"
"this my BIG boat"
"my boat has bow-thrusters"
"oh".
Oh, indeed. I am starting to wonder if it's normal for a child of his age to have vocabulary that includes technical terms like that. But then it's probably not normal for a child of that age to spend Easter day standing on a canal bank in the falling snow enthusiastically waving around a metal object shouting "look mummy - windlass!"
The wheels on the bus go round and round...
The mummies on the bus go Chat chat chat (sounds a like 'tut' when Toddler says it)...
The babies on the bus go Wah-wah-wah (Toddler does the actions to this = very cute)...
The daddies on the bus say 'Stop that noise'...
Maybe if my dear son had started with the mummies or the babies (or even mentioned the BUS!) I'd have got it. But obviously the daddies are most important!
So, my toddler is talking now. And singing. And mostly we understand what he's going on about. But sometimes it's a guessing game. And sometimes is a frustrating game for both of us.
Last weekend he sang to his baby sister as we sat in the car driving back from Granny's. His first song was 'Happy birthday' - an odd choice as his second birthday was in November and his sister won't be one until May... but he's probably heard it sung to others at the toddler group we go to. He sang in mostly on his own. But then he decided Mummy needed to sing too.
He requested 'Twinkle Twinkle'. No problem, we do that all the time: 'Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder...'
Next up was 'Knees and Toes'. I was pretty impressed with this - he hasn't heard it from me very often, or at the toddler group... but they must do it at nursery as he proved he knows the actions too: 'Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes...'
Then he requested 'Daddy stop that noise'. WHAT? 'Daddy stop that noise'. I thought very hard. And then I thought some more. But could I think of a song with that line in it? No. Having explained Mummy's lack of a clue, we sang 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' instead - well, it includes a noise!!
Another day - another singing session. This time Daddy is around too. 'Daddy stop that noise' Daddy gets offended that he's not allowed to sing. I explain that it's a song. Daddy tries to guess the song. He also has: NO CLUE.
The following morning, silly Mummy suggests singing (a ploy to keep Toddler sitting on the potty while Baby's nappy is changed). First request? Of course it's 'Daddy stop that noise'.
I try to explain that Mummy doesn't know that song. Toddler is now getting a bit frustrated by his clueless parents.
'Can you remember any other words?' I gently suggest.
Deep thought.
'Mummy goes Tut-tut-tut'
I'm starting to think this is a very funny song... and am imagining various scenarios where Daddy is told to stop making noise by Mummy. 'What's making the noise - is Daddy hammering?'
'No. Baby goes wah-wah'
Yep, sound's feasible... Daddy's noise has now woken up the baby. But I'm still no closer to knowing what song is.
Fortunately it's Tuesday. Nursery day. I suggest Daddy asks the staff when he drops the kids off what song they sing that has those lines in it.
Daddy asks. Staff scratch their head. Toddler tries to explain to Stupid Adults again... want to know what it was?
My name is Tracy. Not Tracey, Tracie, or any other variation. My e-mail address at work is Tracy.Surname@InternationalCompany.com it’s fairly simple for those I work with to figure out how to spell my name. But some of them seem unable to. Just last night I was chatting to friends about how annoying it is to get e-mails that start Dear Tracey. This morning I was annoyed. A random accounts person called Lucy e-mails me with a query. So I politely e-mailed her back: Dear Lucey…
In Britain it is usual to sleep in a bed. In other places the floor is favoured. My Terrible Toddler is going through a phase of preferring ‘other places’ at the moment. He’s been in a ‘big boy bed’ since he was just over a year old – displaced from the cot to make room for his baby sister – and he’s loved going to sleep in it. Until now.
It started on Saturday night when he decided he didn’t want to stay in bed. Totally happy going to bed. Just got up again the moment we left the room. We tried the telling-nicely-to-stay-in-bed way. We tried the being-firm way. We tried the supernanny-silent-treatment way. We tried the holding-the-door-shut way. And then his sister was woken by the screaming tantrum. It took over two hours to get him in bed.
The record was Tuesday night. First put in bed at 7pm – read story, tucked in, said prayers, kissed goodnight. Thirty seconds later he was out of his room standing in the hall. We had a guest staying. We alternated between nicely-encouraging-back-into-bed and totally-ignoring-the-child-in-the-hall techniques while we had dinner. Then Dad took Guest out to the pub. I tried the getting-firmer approach… then the cuddle-and-sing-son-to-sleep method. At 11.20pm he finally went to sleep. And so did I.
Wednesday we decided to revise our parenting approach. Child rearing is totally a make-it-up-as-you-go-along sort of thing. So we made up another approach. 7pm toddler in bed. 7.01pm toddler out of bed. Stairgate closed so he’s only got access to his room, our room and the hallway between the two rooms. 7.10pm parents downstairs relaxing to the noise of happy toddler chattering to Tedi in hallway. 7.30pm parents find toddler asleep on floor in hallway. And he stayed asleep when we lifted him back into his bed too.
I’m thinking- what’s the point in battling to get Terrible Toddler to stay his own bed? It may be standard to go to sleep there, but he won’t come to any harm if he quietly goes to sleep on the floor each night and is just lifted back into bed.
The company I work for claims to be one of the world's leading providers of professional, technologically-based consultancy. We are cutting edge. And we know how to make a profit.
One key aspect of this profit-making is outsourcing everything. Catering. Computers. IT support. If we want something we generally pay per person per month. So, if someone happens to go on maternity leave for three months their computer login is disabled and the company saves approximately 4p by not having to pay for a computer or any IT support services for them for those few months. The aforementioned person then returns to work. The local admin assistant spends half an hour (at a cost of £some/hour) sending a few e-mails to get the computer account re-activated. The returning new-mum spends half an hours (at a cost of £some more/hour) trying to get the newly issued login to work. The new-mum then spends almost an hour on the phone to the helpful IT support guys getting to password re-set (twice) before she can finally access her computer desktop. At the end of the first week the new-mum attempts to enter her timesheet on the computer system so the client can be billed for all the time she’s spent doing highly-productive work. But the login to the timesheet system isn’t working either. Another hour on the phone to IT support. More unproductive time.
I’m currently wondering how saving 4p by shutting down my account and then wasting £millions while I try to reactivate it (OK those amounts might be an exaggeration) actually results in the company making a profit.
But perhaps I’m just not cutting-edge enough to understand it.
Across the road from our house is a lovely little park with pretty plants, ambling paths, a duck pond (or is it a lake?), children’s play area, bowling green, crumbling pavilion and a boarded-up toilet block. After almost 5 years of promises, the local council has now started an extensive refurbishment of the park. Being the council they’re doing things in a random half-arsed order: first they ripped out the old play area… then they decided to start on re-roofing the bowls pavilion… then part-way through that job they started clearing an area for a new information centre and toilet block. I’m hoping they might start to finish some of the half-done jobs soon… but in the meantime I’m enjoying the suspense of ‘what will they do next?’
Recently they’ve started to do the new play area. They dug trenches, laid pipes… oh, the suspense, what was it for? They’ve backfilled with gravel for filter drains to ensure the area doesn’t get water-logged. They re-turfed the area. The grass died. They laid down soil on top of the dead grass… oh, the excitement, what type of surface was ultimately planned? They've started to lay down holey rubber matting to ensure a soft landing when the children fall. But, oh, the anticipation, what will the children fall from? They've put up various frames, for swings and roundabouts and climbing… and now they’re constructing the slides.
Yesterday I watched three men attempt to put together a flat-pack slide. How hard can that be? Well, it wasn’t quite flat. The pieces were yellow plastic curves. And a good few hours was spent with the men standing around trying to figure out how the make the bits fit together to form the spiral slide indicated on the instruction leaflet. It reminded me of the flat-pack committees that seem to congregate around the latest box purchased from Ikea or Argos. Only it wasn’t a group of my friends standing in the park pondering how to make part D fit into slot E. It was a group of supposed professionals... and they looked far less confident in the task than any group of my friends would do. I wonder whether the play area will have a safety inspection before it’s opened to the public? Or perhaps the council are just relying on the holey rubber matting to do its job efficiently!
One of the last things I do at night before going to bed is make my sandwiches for lunch at work the following day. Last night I stood, half asleep, staring into the fridge trying to figure out what to put in my sandwiches, having run out of the usual cheese. Eventually I decided on egg mayo. The only drawback was this meant waiting for the eggs to hard-boil. And I wanted to go to bed. Fortunately Mr Chef came into the kitchen at that point and, having said that he wanted to do a bit of work on the computer before retiring to bed, offered to watch the eggs and make the sandwiches for me.
‘How long does an egg take to hard-boil?’ he asked. I gave instructions, commenting that I didn’t think that it was possible to over-hard-boil an egg. Once it’s hard-boiled it can’t get more hard-boiled, can it?
I went upstairs to bed and read for a bit. I could hear the gentle tapping on the computer keyboard, interrupted at one point by a bang that I assumed was Mr Chef dropping something in the study. I dozed off to sleep.
A bit later I woke up and looked at the clock. An hour had passed. Then I became aware of a horrible smell, a sort of sulphuric burning smell. I called downstairs to the man in the study, ‘can you smell burning?’ There was a pause. Then the sound of running towards the kitchen.
I went downstairs. In the kitchen I found a sheepish-looking Mr Chef. In the pan on the hob were two cracked and brown eggs. ‘I’m so, so sorry’ he said, ‘I’ll do some more for you… and I’ll watch them this time.’ Pause. ‘Ummm, did you hear them explode?’
What could I say? I just laughed. Now I know that it is possible to over-hard-boil an egg. If you leave an egg in water boiling for over an hour, the water eventually boils away. Then the egg heats up, expands and the shell explodes with a bang. Then the exposed egg starts to burn.
The second lot of eggs Mr Chef hard-boiled for me have, however, made some very nice sandwiches for lunch. I’ve just eaten them.
We have a separate bathroom and toilet upstairs. The toilet bit is in the corner of the house. It is tiny. It has two outside walls and no radiator. It is freezing in winter. But this isn’t the thing that has annoyed me the most about it. No, what I’ve hated since we’ve moved in is the fact that it hasn’t had a proper door handle. It had a push-shut ball catch with a simple bar handles each side to pull the door with. It was stiff and noisy to open and shut. But it worked so we never changed it. Or rather, it worked until someone pulled the bar handle off the inside of the door. I observed the problem. I noted the likely danger of someone getting trapped in the toilet unable to pull the door open. I considered just replacing the bar handle. Then I decided to fit a whole new handle, a handle with a level so we could be rid of the annoying noisy push-shut ball catch.
It was meant to be a simple job. Just a few large circular holes to be drilled through the door and a rectangular hole in the frame, and then the job would be done. Simple jobs always take at least three times longer than expected. Simple jobs often involve overcoming one or two minor problems.
Problem number 1: The ancient old door wasn’t as thick as the rest to the doors in our house. So, should you wish to, you can observe a short section of the barrel of the lock from the inside of the toilet even when the door is closed. One day I’ll fix that minor problem by replacing the entire door.
Problem number 2: Forgetting to make a small recess for the plate around the hole in the door frame when fixing it. This wouldn’t have been quite so big a problem if Mr DIY hadn’t decided to go into the tiny room and shut the door to test it. It shut just fine. But opening it was a problem. A big problem. I’m not sure how advisable it is to go throwing yourself against jammed doors when almost six months pregnant… but ignoring cries of ‘help, I’m trapped’ is even less advisable. He pulled, I pushed, the catch bent and the door sprung open. A few minor alterations and the door handle works now. There’s no danger of anyone getting trapped in the toilet. But please can someone remind me to replace the handle with a non-bent version when I get round to replacing the entire door.
This morning I walked past a man painting a Royal Mail post box.
Yesterday when I went to post a letter the post box was bright blue. It made me smile. Students’ I thought, ‘…or perhaps bored ‘yoofs’!’ They’d obviously wanted to have some fun. It’s not a new joke, in my 12 years in this lovely ugly city I’ve seen a number of post boxes change colour, but I’ve never seen a job done as well as this one. Very little red was showing through the blue paint.
The man this morning was trying to restore it to the more traditional ‘pillar box red’ colour. He didn’t look like he was having fun, nor did he seem particularly well equipped to do a good job with his tiny inch-wide brush. I know I shouldn’t have, but had to smile. I wondered if that was his full time job. Post box painter. It’d make for a pretty unique CV, I think.
The night before last it rained. Lots. And lots. I woke up and laid in bed for a while wondering if our roof would hold. Last year you may recall me mentioning the saga of our roof and the indoor water feature we had. Lying in bed I feared the feature would return. So I got up to check. Inside was still dry... well, mostly. Our back door leaks. It has done for a while. In the morning we discovered a large puddle inside the door. But it was soon mopped up.
Down the road our friends had less luck. Mrs loves storms. She woke up in the night, got up and enthused about the severity of the rain and lightening… until she heard Mr, who had got up and gone down to the kitchen for a drink, shouting ‘Flood. Flood’. Their back door did more than leak a little. Two foot of water pooling in their back yard was seeking an escape route. Mr braved the weather, ran around the house and, after some difficulty, found the manhole cover and opened it. The foul water rushed away, swirling down the huge plughole. His boots are ruined. And their kitchen requires more than a little mopping.
I work with flooding. I investigate the risks. Study the rivers. Design defences. But it’s different when it’s your friends who phone up and say help, we’ve been flooded. Yesterday I felt a little sad.
Our housemate, on the other hand, felt very happy. The storm also directly affected him. But in a nice way. The call centre he works in had been hit by lightening in the night. The computer systems were down. He went to work and didn’t have to actually answer any calls. His Neverending Telephone helL took a break for the day. And the sun shone.
The road works outside our office are still on-going. The roundabout is now buried and a new road layout is emerging. Traffic and been diverted this way and that, and so have us simple pedestrians.
Each week my way to work changes as temporary barriers are erected and moved while sections of road and pavement are paved. This morning, picking my way through the maze avoiding tripping over the men laying block paving, I found that the ‘pedestrians this way’ signs had again changed. Not just in location and direction, but also in language. I turned the final corner on my way to work to be greeted by a sign that had been modified so that it read ‘this is the way to Amarillo’. I smiled. It was a nice way to start the day.
This morning I had a business meeting in the City (the Welsh one). It takes a hour to get there by train. So I figure catching a train an hour and a half before I need to be there will give me plenty of flexibility in case of 'we're sorry about the delay to this service' announcements. I figure wrong.
I bought my ticket and boarded an unusually quiet train. We set off. Two minutes later the announcement comes: 'We are sorry about the delay to this service.'
Hang on... we've just set off at the timetabled time. We're two minutes into the journey. How can we be late?
'Due to the on-going signalling problems at Botheration we anticpate a wait of approximately 25 minutes at Port Smog.'
Fantastic. They knew there was a problem before we boarded the train and we weren't told. I would have taken a bus if I'd known. Never mind, I think, I'll still make the meeting.
At Port Smog it's announced that we're in a queue of trains waiting to go through the 'effected area'. We're stationary for over 40 minutes. I call to say I'll be late for the meeting. Mr Bold in my carriage figures we're owed a free drink and heads off to the buffet carriage. He figures right.
He comes back with coffee. I go for tea. They're handing out free sandwiches and cakes too. I get a 'Pain au Raisin'. It goes a small way towards compensating for pain au journey. I drink tea, eat cake and read the ingredients list (it beats reading work paperwork) It says:
Flour Water Yeast Flour Improver Salt Sugar Milk
Powder Butter Sultanas Custard Apricot Glaze
Apart from the total lack of punctuation and strange line break that leaves me wondering what kind of ingredient 'Powder Butter' is, I am also puzzled by the lack of raisins in my 'Pain'.
Eventually we leave Port Smog and travel at a snail's pace through Botheration. We arrive in the City a full 60 minutes late. I am late for the meeting. But it wasn't that interesting a meeting anyway. I'm sure writing about my journey makes for a far more entertaining read.
Yesterday I was almost in tears because of the UK postal service. Today the sun has come out and dried up all the rain (and incy wincy spider climbs the spout again?).
Mr Husband says our house is a black hole for parcels. He’s lost at least 4 in the 4 years since we’ve been living in our current house. None have ever been found. We didn’t hold out much hope when the ‘top secret craft activity’ parcel failed to materialise at our house. So instead of hope I tried the other two secret weapons I have: a forceful German lodger and a very cute baby.
Step 1- How to loose a VIP (very important parcel):
Get it delivered while you’re away on holiday by a postman who thinks he’s living in the future (and the 18th was at the start of the week) and can’t tell the time (yes, there definitely was someone in at 8:15am).
Step 2- Use Weapon Number One:
Let your efficient German lodger pick up the ‘we tired to deliver a parcel’ note and trust her to start the chase without telling you. She should phone up the sorting office daily to ask if it has been returned to the depot and can be redelivered. She should get more and more forceful, demand to know what’s happened and why they can’t find it in the sorting office, get the name of a senior manager and get him to speak to the postman concerned, etc.
Step 3: Use Weapon Number Two:
Get back from holiday and make a trip to the sorting office in person accompanied by a small baby. Sit in the waiting room asking to speak to Mr Sucker (for that was the mangers name). Wait until ‘call me Dean’ appears and get baby to act extra cute. Emphasise the ‘irreplaceable’ and ‘hand-made gift’ aspects of the lost item. Be nice and not at all angry. Then look like you’re about to cry when he tells you the chance of it turning up now is minimal.
Step 4: Celebrate:
The next day your parcel will mysteriously appear at your door. Tell everyone to celebrate (and stop cursing the postal service!).
[p.s. Alice: I have a belated birthday present for you! :) ]
[n.b. I posted this yesterday lunchtime... only it appears that I didn't!]
It’s hot. Too hot… and to avoid going out in the midday sun, I’m sitting in a stuff office. I’m not sure this is an improvement.
We received an e-mail yesterday from our office manager:
Dear All,
In view of the current hot spell of weather, the use of tailored shorts and open sandals will be acceptable attire for those who are unfortunately desk bound over this period.
Kind regards, H.
The result is that we (the modestly dressed females) are now being subjected to the scary sight of the more senior bosses in shorts and sandals. Unsurprisingly the younger members of the office are sticking to lightweight trousers and shoes.
The change of dress in the UK during the short period we like to call ‘summer’ is pretty noticeable. Some people seem to go half naked. Others stick to their usual jeans and jumpers but put on some sunglasses to mark the change in season. I like to think I get it about right wearing smart sleeveless dresses or lightweight long skirts for work. The woman I passed on my way to work this morning obviously thought I was about right too. She stopped me to ask if she was dressed OK as she was on her way to an interview and didn’t have anyone to ask now she’d split with her partner. I honestly thought she looked great and tried to be encouraging, wishing her luck in the interview… but I did spend the rest of the walk to work wondering what I would have said if she hadn’t looked okay. It wasn’t as if she could have changed her clothes in the street.
My walks to work are becoming pretty interesting. Something always seems to happen on my way to work which I then spend the rest of the journey wondering about. Yesterday I felt like I was a whodunit detective or maybe a mystery writer. After dropping my boy off at nursery I encountered a minor delay due to a ‘scene’ outside the local Spar shop. Two police cars and an ambulance were parked at the side of the road. The pavement was blocked by three policemen waving sticks around. And a fourth policeman was using his stick to beat a dog. A dog that was attacking another dog. The police got the dogs apart and a man went to help the injured dog. There was a shocked looking woman in the ambulance and another man trying to get a chain on the crazy dog. I decided not to join the small crowd that was gathering to watch. I crossed the road and walked on. But I did spend the next 20 minutes making up a story in my head about a crazy dog that had spent too much time in the midday sun and attacked a woman who refused to give him an icecream and the Spar staff barricaded themselves in the shop and called the police and then ate all the icecream left to teach the dog a lesson and the policemen came and demanded ice cream reinforcements and it all got very silly after that…
I was diverted on my way to work today. Diversions are good if they are the kind that distract your mind and help you forget that ‘Monday morning’ feeling (which I experience on a Tuesday due to my extra long weekend and short working week). This was not that kind of diversion. This was the kind that involves walking down back roads I’ve never, in the twelve years I’ve been in this city, ever walked down before. This was the kind of diversion that was necessary due to the numerous ‘FFORDD AR GAU’ signs I came across. The roads were closed to even us humble walkers. And my journey took an extra FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. And I was already late.
I’ve noticed recently how it’s becoming more natural for me to (try to) read the ‘other’ language on the signs rather than just the English. It’s all to do with bringing up Little Sprout bilingual. I may not speak much but I’m gradually understanding more. ‘NODI’ actually seemed to make a bit of sense yesterday when we watched it… or maybe that’s because there’s not really a lot not to get when the story is about a runaway train driven by TEDI.
Interestingly (to me, anyway) I learnt yesterday that a JCB is still a JCB in Welsh. I can’t remember what the initials stand for. But it wasn’t the same as the English. Geek that I am, I know what JCB stands for. The initials actually come from Joseph Cyril Bamford who started making the construction vehicles. This is just one of the three VERY IMPORTANT FACTS that I know about JCBs. The other two facts are that Nizlopi made an excellent single about JCBs with the BEST VIDEO EVER and that Jason Bird wanted to be a JCB digger when he was nine years old.
Jason Bird was a boy in my class at school. He is the only boy whose surname I remember. I may have spent ever break time playing with Austin and errr… I can’t even remember the other boys’ first name! But it’s Jason’s name that sticks in my mind. Because he was so obsessed with diggers. And because he was so upset that his middle name began with something other than C.
As I passed the JCBs this morning I wondered what Jason is doing now. Did he ever change is middle name, as he said he would? Did he become a JCB driver, assuming that he eventually accepted the fact at this was likely to be the next best thing to becoming the digger itself? Or have his ambitions changed in the 21 years since we were in the same class at school? I’ll never know. But I know I’ll never forget his name… after all, he was the first VIF that I knew about JCBs.
The office I work in is like a greenhouse: glass windows all the way round, minimal ventilation and you mustn’t throw stones in it. Water and cool air are required during sunny spells to ensure us delicate flowers (and the tough boys too) do not wilt.
Obtaining water is usually OK. Down one flight of stairs is the office kitchen – after you’ve fought your way past the sink stacked with dirty dishes, empty dishwater, food splattered microwave, overfull fridge, dripping water heater, fair-trade tea and coffee, and empty squash bottles you come to the most important feature in the room: the water cooler. It is a wonderful invention: Ice cold water on demand. And always broken. At least the sink taps work. Usually. Last week the men who are taking away my old friend (see yesterday) damaged the water main in the street outside. The office was without water for most of the day. Great.
Obtaining cool air is also a problem at the moment. Most windows in our fifth floor office are locked shut. To stop us jumping. The management placates us by buying desk fans for anyone who puts their hand up at the right time. The right time being when they are placing the occasional order for fans. The fans are very efficient. At moving the warm air about. And this week I discovered they can do something else too: Cut hair. There are a few fans mounted on the pillars in our open plan space. Usually they are directed towards the room in general. But this week someone angled one of the fans down. Not quite sure why we want to cool the floor, but it was obviously deliberate because they thoughtfully put a sign up on the pillar too. The sign says MIND YOUR HEAD. If you forget to duck (and knocked the mesh guard off) the fan blades could give you a very nice hair cut.
The office I work in is like a greenhouse: glass windows all the way round, minimal ventilation and you mustn’t throw stones in it. Water and cool air are required during sunny spells to ensure us delicate flowers (and the tough boys too) do not wilt.
Obtaining water is usually OK. Down one flight of stairs is the office kitchen – after you’ve fought your way past the sink stacked with dirty dishes, empty dishwater, food splattered microwave, overfull fridge, dripping water heater, fair-trade tea and coffee, and empty squash bottles you come to the most important feature in the room: the water cooler. It is a wonderful invention: Ice cold water on demand. And always broken. At least the sink taps work. Usually. Last week the men who are taking away my old friend (see yesterday) damaged the water main in the street outside. The office was without water for most of the day. Great.
Obtaining cool air is also a problem at the moment. Most windows in our fifth floor office are locked shut. To stop us jumping. The management placates us by buying desk fans for anyone who puts their hand up at the right time. The right time being when they are placing the occasional order for fans. The fans are very efficient. At moving the warm air about. And this week I discovered they can do something else too: Cut hair. There are a few fans mounted on the pillars in our open plan space. Usually they are directed towards the room in general. But this week someone angled one of the fans down. Not quite sure why we want to cool the floor, but it was obviously deliberate because they thoughtfully put a sign up on the pillar too. The sign says MIND YOUR HEAD. If you forget to duck (and knocked the mesh guard off) the fan blades could give you a very nice hair cut.
Today I returned to work after a week ill in bed (queue sympathetic noises). And it would be fair to say that my journey to work was traumatic. There were road works. Lots. They (whoever they may be) are digging up the roads in the centre of this lovely ugly town. All of them.
I knew it was planned. I’m in the business after all. I’ve stopped and read the public notices. I’ve viewed the published plans and perused the programme. But I didn’t think they’d start on time. I didn’t think that I wouldn’t have chance to say goodbye to my old friend.
I wrote back in the beginning (11/04/03, to be precise) about my journey to work. I wrote again and again . The underpass was my place to take a deep breath and prepare myself of the start of the day. My place to let out that sigh as I journeyed home. Now my place is going… not quite gone, but well on the way.
I walked past the traffic diversions and around the site fences. I glanced towards the machines tearing up the historic concrete arched tunnels. Watched the reinforcement bars pulled out high into the air and thrown down without a second thought. I paused in a moment’s silence. Then crossed the road and when into my office.
I will have to pass this site twice daily. I will have to watch from my 5th floor window the passing of another era. I will not cry. Life must go on.
I guess it's just that I'm now feeling old and all grown-up. I'd done the jobmortgagehusbandcarkid thing (in that order). But it was only last month when I got to the big 3-0 that I started to notice how much the world has changed since I was 'young'. I'm not about to launch into ramblings about the 'good old days', but I certainly am going to comment on how 'these days aren't like they used to be'.
Take meeting I attended the other week: Two, shirt and tie clad, greying gentlemen and I, sat with pen and paper in hand, discussing how to stop people getting wet feet. Pretty normal. There's always been a significant majority of people in my profession who are male and not as young as they used to be. There's always talking in meetings, and often scribbling notes on a piece of paper with a pen helps to jog the memory when you wake from the 'dropping off' that often occurs in meetings where the majority of talking is done by just one of the old grey ones. What was not so normal was the dress of the men.
Shirts and ties have remain unchanged for decades; unless you go for a very trendy cut, I'd bet that the shirts worn today are pretty identical to those worn by our fathers and their fathers. What is different is the shirt's pocket. In the 'good old days' (oops, it just slipped in there!) men would sit in meetings with an ink stain from the aforementioned pen clearly visible at the base of the pocket. Pens were carried in pockets. Pens leaked. That was the way things were. Today pens don't leak, but neither are they carried in shirt pockets. At the meeting I discover a new trend has emerged without me noticing. Both men sat there with ink-free but extremely misshapen shirt pockets... with mobile phones poking out.
Shirt pockets were not designed to carry phones, but it seems that everyone is using them for this purpose now. These days that's the way things are. And I feel old.
As you may recall, we had our house re-roofed just before our little babe was born. As part of the work, we requested that the builder sort our our leaking gutter and little bit of rotten wood at the front of the house. He said he'd do it after completing the roof, as a separate contract.
So.... when my Little Darling was a month old and there'd been no sign of any start on the work we phoned our builder. His reponse was, "Sorry, I forgot, I'll get onto it right away". And to be fair, he did start it that weekend by coming around and measuring up for a new bit of wood. A month later there was still no progress, so we phoned again. "There's been a bit of a delay with getting the wood, but it's arrived so so my brother will around to fix it sometime this week". The wood is a fancy shaped bit that had to be specially made so we accepted that excuse for the delay... but, his brother doing the work... The Muppet. Oh dear. We knew then that this wouldn't be the two day job originally promised.
Our son is now six months old. The wood was fitted last month, but there has been no sign of it being painted, nor has the gutter been fixed.
Yesterday we bumped into our builder. He said he was very busy but would come and finish the job as soon as he could. The Muppet wouldn't be finishing it.... because he's sacked The Muppet. The story goes something like this:
Once upon a time there was a Muppet who liked going out partying all night, and often came to work still a little drunk. One day he was working at the front of a tall house using a long ladder. But he's chosen not to fix the ladder to anything. And the ladder fell. Onto a car that was parked next to the tall house. And the car had a sunroof. And then it no longer had a sunroof. And the Muppet said "Oh, it's only a student's car, let's just finish the work on the tall house and walk away". But the Honest Builder said "NO!". And the Honest Builder left a note on the car and later he got a call from the car owner's insurance company and discovered that it was going to cost more to fix the car than they'd be earning from finishing the work on the tall house. And the Honest Builder got very mad with The Muppet and sacked him. The End.
So, now we know the answers to two questions that have been puzzling us: (a) why we're still waiting for the work to be finished and (b) why there's been a car with a smashed sunroof parked outside our house for a fortnight.
This weekend I attempted to see how much baby paraphernalia can be crammed into a Ford Ka. I thought I was doing pretty well until I realised that I’d forgotten to leave room for (a) the Little Sprout (and his car seat) and (b) his dad. After a bit of rearranging – whilst being watched by our builder (who has finally come back to finish the roof job) – I managed to cram everyone and everything in and we headed off for a weekend at Gran’s down in the Westcountry.
Coming back was even more of a challenge since Gran has decided that she really needs to knit her first grandson hundreds of hideous jumpers. Hopefully as he grows the speed at which she can knit him jumpers will slow, but right now it seems that little baby jumpers can be generated at a rate of one a day… So 8am yesterday morning I was busy cramming everyone and everything plus a pile of new jumpers into our Ka. When I first announced I was pregnant, Dad-to-be said we needed a car (previously we were a public transport & bike family). Now, four months into fatherhood, he’s saying we need a bigger car. Some people are never satisfied.
The journey home took a while… in addition to having to stop and feed Sprout, there were also a lot of road works on the M5. In case there’s some ‘foreign’ readers, that’s M for Motorway. You know, three lanes of traffic each way travelling at 70mph. And road works that require traffic cones to block off lanes. And crazy men who decide that the best way to set up cones for a new section of road works is to park their van on the hard shoulder, put a pile of cones over their own shoulders, and run across the road to the central reservation. Yes, you heard right. On our way up the M5, on one of the sections without road works, there were two men Running Across The Motorway With Traffic Cones On Their Shoulders.
My Ka has Marvellous brakes. I think we’ll keep it for now.
British Standard 
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