Winter on Wolvercote Common
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Monthly Archives: August 2011
Clutter disorder?
I woke up this morning with the intention of doing a bit of de-cluttering. Bit of a general clear out. So far, I’ve been unsuccessful. I sorted through all the stuff on my desk, put it into piles and then put most of it back on my desk. “So what?” I hear you say, through a big yawn.
Well, it’s a big what. First of all, to give you an example of what I’m talking about, here’s a small bit of cluttered space that is to the left of where I’m typing right now;
The cone of shame
Today I’m wearing the cone of shame. And it’s only 10.15am.
The direct payments police came round to ‘help’ me with my returns.
Now what does this mean? Direct payments? Returns? This… for those of you who are not familiar with this area, is about our CARE PACKAGE. LB gets funding to cover the combination of services he is assessed to need. So we get this funding in a dedicated bank account, use it to pay for someone to look after LB, and have to fill in forms accounting for what is spent, the interest earned and so on.
This is the bit I’ve failed on.
And this is why I’ve spent the last hour sitting at the kitchen table while some man in a suit has filled in the forms for me, while glaring LOSER at me every few seconds. After highlighting the bits I have to sign with an enormous yellow highlighter pen AND a big biro cross, we are done.
“Oh, just one more thing Sarasiobhan, you loser”, he said. “You need to take out employer liability insurance. It’s £99 a year”. Another form. Another swipe with the highlighter pen AND a big biro cross.
It’s over.
I walk him to the door. “You do realise our care package is for four hours care a month?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“That is £40 a month.”
“Yes,” he said, and walked over to his car.
“Ok”.
I shut the door and go to file the paperwork neatly.
Postscript: I made that last sentence up.
Brad times
Brad features quite heavily when I think about this overland trip (Chalfont St Peter – Kenya). He’d had a quasi relationship with Debbie, which involved some heavy Barbra Streisand action (click here). Early on in the trip he started yearning for the ocean. Bit daft really. He could have done a quick bit of geography to see there was going to be a stretch without any sea, but I suppose those were the days before Wiki.
Fieldwork
Fieldwork. Life on the road. Possibly romantic in, for example, the wide open spaces of the States. Bumbling around the UK on trains and buses, staying in typical British budget hotels, is not quite so enjoyable. Here’s a taste of one journey, a couple of years ago, and the spaces I passed through on that journey. Some a helluva lot quicker than others.
So, first the cross country sleeper, London to Aberdeen. Fun, though odd, waking at midnight and opening the blind to find we were at Crewe station. Bit of a surreal bed/private/platform/public situ. Plus there are no cabin keys; you’re supposed to call the steward to re-open your door. I didn’t want to bother Stew so did a quick loo dash leaving my door wedged open, hoping some thieving bastard didn’t filch my stuff.
A weekend in London
Some are captioned, some aren’t. But they are all in order of happening…
Rabbit treat, Selfridges
The Age of the Dinosaur exhibition, National History Museum. Literally.
Decanting Primark purchases, Oxford Street
Covent Garden, 7am.
Cleaning Covent Garden
The panic button
I bumped into an old mate, Nicola, in town today on the way to work. She, too, is in that horrible, horrible space between children’s services and sweet fuck all. After a quick catch up (that was pretty negative because of the sweet f.a. situ), she asked if I’d heard of seizure alert dogs. Her son, 17, has developed epilepsy, she doesn’t want to put him on medication and her son’s consultant ain’t very happy about this.
“Well, funny you ask because….” I started.
“Ha ha ha ha!!!!!! You always know something funny about things, Sarasiobhan!”, she laughed.
“…I read about this woman,” I continued, “she had a seizure alert dog who was brilliant. He sensed when she was about to have a seizure and nudged her, so she could take medication. She had a panic button installed in her flat that he could press with his paw to call the paramedics if she became unconscious…”
“Wow, that is amazing. I will definitely look into it for Billy”, said Nicola, paying proper attention at last.
“The funny thing was, if he felt she wasn’t paying enough attention to him, or felt like a bit of attention from the paramedics, he would walk over to the button and stand, with his paw raised, ready to press….”
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha”, Nicola howled, hysterically hanging on to my arm. Her laughter was infectious and we stood, a couple of hysterical women, in a sea of commuters and Summer school students. Bit of a chuckle and tonic.
More details of the story of the young woman with the seizure alert dog, and other young people’s experiences of epilepsy, can be read here.
A post for Rosie
Rosie “I’m not going to spend my entire life reading your blog, Mum” got her A-level results this morning. 3A*’s.
I am so fucking proud of her. Only LB and I were home when she went off to school to collect them. I dragged him away from youtube for 20 seconds to say good luck to her.
Mutter mutter. “Good luck, Rosie”. Mutter mutter.
“What results is she going to get, LB?”
Mutter mutter. “Maths, Mum”. Mutter mutter.
After she called with the results, I had a little weep, called Richy and then told LB how well his sister had done.
“Mum,” he replied, through gritted teeth, “I am telling you I am not stressed and the psychologist did not ban me from using youtube. He is criminally insane.”
Well this ain’t about you LB. It’s about Rosie. Good for you, girl. You deserve it.
Matching socks
I don’t know why, but when my feet got cold this afternoon, it became hugely important to find matching socks. This was no easy task but, after 40 odd years of never giving a hoot about socks, the little buggars had to match. How weird is that?
It was so strangely important, I started to attach magical outcomes to the achievement of finding a pair. Continue reading
Literally literal lives
This cartoon made me laugh my socks off because it brings back so many memories. All those early pitfalls and unanticipated problems that spiralled from the tiniest bit of communication bijiggery*.
Like when Richy Rich took LB camping for a long weekend with some of the other kids. He was about five. Richy called from the beach on the Friday evening; all eating fish and chips, everyone having a fab time. So, so cool. First thing in the morning LB got up and said “Home”. He’d camped. Job done. Continue reading
mydaftlife 
