Sally Writes

Tonight

2009-04-07T17:02:00.007+01:00

"You're not going to like this," said Hubby. "How about tonight?"

"NO!!" I said.

It was one word, with serious feeling. And then I put the phone down.

Hubby called again. I ignored it.

And again,

And again.

Still I ignored it....

How could they do that I thought? At the risk of being seriously prima donnarish, as opposed to just a bit, this was MY night. Eleven years after having got an Equity card I was finally getting an agent to come and watch me act. Anyone involved in the luvvy arty stuff will know that this is no mean feat. It takes a lot to get an agent to take you seriously, and even more to get one to travel as far as Cheltenham - a hundred miles from the big smoke - to come and watch you.

But they were coming. Tonight. Now.

I had had nothing else planned for the day. I was simply going to do a very simple dinner to leave for everyone and take it easy. It was my first night of my play and I was to say the least, nervous.

Hubby on the other hand had taken a call from Social Services. They were desperate. They had to place someone forthwith, now. It was another asylum seeker and it turned out that he was in fact a thirteen year old, in need of a home.

Hubby rang again.

"Fine. I'll do the room." I yelled down the phone.

I rang the social worker to find out a little more about the boy in question, including his name. I then rang the person that he was currently with to find out a little more.

It seems that she was aware that this boy was to be placed with us three days before.

But ...... no-one had remembered to call us, the people who they were planning to place him with for the next two and a half years. Nor had anyone remembered to to a "pre placement visit."

Unfortunately his emergency 28 day placement had now run out and he therefore needed to be placed in a home by the end of the day or else the social worker would turn into a pumpkin or something.

"Why didn't you just say no?" I eventually asked Hubby.

"Well I did effectively. I said that it might prove difficult."

"No." I remonstrated. "You said that it 'might prove difficult.' That means, in translation, that you will go back to 'Mrs Awkward', ask her, and then give an answer. If the answer is YES, then 'Mrs Awkward' has consented. If the answer is NO, then clearly she has acted awkwardly, and has put her foot down. Either way I look like a class one bitch with no feeling."

Hubby agreed to pick up the new incumbent on his way home from work. I left for the theatre feeling cross and a little upset that I had to leave Tinks and Gymnast waiting for our new arrival with no other adult in the house. I pleaded with ESOS.

"Would you mind just watching tele with them until Dad gets home?"

"Oh Mum".

"Please?"

Grudgingly he relented and went to watch his beloved (not) 'Hannah Montana.' "Have you any idea how much I HATE, and I mean HATE this programme?" he complained loudly.

As I drove into Cheltenham, I saw Hubby's car driving past me in the other direction. I called him.

"Why are you just leaving Cheltenham? I need you to be at home with Tinkerbell Mushroom and Gymnast!"

"It must have been some bloke that looked like me." He said. "Wasn't me."

.........The flowers left at the stage door were very nice.

And the new boy is very sweet..................

But next time..................it would be very nice to have at least twenty four hours notice please Mr Social Worker.........................

Time Out

2009-03-15T16:16:00.004Z

It was a day off.

I had arranged to go out with the girls in London.

The "girls" of course, are also in their mid forties and are in fact my friends from school. I have known them over thirty years and to me we all look and act in exactly the same way as we did thirty years ago.

Especially the "look" bit.

Sensible had a Duke of Edinburgh bronze medal training day in Gloucester. Amongst other things they had to cook their own lunch. So I dropped she and her friend off en route with their walking gear and lunch ingredients and went on to park the car, so that I could get the coach from Gloucester to London. This cost a stunningly low £11 for the return journey, including a mobile phone message with my ticket details.

"What if I lose my phone though" I'd said to Hubby.

"When have you ever lost your mobile phone." He said

"Well what if it runs out of charge?"

In the end, on his suggestion, I had texted the number to Hubby's phone, so that "just in case the worst happened" and I was left stranded in London without my phone I could grab a complete stranger on the bus, take their phone number and get Hubby to text them my ticket details ....................

Quite what that would have made me look like is debatable, and it's probably even more debatable as to what it would have made Hubby look like...

I got to Victoria Coach Station at 12.00 on the dot and tried to look for the bus stop. I mean of course the sort of bus that takes you around town, as opposed to one that goes from one town to bigger town. I must be getting a bit blind in my old age though, because try as I might I managed to walk to Victoria train station, a few streets away, before I found a suitable stop with the right number buses attached.

So, I got my ticket and waited in the queue.

Which is when the mayhem began.

It seemed from the phone call that I received that ED needed some help sorting out a problem, fairly urgently. This was fine. Except... I was in London and Hubby was out at a kickboxing class on the other side of Gloucester. The other problem was that due to standing in a busy London street with buses and cars going past at twenty to the dozen, I couldn't understand a word that ED was actually saying to me except that whatever the problem was, it was URGENT with a capital U.

"Text me" I shouted down the phone.

And then, when that apparently hadn't been heard at the other end.... "TEXT ME" in an even louder voice.

I started to get "looks..."

So I smiled at the onlookers....

The bar that my friend Jane had chosen was ... interesting. I hadn't been able to find it to start with and so had phoned my other friend Debbie, not having Jane's mobile number. Debbie was still on her train. "I think it's right at the bottom of the street." She said, "just by the tube station." If you can't find it, come up to meet me at Charing Cross."

I eventually found it. From the outside it looked like a Cordon Negro bottle, and on the inside it looked like um ... a Cordon Negro bottle.

I texted Debbie.

"I've found it. I think that it must be one of Jane's haunts from her journo days. Think Cordon Negro."

I was desperate for the "ladies" but still needed to continue texting Hubby, about Gloucestershire logistics. He was due out of his kickboxing class any second and so could take over at the Gloucestershire end, but it all needed quick action once he was back in circulation so to speak.

"Whoops. Sorry..." said the woman who walked in on me in the loo.

I shrieked, closed the door quickly and recovered my modesty. How did that happen?

I found a nice table though, in a relatively lighter area of the bar.

A waitress of about 150 came up to me.

"You can't sit there." She said. "It's reserved."

I looked to see how and where it said that it was reserved. There was no evidence of it., but being in a compliant mood, I moved.

"You can sit here if you want." She said, showing me a very dark area of the room.

At that moment my friends arrived.

"This table's a bit dark isn't it?" said Debbie.

I explained that I had tried to sit on the one on the other side of the room. "Oh I know said Jane. "I tried too, but that waitress over there said that it was reserved. I couldn't see any sign though. She's very old. I think that she probably worked here when I used to come here twenty years ago."

"Aahh" I said, "so who did you interview in here then?" Feeling pleased with myself that I had "guessed" correctly.

Oh no-one, she said. "I just used to meet friends here."

Hubby called. The lack of reception down in the cellar meant that I needed to go upstairs to take the call. Hubby had though taken charge at the Gloucestershire end. "It's all sorted." He said. "So just enjoy yourself."

We had a brilliant afternoon.

My friend Debbie treated me to a lovely lunch in a very nice Italian restaurant in Covent Garden. We could see each other in there too, which was a plus. On the downside, we weren't relying on nice dim candlelight to hide away the wrinkles of the last twenty years. Candle lit cellar bars do have some advantages.

It was over all too soon sadly.

Back at Victoria Coach station I went to where the buses looked as if they were departing. The only thing was that I was unable to see how to get into the departure lounge. There seemed to be buses in the way, which were being sprayed with water.

I looked around desperately for a door, and in the end decided that a bit of cold water wouldn't hurt, so walked through the shower.

It was very wet. I was... a little soaked.

I asked a man where I could find the bus for Gloucestershire.

"Over the road Madam. This is the arrivals area."

So that was why they were washing the coaches.... on their way IN to the bus station......

Ping, went the phone. Message from Hubby, with the ticket details...... thank you Hubby.

Ensconced on my coach finally with a nice cup of tea, I immersed myself in my book. It's good to have journeys every so often....

Just before I got off at Gloucester I thought that I would use the coach "facilities", before my drive home.

And then ................. the door swung open on me as we turned the corner ............and for a second time that day I had been "seen" in a somewhat uncompromising position. I walked back to my seat, averting all eyes..... and immersed myself in my book, once more.

I finally got home. Sensible was back home from her rugged training day.

"Was it good?" I asked.

"Yes." She said. "The only thing is. You know the tinned tomatoes that I took to cook?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well. They weren't tomatoes. It was a tin of custard.."

"Oh," I said. "Not so good on pasta then?"

We Lomax women have a way of doing things.........

Big Dilemma!

2009-03-12T12:02:00.012Z

It's a dilemma.

You see, I have been doing a maternity cover at a very nice comprehensive school in a very nice rural area. It started half way through the summer term last year and was due to last the best part of the year.

It's been a mixed bag of course. Somehow I seem to have managed to end up with a seriously large proportion of bottom set teaching, which can be ... challenging, and the journey in is, at 38 miles each way... tedious.

On the other hand, teaching does have huge advantages. Not many kids want to be taught in the holidays or after school, and as such you are usually free to be at home when your children are. Plus, as I am only working three days a week, I have time to do vital planning and preparation ...... on blogger and facebook.

So when I found out last week that it would indeed be coming to an end half way through May I was gutted. Of course, there was a little issue of hurt pride perhaps in that no-one wants to be rejected... and the little fact that as a trained teacher who had previously spent very little time in formal classrooms over the last twenty years, despite much teaching and dealing with children by running theatre schools, I have had to put in quite a lot of effort, just to do the job properly so to speak.

I moped.

And I moped some more.

In the end, Hubby could stand it no more.

"I don't understand you he said. You can use the time to do more acting, to be freelance and to work around the family commitments more. That is what you have always wanted. Now that we are fostering, it means that you have more flexibility. So what is your problem?"

What indeed? He had a point.

For the first time in twenty years I could actually do what I wanted to do, and life would and could be better.

I went into school on the Monday, feeling much more positive. Only eight weeks to finishing with a holiday in between. The end was in sight.

Then the Head called me in... "Would I possibly be interested in more work in September?" Very unofficial as yet....... But they want me it seems.

I am of course the girl who can't say no, so me immediate reaction was.. "Yes", "Great"...

"Why?" Said Hubby when I got home...

I went to Actors Lab in the evening. My acting class for the not quite made it, maybe they will maybe they won't professional actors.

"Don't commit yourself" my friends said. Everyone loves each other at Actors Lab. And I love Actors Lab. "Do some acting. It's what you have wanted to do but you have too been committed previously".

So ... I tossed and turned... and tossed and turned that night.

And then I tossed and turned some more...

If I took teaching seriously... maybe I could head up a drama department somewhere in a couple of years... I would have professional respect. A good salary...

But on the other hand... may be I could act in something like Waterloo Road....

Oh ... O.K ...

But I could do my workshops, role play work and voice overs and some stage acting...

And I would have time to write.

And as I would have large proportions of time not working, I would be there for the children even more than teachers are...

But on the other hand... I could teach until I was sixty and then act..

But then the parts are so LIMITED for sixty year old women...

So, maybe I would be better getting established now while I'm still young enough....

You get the gist.

It's a BIG dilemma...

P.S.
Thank you for all your kind comments about Abdul. Sadly, we have now had a letter from the Home Office saying that if he turns up now he is liable for detention.... I do wish that Social Services would tell them the whole story before they placed them (as non English speakers) in families. He probably had NO idea of all this......

And ..... Very sadly Hubby's Grandmother died this week. She was 91 and at the end very poorly. But.. it was all very quick. She had been healthy only a couple of weeks earlier. So it was still a shock for all concerned and very very sad.....

Somebody's Son.

2009-02-19T22:51:00.017Z

It had been a normal weekend. Until late Sunday afternoon.

And then he didn't arrive home for our very late traditional Sunday lunch.

"He's possibly just got tied up with friends and forgotten that the buses don't run late on a Sunday." Said Hubby.

In the two months that he had been living with us as a teenage foster child, Abdul Qudoos had always managed to get home before the buses "ran out" so to speak. But not on this particular day.

Arriving in England as an Asylum seeker hadn't come without its difficulties. It appears that anyone in danger, for whatever reason, can pay a "people trafficker" to get them out of Afghanistan. The service doesn't come cheap however and so it's not for the fainthearted. They pay something in the region of 12000 euros - to someone who is really little more than a criminal. And for all that money, with mothers often selling their dowries to ensure that their sons have a better or safer life, the families have no guarantee that their children will arrive safely in England, or anywhere else.

All have a "suitable" birth date. This is always on the 1st of January of the relevant year that would make them just under 16. (They don't admit to knowing their actual birthday. They are possibly trained by the people trafficker to sell themselves as being under 16. This was they can be "looked after children", educated, and in with a better chance of asylum.)

We are fairly sure that Abdul is probably older than 16. We cannot know for certain, but the signs would say that he possibly is. However, as someone pointed out to us, he is "somebody's son." If he were your son, you would I am sure feel differently.

It is a seriously precarious business.

They travel via the underside of lorries, cars, trucks and anything else that you can think of, but not in any conventional manner or by any conventional form of transport. They arrive some months later in a very dirty set of clothes and no paperwork, to be picked up by the police. The lucky ones are then picked up by the Social Services and put into care - as is hoped for. From there they are usually put into emergency care for 28 days, and then onto a more permanent arrangement, such as our house. This is where we came into the equation, a month after Abdul's arrival. As far as we know he has been in England three months. A month with the first carer and then two months with us.

The boys, having established themselves in a foster home undergo a number of interviews with the Home Office and over the course of months and years that follow, their fate as to whether or not they can stay in the UK is decided.

Having put yourself through all that, it has got to be something seriously unnerving to make you risk everything and run away.

Back to that Sunday.....

Our other Afghan boy, also being fostered by us, started phoning round their mutual friends.

No-one had seen Abdul, so it appeared. Not since the day before.

At 6 o'clock Hubby went in search and I called the police and Social Services. As foster carers we do not have full legal guardianship of our charges, although in practice it is clear that on a day to day basis we are the ones who need to do all the things that any caring parent would. In fact it wasn't possible to get hold of Abdul's social worker, but the police were happy to come round and take a statement, and of course search our house. I had often wondered what it must be like to be at the receiving end of police searching your house for evidence. Now I knew. Nothing was left unturned. I went back into Abdul's room and put the drawers back. The police were polite and kind, but I couldn't help but think that they could have put the drawers back. Maybe I am just fussy. Or maybe I hadn't expected that we were being treated as potential suspects.

The next morning hubby scoured Gloucester again. I rang the lawyer that Abdul had been due to meet. They had been planning on discussing his immigration procedure. The lawyer, also in Gloucester, clearly needed a bit of clarification. I rang Hubby. "I'll go down there" he said.

Between them they deduced that possibly Abdul had become frightened about his story that he was going to present to the Home Office. It is a scary business telling the Home Office why you might want to stay in this Country, especially when your story isn't quite what the Home Office may consider a good case for political asylum. Especially when perhaps someone has maybe pointed that out to you. You may just be tempted in Abdul's situation to want to "tweak" the story slightly, to what you think might ensure that you do get whatever it is that you intended to get when you came to England.

This is what we think happened. Of course, we don't really know. We hope and pray that he is not hurt or worse...

Perhaps he has run away with a view to fixing his story and starting again as a "new" asylum seeker. Perhaps he intends to be "found" on a lorry. He possibly hasn't anticipated that the fingerprints that the Police took on arrival can be cross referred, and so even giving a different name wouldn't help.

Or perhaps he is hiding with friends in Gloucester in the ever growing Afghan community, with a view to maybe re-emerging at some point as an adult asylum seeker. This really wouldn't be a good idea. He may have to be there a long time...

Sadly, we really have no idea though, and we really would like to just know where he has gone. If he comes back soon, then we can help him. If he misses his appointment with the Home Office on Monday though, he will possibly be considered an absconder. His chances of getting asylum from then on in will be considerably reduced. And, of course he is almost certainly misguided if he thinks that he can restart the whole process again by being "found".

In the meantime ... having turned over every stone that we can think of, asked everyone that we know to turn over all their stones and turned up nothing ... all we can do is wait.

If you see him though, please ask him to go home to Sally and Derek's house. Soon.

Running the Country

2009-02-12T13:03:00.017Z

"What they should do is use sea water," I said to hubby.

"What for?" he asked, clearly quite bemused.

"For the salt," I explained. He still looked at me blankly.

"When you were on your submarine," I said, "you drank drinking water that was made out of sea water."

Yes. Said Hubby

"Well then, surely it must be possible to do the same thing and use the salt from the sea for the snow. Also, there must be a way of pumping it directly onto the Severn Bridge to keep the ice at bay."

I was really on a roll. Buzzing from building snowmen and being out in the snow with the children sledging had seemed to make all my thoughts much clearer. The children had had a ball. The improvised sledges around the village were brilliant. In the absence of being able to buy a sledge when needed, we had used the bottom part of the slide, which, upside down had worked very well really..... but possibly not quite as well as a real one. I put a sledge onto my mental shopping list for next year, despite hubby's protests that we get snow like this once every 20 years, and as such "what is the point of buying a sledge now?" We could always use it for our first grandchild I thought.

The way that the snow had been managed by the County Council though seemed to be bizarre. I did wonder quite how they had managed to run out of salt when, even on a very "bad" British winter like this one, we have less than two weeks snow a year. I could certainly agree with the speculation that maybe that this was an excuse for the County Council not to spend, given that much of their spending power had been absorbed by Iceland. It was slightly ironic that they seemed to have given us a barter deal of some of their "weather" in exchange for our money.

My friend Jane came round for a cup of tea. "What they should do" I said, is so simple, "they should have a shorter working day for all schools in the winter and a longer one in the summer. That way schools wouldn't have to close every time there was snow, but the children could go in habitually later during the winter and come home before it gets dark." Jane, having lived in Germany as a child, where they did just that, agreed with me. Between us we came up with a way forward for the next time we have snow which didn't involve parents skidding around in their four by fours, or worse skidding around in non four by fours, just to get children to school by the start of day.... They would instead arrive once all the roads had been gritted, with the salt from the sea of course, all salt mines having been stripped bare by all accounts.

"We should be running the Country." I said.

"We'd probably get something done if we did." Said Jane.

"It is very expensive." said Hubby.

"What is?" I said.

"Making drinking water from sea water. So it wouldn't be a cheap way of getting salt."

Oh well. There go my plans for running for MP. And in truth, it is of course much easier to run the country from your kitchen table, over a cup of tea with a friend, than it probably is from Number 10.

Just then one of our Afghan boys came into the kitchen.

"I am going into Gloucester."

"There are no buses." I said, and the roads are sheets of ice. That is why you are off school." He looked at me bemused. It clearly hadn't occurred to him that the reason that he was not at school was because of the snow. Perhaps he had thought that it was some sort of occasional day. He looked positively disappointed. No school and now no town. Coming from a Country where education is still considered a gift, they find our own children's rejoicing at having snow and missing school slightly strange. Nothing would have allowed ESOS to exchange a snow day for a school day.

I had a sneaky look at my Facebook. There was a message from Sensible who was in Germany on a school exchange.

"Brilliant" She had written to me.

"The one time when everyone is actually off school for snow and I am not in the Country. There's snow here too, and we are at school."

My point exactly... They have twice as much snow in Germany, and they manage to handle their roads safely.

Still....

It was very nice having all those days off. And the snowman's good.

The day that I looked like a Cavoodle - A cross between a King Charles Spaniel and a Poodle

2009-01-31T12:55:00.009Z

The "Cavoodle" version of Sally ......Why did they think that I might want to look like this?

The Improved Version. (I think)

The "do"

I looked like some sort of cross between a King Charles Spaniel and a Poodle

2009-01-23T14:41:00.010Z

It's hubby's Christmas do tomorrow night.

Well... they are scientists, details such as it not actually being Christmas are not important, and anyway it's very nice to go to a "do" in the middle of January.

So I booked a hair appointment. "Lucky you" said ED, "having a day off. I have to do 9 til 6 tomorrow at Uni." Never mind ED. One day you too will be a "desperately seeking to be a desperate housewife" and you too will get the odd day off to do little more than have your hair cut.

Hubby always groans when I go to the hairdresser. "Just why do you pay them to do exactly what you don't want" he says. "I need them to cut it." I reply. "But you always hate it." He says. "Why do you keep going back?" "I like the cuts" I say. "And the colour? And the styling?" "You just don't understand" I always retort.

He is right of course. Just why I spend money at these places is beyond me. That said, I do need my hair cutting properly and the wash in rinses did leave my hair in a dreadful state last year and grey streaks are just not my thing at the moment. Yet. Will never be.

Roll forward, to today...

Half way through having my hair done, my hairdresser says to me, "Sally would you mind if Jodie finishes off your hair, only I have another client waiting, and you are easier to ask than her.." "Of course," I said.

Jodie took charge. "So, do you want it straightened?"

"No thank you" I say. I have views on very straight hair. They come from having naturally dull drab and straight hair. "I am going to my husband's office formal tomorrow night. Do you think that you could make it bouncy please?" She starts to dry it. All seems to be going well. "Shall I make it spirally with the GHDs?" She says. I do now know of course that GHDs can make good curling tools, and so I accepted gratefully.

When she got to the bit where I thought that she was going to use a comb to put it into some sort of style I sat back and relaxed. Instead though, she said "I won't use a comb, I'll just get the spray and that can hold it in place for you if you don't comb it between now and then." I half smiled. I looked at myself. I looked like some sort of cross between a King Charles Spaniel and a poodle. The top was flat and the sides looked as if my hair hair been curled with corkscrews, horizontally from the ears. She sprayed it.

"Thank you." I smiled.

"Ooh, very glam." Said the owner of the salon. I had been there ages. I needed to get home. Please don't anyone see me, I thought. Please don't let anyone see me. I walked home quickly, averting all gazes from oncoming cars so as to avoid seeing someone that I knew. Got inside, took a photo with my mobile phone, confirmed that I did indeed look like a corkscrew head and then went upstairs to adjust the damage. The back was beautiful and the curls can definitely be used tomorrow night and once I had changed the appearance somewhat, I was after all quite happy.

I went to check my emails. There was a message from ASOS saying that my order for shoes had been dispatched and that my niece and nephew would be receiving them by next day delivery tomorrow, just in time for the ball.

The only problem is that they are in Bedfordshire and I am in Gloucestershire and they are for me, not my niece and certainly not my nephew.

It seems that the last item I ordered was dispatched to their address, being a Christmas present and, as such that for some reason has become my regular address... even though the billing address is my address.

I am currently waiting for a call from the Customer Services Department.

I have a new Face!

2009-01-14T15:14:00.006Z

You need a Facebook Mum.

"Why do I" I started to protest.

"I'll make one for you."

Before I knew it, Sensible had created a profile for me, put my picture on and brought me firmly into the 21st Century.

"We'll get some friends for you." She said.

"I thought I already had friends."

"On Facebook," she explained patiently.

She then contacted all the people in my hotmail address people who have Facebooks asking them to join. That was fine.

Then... She clicked on all the people who didn't have Facebook, asking them to get one too.
"What have you done?" I exclaimed. Do you realise who is on there?

"People you email." She said.

Oh Sensible, what have you done? Who did you contact?

Well... apart from the Managing Director of a company I no longer work for, who for various reasons should possibly not be invited to join my personal friends on Facebook, the tax office, every bank and building society that I am in email contact with, Next Directory, any insurance company that I have had a discussion with over the years, somebody who we have been in legal dispute with........ well nobody really......

I cringed with embarrassment as I thought of various people that possibly I would prefer to communicate with only on a professional basis ..... But it was too late. They were all invited. You too I expect.

Not all accepted the invitation to be my friend. ED was reluctant to accept me at first, but has now become my best instant messaging friend. Her reluctance was possibly due to her not wanting me around her personal life which is fair enough really. What she won't know until she read this however is that due to a blip in the system, I discovered by accident that I was able to click on her profile, but not leave messages on her wall, prior to becoming a friend. She had always assured me that no-one can enter another's site without permission. Not so ED. Look again. If anyone sends you a message, and you respond, it seems you can in fact see their "wall".

So there you go....I'm not such a dinosaur after all......

and.... Facebook is great. You should all get one.

Guests from Hell....

2009-01-04T17:22:00.013Z

And so, after a very busy Christmas, where night and day and sleep and waking seemed to merge continuously into one long blur of chocolate, wine and turkeys, on 28th December we managed to get ourselves out early enough to drive over to Bedford for a 24 hour "family do" with one of my brothers and his family.

Bravely they had invited all nine of us. My parents not wanting to spoil their nice relaxed Christmas memories of the 2008 Christmas, decided not suffer the chaos that the Lomax family brings in its wake and escaped back to East Grinstead before we arrived...

Of course, "all of us" also means bringing the dog...So technically there were ten of us. She is however a reluctant traveller and so it took a while to gather her up and get her into the bus. Bus for once was the true definition of our mode of transport. Needing to transport nine of us, plus the dog, we had hired said bus from the local garage. They didn't have a 12 seat one available though, so the 15 seater it was. Much to the kids delight....Children never cease to amaze me when it comes to what is and isn't acceptable in the form of transport. Somehow, ordinary space buses that seat seven are loser cruisers. And yet to have us all rattling around and being shaken from here to Bedford is just fine... "Cool" in fact. "Although possibly it is a bit of a loser cruiser anyway, but a cool one all the same," said Sensible.

As we arrived, the bitches looked at each other. A faint growl escaped. Then, without further warning it was a full scale fight, collars, ears, fur and all. Lucy was put outside and both were seriously told off. This was not a good start to the day.

We had arrived with plenty of Christmas goodies, but we sort of have this arrangement in the family where we don't buy actual Christmas presents for the adult children. Or maybe we do. Or maybe we don't...... Needless to say, when ED opened her very nice present, and our two Afghan boys also opened theirs..... I realised that I should have bought an actual present for my niece and nephew who are now 18 and 20. I cringed with embarrassment. It had been a bit of a rush, as with two new residents arriving just before Christmas, present buying had happened very late. In fact it had really happened in earnest when we had a Father Christmas type delivery of money, in the form of some pay for the boys, just a few days before Christmas. We then found that we could actually buy things at normal prices with normal paying methods. This was a new experience for the Lomax family as previously, everything including barter with the dog biscuits was a normal form of tender. But sadly communication between my brother and me had failed somewhere....

We sat down to dinner. My sister in law had cooked a gorgeous Nigella style mutton stew. At least, it was gorgeous until her foot slipped as she was getting it out of the oven and the beautiful ceramic pot landed on the floor. We ate fantastically well non the less and we all pretended to those who had less command of the English language that the words that came from the kitchen were some sort of English pre new year ritual.... or something like that... Actually in true British style we all pretended that we hadn't heard anything.

All was forgotten however as we all tunelessly ploughed our way through their Karaoke DVD, Tinkerbell Mushroom and Gymnast taking leading roles, and my niece actually singing in tune. Our Afghan boys looked on with what looked like a mixture of amusement and horror. Coming from an entirely different culture just a few weeks back, they must wonder about this very strange family that they have landed with.

I went to bed very late. It was imperative that my sister in law and I put the world to rights before heading upstairs. So we did, and went to bed feeling very pleased with ourselves, as you do on family Christmas get togethers.

It was a bit of a shame though to find on arriving downstairs the next morning, my brother, cleaning the carpet...... Mad Dog Lucy, traumatised by car journey, other mad dog and lack of any available adult on hand to let her into strange garden had disgraced herself. My poor brother, who recently lost his job, whose computer and telly had both broken in the course of the previous few weeks, and whose daughter had decided to leave her university course just before Christmas was wondering by now what it was that he done so badly in a previous life. Was there anything else that could go wrong for him?

We really were by this time the guests from Hell.

Our profuse apologies to bro were interrupted though by strains of a sort of singing. Karaoke is tricky of course....Even when you more or less know the tune... For those who have not been brought up with any exposure to Western music at all though, it is a very different experience. It was a bit like the bit in the second Bridget Jones movie where Like a Virgin is sung by the girls in the Bangkok prison........ This was Hey Jude... with a tune like you have never heard before.

My sister in law then went to turn up the heating. At that moment they realised that the boiler had gone wrong too....

Thankfully Hubby did manage to fix their flame lookalike fire for them. That having gone wrong just before we had arrived. So we did have some use as guests, but they did look as if they were smiling with quite some relief we drove our massive vehicle back down their drive.

And they really had made us all so welcome too.....

The Yule Blog 2008..... Or...The cleverness of FC

2008-12-25T01:26:00.011Z

Before I help Father Christmas each year, I always have a little tot up of what has been spent on each child. It is of course imperative that each child has the same spent on them. This is however quite a challenge, as I never actually count either numbers of presents or total up monies spent as I go along. So... come Christmas Eve it would of course be too late if it were wrong.

This though is when I realise that there is a Father Christmas, for every year, including this one, miraculously we have the same number of presents per child and the same amount spent almost to the penny.

"Oh the cleverness of me," from Peter Pan springs to mind... it being the play that my mother used to take me to see every Christmas when I was little.... But, just like Peter Pan, I somehow think that it is not me, but my magical friend FC who is responsible. Hubby is not really involved too closely on the present front, so it isn't him. It is just pure magic......... It's the sort of magic that happens in families. Like the magic that means that by some strange coincidence if you do a certain mathematical exercise with our children's DOBS, then they all add up to 27. And it's only in our family that that happens.....

Meanwhile, with seven children to entertain this Christmas.... (Yes that's right, seven. We gained two that we are fostering, just last week... Two boys from Afghanistan...)... With presents all dispatched to FC..... With the children nearly all in bed (please GO soon kids.... I need to go to bed myself, and I CAN'T until you do..... if you get my gist.......)

The thing is, with little or next to no English available, and no former understanding of western culture, let alone Father Christmas, how do you explain to the newbies that they need to go to bed now, otherwise, Christmas cannot happen as it should???!!! One of the said guests is currently sitting at at Hubby's laptop with headphones on, singing along to Indian music in a voice that if it were based on volume it might just win him the Afghan version of the X Factor. Ever the tactful, Sensible, not wanting to draw attention to herself, has just sent me a text asking me to ask him if he could perhaps sing a little more quietly.... as he is keeping her awake.... Thanks Sensible....

In the meantime, just before I do some pigeon English explanations of why my new guests really should go to bed..... I wish you all a very merry and very lovely Christmas...

HAPPY CHRISTMAS!!!

Freddie's Mum

2008-11-18T12:49:00.007Z

I blame Freddie's mum myself.

Her father was a GP we were told. Unfortunately he hadn't appeared to have passed on his medical knowledge to his daughter, and so when Freddie aged three got chicken pox, she sent him into nursery school.

This would have course have been fine, except for the fact that the nursery school that he attended was also attended by ED. Freddie's mum arbitrarily decided that it would be fine for the whole nursery school to get chicken pox in one go. That was of course very generous of her, but some of us were less decided as to the appropriateness of the timing.

For me personally, being heavily pregnant with Sensible, with ESOS aged just nineteen months, the timing was perhaps a little off.

ED went down with it first, just in time for her to not be allowed to visit me me in hospital with Sensible. She and ESOS had to stand outside with Hubby and I lifted Sensible to the window to show her to them. It wasn't my happiest moment of motherhood. My own post natal room was nice. Even if it was for isolation purposes.

Next of course came the injection. The Human Varicella Zoster vaccine - to build up antibodies, as neonatal chicken pox is very dangerous.

"It won't stop her from getting it, but it may help," explained the Doctor.

"Please could I have one of those too?" I asked.

"Why?" said the female military doctor.

"Because I have never had chicken pox, and I may give it to her."

The Doctor looked Heavenwards.

"You are breastfeeding." She said.

"Yes." I said.

"So you will give her your antibodies."

"But I haven't got any antibodies against it. I have never had chickenpox." I protested.

My mother was visiting. She adamantly confirmed that I had never had chicken pox. The Doctor smiled at me in that "sympathetic, poor woman, just had a baby" sort of way, that sort of "she clearly doesn't know which side of her brain is which any more" sort of way, and in that "don't be so stupid love, I'm related to Freddie's mum, and I KNOW that everybody is exposed to chicken pox" sort of way.

"Neonatal chickenpox is very dangerous." She concluded, pulling the needle out of Sensible. "If you get it, it is one of those things."

I started to protest again that I was likely to give it to her, because she was exposed to me, and I was breastfeeding her, and that therefore instead of giving her my antibodies, I would instead give it to her.......... My voice wasn't being heard. She had packed up her belongings into her military style doctor's bag, and was gone from my isolation room.

ESOS got chicken pox on my return from hospital.

I got it when Sensible was 10 days old. I wasn't offered an anti viral drug, because it was too expensive to give to someone in a non high risk category. Apparently, a mother of three children, one of ten days old, and the other two recovering from an illness isn't vulnerable... It's not a nice thing for an adult to get though, especially ten days after giving birth. That was an interesting breastfeeding experience...

When, at three weeks old Sensible was rushed into hospital, this time to Queen Mary's in Roehampton, so as to be given intravenous acyclovir, it was no great surprise. I had of course given it to her, lock stock and barrel and I was in a different hospital, so I couldn't even gesticulate at my Army miss who had told me that this wouldn't be likely to happen....

Sensible, having been born sensible and stoical, coped remarkably well with the prodding and poking and jabbings over the next ten days. The maternal viewpoint was less desirable. Once, I just couldn't watch the procedure of changing over the cannula yet again as yet another tiny vein collapsed.

I was angry. Angry that it had come into our family at the wrong time. Angry at Freddie's mum. Angry at the Doctor who had refused to help me avoid having it, or at least suffering so much. Angry that I was not able to be given a drug to suppress it, so that my bout would not have been so bad, and .......... most angry that due to all those things that Sensible at three weeks was being subjected to a form of torture.

We all recovered.

As you do.

The torture techniques did pay off thankfully, and Sensible was well and healthy again quickly, and apart from the fact that she was the youngest ever recorded case of a very minor case of shingles in Northern Ireland two years later, has had no side effects ....... we hope.

Personally though I put on loads of weight and suffered from TATT (tired all the time) syndrome ... for the next ten years. I probably have TATT written all over my medical notes much to my various GPs' annoyance.

And I do of course blame it all on Freddie's mum.

Luckily for her, not only do I not live near her or know her, I am not sure that I ever even met her. I was just TOLD that it was SHE who brought the chickenpox into the nursery school...

So, when last week this strange rash appeared on my tummy, my immediate thought was that it looked like chickenpox.

I've had chickenpox though, so that's all right I thought.

More blisters appeared. It itched and drove me crazy, small as it was. And, by Sunday afternoon I was ready to collapse. I went back to bed and slept..... all afternoon, all evening and all night in various feverish states. I NEVER take a day off from work. But even Hubby, who also never takes sickies, told me that I was too ill to go in. So, I slept again.

My funny patch on my tummy was still itching, had largely scabbed over and was in fact possibly starting to subside. Hubby looked at it.

"It looks like chickenpox." He said. "Do you think it's shingles?"

We looked it up on the Internet. At first we found some pictures that looked like roof tiles. I knew I wasn't suffering from those. Then we found some more pictures, and for a forty something, as opposed to a seventy something with shingles, it looked seriously likely.

"We've got some Zovirax in the cupboard." Said Hubby. Put some of that on it. Now Hubby is not a Doctor, but he is a Cambridge scientist, and unlike the Medics who I acted in plays with at university, he spent considerably more of his time at college in classrooms, and considerably less of his time out of his head. And um.... he was by no means sober all the time either....

Needless to say, when it comes to science, I trust his judgement.

I put some Zovirax on.

By morning, the rash had reduced so much, that by the time I went to the Doctor, he was dubious that it was indeed shingles. He did however listen to my self diagnosis.... and did concur that the other symptoms made it more likely, and that I should definitely be off work.

Just think, if it weren't for Freddie's mum I wouldn't have written this blog today.

So... thank you Freddie's mum.

All we can do is to think positively....

2008-11-01T16:49:00.010Z

We have always called him the"Milky Bar Kid" because, just like the traditional "Milky Bar Kid" he has blond hair, glasses and a very cute "butter wouldn't melt in his mouth look." And, just like the "Milky Bar Kid", he always has a twinkle in his eye that just says, "I might get up to some mischief later.... but mostly Ill just be a nice kid."

Until two year's ago, when they moved away from here, I would regularly meet his mum in the playground. Regularly of course because, like me, she was always running into school with the MBK. We would all arrive sometimes just before the bell, but often just after. They, like us, often had no real reason for being perpetually late, other than the fact that her mind, like my mind is often full of "other" stuff, and she just needed to do twenty things prior to going to school... and think about a further forty.... and each every every task and thought all just takes a little bit longer than you think it will......

But she was great company and as friends we could always have a laugh about our complete inadequacy in the timings department. In a strange sort of way we possibly saw ourselves as slightly superior to "seriously on time mums". Of course, that was then. Once they moved away, and everyone else was "on time", I had to change my routines so that the children got to school on time. You see, as a late person, it is one thing being "late", but it is a different ball game all together being "last". I reckon that my lateness stems from being born three weeks early. By the time I die I should have caught up with those three weeks. It must be getting closer of course because I am definitely becoming more punctual as the years go on...

We have all kept in touch since MBK and his family moved away, and every so often we talk on the phone or we get together.

So, it was an ordinary phone call to start with.

"How are you?" I asked.

"In what respect?" said MBK's Dad.

Immediately I knew something was wrong.....

He put me onto MBK's Mum.

As the conversation progressed, I was told about how three weeks ago he had collapsed at school and how he has been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor.

He is just a normal, lovely, fun loving, easy going nine year old.

He has a wish list of things that he wants to do.....

It includes a trip to Legoland and a visit to the cinema to see the new James Bond movie. They are just ordinary requests for any little boy, because that is what he is.

A kid.

And that is what he should be allowed to be.

I went to the cupboard and found my Tesco vouchers. I calculated that I had enough points to send a normal sized family to Legoland, so I wrapped them up and enclosed them in a card. It's hard writing a card in such circumstances. You feel completely inadequate and... guilty for having completely healthy family members. But so grateful. So very grateful.

Hubby, a confirmed aetheist does every so often question the things that non aetheist's question. His questioning confirmed what I was thinking. My religious thoughts over the years have blown hot and cold. I believe, but what exactly I am not always sure.

"If there is a God," said Hubby, "How could he possibly be so cruel?"

"Not everything is perfect." I say. "Perhaps even God makes mistakes."

I cannot hold with the view that these things are done for a reason, despite my very Christian based schooling.

It puts everything into perspective.

All we can do is to think positively, and, if you believe, pray.

P.S. ...... If there is any possibility that you could tell others, please do..... So that we can have as many people as possible pulling together......... Thank you.... S

Poor Banks....

2008-10-30T20:02:00.018Z

"Mum, can you pick me up please?"

8.30 a.m.

The two night camping trip had lasted just 12 hours.... We had said of course. Camping on the coldest night so far this year is not exactly my idea of a picnic. But then being parents, of the older generation: those boring old and unfashionable remnants of society that we are.... how on earth would we know anything about what might or might not entertain a teenager? Of course, I hadn't quite bargained for what I was met with as three teenage boys piled into my car whilst their "stuff" was piled into the back.

As I drove along, I smelt a faint "whiff" of alcoholic breath. "It's a good job that none of you boys are driving" I said. "I am not sure that any of you would pass a breathalyser."

We stopped at the first drop off, and unloaded the goods and the boy........ looking seriously worse for wear.

After he had gone, the other two then proceeded to tell me the real reason for their early homecoming, and it seems that my son and friend, uniquely had managed to drink, well ..... shall we say, "slightly less" than the others. "Drinking sensibly" would be too strong in the circumstances. It did appear though that they had more or less saved some of the the others' bacon. Ten boys camping and drinking far too much...... Not a pretty sight.... I was assured as I did the washing later that day, that the "debris" shall we call it, on the sleeping bag, was out of others mouths and not my own son's. "So it's all right Mum, at least it's not my sick." As Esos's friend pointed out, from a domestic viewpoint, your own son's vomit is possibly slightly easier to deal with than that of AN Other's random teenager's vomit...... LOVELY!

So that was a good start to the day... Meanwhile, life should have been rosy in one respect, as it was payday. And so, I went to check my bank statement online, so that I could make a payment to someone.

But the bank wasn't playing.... it appeared my account had been made "dormant" for no apparent reason. It was very confusing. I have had a few run ins with banks over the years, but this was the first time that the account had been made dormant....

I picked up the phone.

"Oh yes, Mrs. Lomax. I'm really sorry, but it's because you have moved house, we need to check your identity at a branch."

"But I haven't moved house" said I. "I have lived in the same house for six years."

"Well it says here that a piece of post was returned to us, and so as such you need to go into the branch with a passport and address ID to verify your new name and address."

I muttered plenty about it being half term and having all the children home, and friends, and that the last thing that I had time to do right now was to drive six miles to the nearest branch. And that I DIDN'T have a new name and address.

Now.... ironically..... the "payment" that I needed to pay was to another bank account of ours. You see, Hubby and I are complete masochists. Not satisfied are we with the poor treatment of one bank, we spread our misery around and actually have a few accounts in our name.... for different purposes.... sort of.....

But, I digress... The reason that I needed to make a payment was because last Friday, we had been expecting Hubby's expenses into the "other" account, but by 2 p.m. they hadn't arrived. At this point panic mode set in, and I phoned our bank's branch. This particular branch is the NatWest, who uniquely amongst the banking fraternity seem to have worked out that customers are actually people. Well, mostly. At least, the manager at our particular branch has worked that out. So, as long as you phone in banking hours, and ask to speak to the Ross on Wye branch Manager you will get completely human treatment.

And so it was that I rang her last Friday. "One of our payments is going to bounce." I had said. "We need to cancel something quickly otherwise it will cost us £35.." She and I agreed a strategy to cancel something, and she meanwhile recommended that we also change our insurance company and managed to save us £40 a month into the bargain. Clever woman.

Roll forward to Monday...... the day that the said payment was due to go out. The money was in the account (late, but there) after all. I rang Mrs. Bank Manager again. "Don't worry she said. It's not too late. I can uncancel it and it can be paid."

But lo and behold.... Head Office Natwest thought differently, and despite there being funds in place, and despite Mrs. BM having "paid" the bill, they decided not to pay the bill.....

To cut a long story short, by the time I had caught up with this company and paid the bill, they had charged me extra for the privilege, and the bottom line was that we were just £3.50 short to pay our final bill of the month. We run a very tight ship in the Lomax bank accounts, despite what the banks actually think. We move Heaven and earth to try to avoid those £35 charges, but usually fail at the last hurdle.... It's a tough game they play. If we were in the days of Robin Hood, they would probably be the Sheriff of Nottingham....... but sadly there is no Robin to get those charges back. Yet....... (But just you wait Mr. Sheriff the law could be changing......)

The hassle that that £3.50 caused me....

I feel really a bit sorry for the banks really. It must be quite tough being overdrawn by
£40, 000000000. Their charges must be phenomenal.

So this is why I was in Ross on Wye at 4 p.m. this afternoon, literally running from one bank to another.

The first bank were sorting out if I was indeed a real person and if the passport that I was carrying was indeed me and if I had, as I said I had (although I appreciate that my word cannot be trusted without the robotic quoting of fifteen letters and numbers), lived in the same house for 6 years, and been married for 22. Or if in fact I was really a hologram with a false passport.... It must have its uses at times, being a hologram with a false passport, but um.... not in Ross on Wye on a Thursday afternoon................

I left them to it and asked them to phone me once they had decided if I was allowed to spend my salary or not this month....

Meanwhile, having raided the dog's piggy bank (the children's having been long since been spent out) for the last few coppers in the house, I went to the Natwest and paid in the necessary funds to allow the bill to be paid when it is requested very shortly......

And there I found out that not only had Friday's direct debit not been paid, but that that particular direct debit now remained cancelled and that the NatWest were unable to reset it up ............ because.................... the company that had needed paying had cancelled the direct debit themselves.

Que??

Confused?

You will be........

(Answers in a postage stamp (or in the comments box) please for which programme that last little quote came from, and when.....)

Star Treatment

2008-10-24T11:22:00.017+01:00

"I'll get a coach said Hubby. Save the cashflow."

Cashflow is always a big thing in our house, and so even when someone else is ultimately picking up the tab for Hubby's "very important Government business.... shhhhhhh" we do still tend to take the low budget options at all times.

We are so boring.

So, he booked a ticket from Gloucester. £9.50 return "Funfare" from Gloucester to London on a National Express Coach. Fantastic. You can't really go wrong. Well... until he got a phone call, asking him to be in London an hour longer than previously expected. So... he booked an additional later single from London. That one cost another £4.50. We were still winning even on our tight budget.

As he left at 6.15 a.m. I dragged myself out of the bath and started to get on with the day. It all seemed relatively easy, especially as everyone had made an effort to get up early and get themselves organised. Quite the domestic scene really. There was I ironing (!) my skirt for work, Sensible was making a cup of tea, ESOS was working out how to bring himself into a compos mentis state for the day and Gymnast and Tinkerbell Mushroom were getting themselves some breakfast....

Then the phone rang.

"There's been an accident on the A40. I'm going to miss the coach."

Hubby was on the A40 to Gloucester. Traffic jams have been seriously common along the A40 for weeks. You see, what they are trying to do is to make two lanes and a bus lane into, as I understand it, two lanes and um... a bus lane. And, even without accidents added to the mix, it's taking six months, driving people semi suicidal in their attempts to get to work on time and costing the tax payer a fortune......

"I'll go onto the internet, and see if I can find out where the next stop is."

Crank up seriously slow computer... and eventually find out that it stops first at Longlevens and then at Cheltenham. Call Hubby back.

He aims for Longlevens... but misses it there.

"Where can I park in Cheltenham?" He says on his next call.

Having spent five weeks earlier in the year, acting in a play for minimum pay, I am, despite my serious navigational handicap disadvantages, actually an expert at where to park in Cheltenham for a day, for free. So I direct Hubby to my very secret free parking spots.

"No" he said. "I haven't got time to walk from there, and get the bus at 7.30 a.m." "O.k." I said, "go to the NCP and park there for the day. You can claim it back."

I go back to the business of getting myself and everyone else organised for the day. Sensible and ESOS disappeared off on the bus, leaving me with just Tinks and Gymnast. I needed to get out by 7.55 a.m., as I had to drop them off at school seriously early, at 8 a.m., so that I could get to work.

7.35 another call. "The driver wouldn't let me on the bus, because my ticket was to travel from Gloucester. I would have had to have bought a full ticket for £20." At this point, had it been me, I have to say that I may have said, "Stuff the cashflow. Take me away driver..." But Hubby is more prudent than me... and he knew that he had only £23 on him, of which he needed £14 for the day's parking, and that was his budget for the day without causing ripples for the Lomax financial front.... And so he was by this time walking back to the car, with a view to possibly going back to Gloucester to get the coach there at 8 a.m.

"No, don't do that" I said. "I'll ring National Express and see what I can do. You go and move the car to my very good and very free parking spaces and I'll sort out the tickets for you."

I rang the enquiry line. There would be no-one there until 8 a.m. Hubby would have to sort it out himself. I would text him the number. But ... it was one of my old friends, an 0845 number, which of course would cost dearly on a mobile... So I went in search of a new number on the "say no to 0870 website." I found a number, and just in case it didn't work (which sometimes they don't, because for some reason companies want us to use the lines that cost them more and put money into the phone companies pocket, and cost us more in the process) I checked the number by calling it, before I called hubby again. And lo and behold, my standard 0121 number was in fact a 24 hour helpline. "Oh said the woman" (imagine Birmingham accent here), it's a great pity you didn't phone before he tried to board bus at Cheltenham. I could have called them and asked them to let him board...." "Yes, but I didn't have your number then ... I started to mutter weakly... while storing the VERY USEFUL number in my mobile phone for future use. "The thing is, I said, I need to get him another ticket from Cheltenham, and really I want to get him another cheap fare, but you have to book those online, and I can't get the voucher to him...." "Oh you can" said my helpful Birmingham lady. "Ask to have the ticket sent by text to his mobile phone."

Absolutely brilliant.

It was by now however, quarter to eight and I realised that the lunches weren't finished for Tinks and Gymnast. I barked instructions to Gymnast. "There's one sandwich made" I said. "Can you put that into your lunchbag and get fruit and stuff organised for both of you? The bread is cut. I'll make the other sandwich in a minute." "Don't worry Mummy, said Gymnast, we'll do the other sandwich." I thought for second that I perhaps ought to tell them what to put in it, and then decided that for one day, it would be just fine ... whatever it was.

So..... I spent another £11......... By now the cheap ticket to London and back had actually cost £25...

I called Hubby.

"Right, I said. "You are on the 8.30 from Cheltenham. It's all paid for, and you will get a text in a minute or so to give you the details. If it doesn't work call me back and I have a number for you to ring, but right now I have got to GO."

I went into the kitchen to find Gymnast and Tinks struggling with the clingfilm for the sandwich. "It just doesn't seem to want to go round the sandwich" said Gymnast. I took over, got the last few bits together, threw some lettuce into what appeared to be a half made pasta salad from one of the older kids, for me, got two children into the car and went. I left all the cereal packets and used bowls out for the burglars.

I then drove the very long distance to the front of the school (across the road from our house) and dropped off Tinks and Gymnast. I looked down at my fuel gauge. Nought miles. (It very kindly tells me when I have zero miles left). 8.02 a.m. I had to be 37 miles down the road in 53 minutes, actually teaching. (That was having missed the early morning meeting... Given fact that I would not make that anyway on this particular morning...)

Drove into the petrol station. Waived to the cashier to start the pump. And helpfully, as soon as she had finished her conversation with her colleague, she turned the pump back to nought for me. I threw a minimum amount of fuel into the car, ran in, paid, ran out and back into the car. It must be a bit like being a racing driver... Sort of....

8.04 I was finally on the road. Sped into school at 8.50 a.m. It did occur to me that it had cost me more in fuel in order for Hubby to have a cheaper ticket to travel, which ultimately meant that I was spending more to save the Government money. How charitable of me. After all the Government needs to save money at the moment, having spent so much on the banks...

I looked at the salad had made for myself and realised that it was actually not a half made pasta salad, but a left over pasta salad from a few days before, got out of a school bag in a hurry on the way to a bus by one of the older children..... with lettuce added by me.

Nice.

Meanwhile I got a text from Hubby thanking me profusely. "I'm on the coach now. Thank you. You're a star." He said.

And for once I thought...... without being too conceited. "Yes...... Just for today...... I know."

Little Steps

2008-10-17T09:56:00.009+01:00

I was in that sort of "drifting in and out of sleep, sort of waking up period," half listening to Sarah Kennedy. We always have her programme on. Hubby loves her. I moan that she was "clearly in the right place at the right time", and "what's she got that I haven't got on the broadcasting front?" And that: "Really it should be me doing the Dawn Chorus show on Radio 2." Hubby assures me that she really is indeed very good. His faith in me is inspiring....

Then I heard her talk about her headmistress .... and she mentioned the name... I did a double take. Good gracious. She went to my school. That's MY school! The school that wore a very strange looking brown uniform and was across the road from a racecourse, with a load of nuns present.

Immediately, all negative thoughts about Sarah Kennedy vanished. I decided that I had to "claim kin". I ran downstairs and went straight onto the computer. She did indeed go to my school, but as she is 12 years older than me, we didn't coincide. She would have been just about finishing secondary school, as I started Primary School - then in a different part of the country. Nevertheless, I just thought that I would still claim kin.... and send her an email. I was quite excited really. Little things.....

The BBC website let me down however, and try as I might I couldn't get a link. So, giving up, knowing that really the day had to "begin" anyway, I had a quick look at my emails....

And there it was.

Th opportunity of a lifetime.....

Well, it's all relative....

I had had an email from someone replying to a CV that I had submitted for an acting job. For a webcast company. Not only did they want to look at me, but all the children and Hubby too. How exciting. I told the children. "I'll arrange for a haircut for you for this afternoon ESOS...." I said, before I take some photos to send to them. This caused an uproar from Sensible, who at 14, and seriously in touch with her looks and her acting ability, decided that he didn't need a haircut from a hairdresser and that Hubby could do it with his clippers. Not wanting to look like a Home Ed crew, I made the decision however that ESOS needed a professional cut for the camera.....

Meanwhile.. I had to think about my diet. Would it be possible I thought to lose a stone and a half in four or five days prior to the audition? Probably not... but I decided that less carbs between now and then would definitely be a step in the right direction. They want a normal looking woman. At a stretch, I could probably do "normal." It's normal looks they want, after all.

And then, having caught it successfully for a week, once half an hour earlier indeed for Sensible.... the bus bus went past the house, and of course ESOS and Sensible were still arguing over haircuts....

Hubby got into the car. Got them to the next bus stop. I put the kettle on again.

He came back in: "I'm really excited about this" I said to Hubby....

"Pity it's not a feature film though" said Hubby.

"Yes, well, I'm not sure that Stephen Spielberg's "A list" includes someone who has worked for the Government for 25 years." Small steps Hubby....

Meanwhile, it was time to get Gymnast and Tinks to school. Tinks was coughing like there was no tomorrow. Hubby and I decided that she could have a day off, especially I wasn't working. At this, Gymnast saw red. "Just why exactly should SHE have a day off?" And "I don't want that drink bottle, it tastes mouldy."

My children are in good training to be prima donnas fortunately.....

Let's hope the web cast film comes through, and then maybe I might be able to go to ASDA or somewhere to buy a new drink bottle......

Not Quite Redundant

2008-10-10T17:09:00.014+01:00

Of course I needn't have worried about the possibility of being a redundant mother.

Hubby thoughtfully decided to do a residential course this week, thereby ensuring that if I ever thought that I may no longer be useful in the parent department, that I wouldn't, so to speak.

It's quite tiring running our lot single handedly, so I do tend to fall into bed as soon as is manageable. When I am woken up from my comatose sleep by a call at 11.30 p.m. from ED, it is surprising that I actually register what is being said.

"Can you make sure that you call me at 6.30 a.m. please? I need to get a train, and I am worried I may not get up in time." "I was asleep" I moaned as I looked at the settings on the alarm clock and turned the light back off...

6.30 a.m. Called ED.

6.50 a.m. still couldn't get hold of her. Began to worry. Called Hubby.

"She must already be up." He said. There's no way she would miss her room phone. It's right next to her head".

The university has very kindly put room phones into the rooms. You can call in, but she can't all out. This means of course that she has two ways that parents can contact her. Well three actually, because I can still phone the university itself. And of course, I can email her, night and day. This is progress apparently. When I was a student I quite liked the fact that the only way that I could talk to my parents was via a call box. It would have had to be a dire emergency for them to call me via the college phones. And as a student that anonymity was possibly a benefit at times.

Meanwhile I was beginning to panic. It did also occur to me that I had dreamt the phonecall at 11.30 p.m...... Was I indeed going completely mental - as opposed to just a bit?

In the midst of getting other children up for school, making sandwiches and getting uniform sorted I kept calling her, alternating between her mobile and landline numbers. I ignored Hubby's advice, as my only thought was... she'll miss her train... By 7 a.m., I had just about decided that either she was sleeping eleswhere ( in which case WHY did she ask ME to wake her??!! ) or that she had left the room already and gone off to get an earlier train.....

I tried one more time...

"Hello?" said a very groggy voice. "Sorry, I didn't hear the phone..."

Your neighbours must have done though ED...

Sensible and Esos appeared downstairs, arguing, with Esos directing insults in both her and my direction. He accused her of suffering from PMT. "Your the one with PMT" she retorted. "That isn't actually physically possible, in case you didn't know", he replied in a smart alec type voice... to which I retorted that, maybe not, but that boys certainly had hormonal influence affecting them...... This wasn't a popular comment...

Finally they got on the bus. Rang ED again to check she had caught her train. Whilst she was talking to me the ticket inspector arrived to check her ticket. I heard mutterings. "No," I heard her say. "That's a return ticket."...........Except it wasn't.... the first half of the ticket was in the machine at the station.......

Made several phonecalls on her behalf.... And meanwhile she managed to persuade the ticket inspector to let her travel anyway on the basis that it was booked originally on the internet to be picked up at the station........

Progress again...... Do you remember when they had people at stations who passed you the correct tickets?

Roll forward two days. 7.30 a.m....... the school bus drives past the kitchen window. "Bye bye Esos and Sensible."

.... But no... they are still sitting in the kitchen.....

Into the car, coat over dressing gown and boots without socks. Drive to the next stop.......

Not quite redundant yet then.

Pensieve

2008-10-01T09:12:00.010+01:00

"Your blogs are like buses. You don't write one for months" says Hubby, "and then they come in threes."

This is of course true. And like Meredic, it's not because I haven't had anything to write about, because I have, but more perhaps that my mind has been so full of thoughts that I just haven't been able to separate them out and put them into bloggy form. One of these prepossessing thoughts is the fact that time has just gone. It didn't ask permission. It just left me standing and rushed on ahead.

Now you understand, I do fully appreciate that I am not yet old really. But I want to know why the last ten years have travelled past at lightning speed, without much thought in the process to the fact that those years were indeed "travelling past at lightning speed", all of a sudden leaving me here in my mid and a little bit forties - with children starting to go off to university.

I mean, when I last looked, I had five children. Only three and a half years ago for instance, just before the yearly round of birthdays started (and the round lasts a while in our house), I had five children aged 4, 6, 10, 12 and 14. And now, suddenly I have an adult of 18 who has just left for university, a 16 year old in his final year of GCSE's, a fourteen year old starting her GCSE's, a 10 year old due to leave primary school in a few months and an 8 year old also heading speedily towards the top end of primary school.

So, more to the point.... where did the last three and a half years go, and why am I so relatively old all of a sudden?!!!

It was a big shock ED going to university. Parents are very strange creatures. We hope, dream and wish for our children to grow up and be successful, and then all of a sudden, when they do grow up, be successful and go off, you feel completely bereft.

No-one prepares you for that feeling of loss. No-one tells you when you are changing the nappies that one day you will actually look back nostalgically on changing nappies. At the time you are so immersed in the daily drudgery, that you get on, you cope and you survive day to day.

And then it stops.

And it's lonely. And sad. You want it all back.

It's not that you want even more children. You want the same ones, but you want to do it again, more slowly. You want to take your time. You want to savour the moment. You want to not tell them off when they throw flour, ketchup and mayonnaise around a neighbour's kitchen in an attempt to bake you a cake with ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise. Or at least, tell them off, but not feel so cross about it.... Or to not feel embarrassed because - just because your neighbour has been put out.

You want to capture all the little moments and put them in a box. and look at them from time to time and relive them. In fact I need a Harry Potter style "pensieve". JK is indeed a woman of fine taste.

And maybe, once or twice I would take the "pensieve" back to a day when ED was 6, ESOS was 4 and Sensible was 2. At the time we were living in Northern Ireland, and I used to teach drama in ED's school, just one morning a week. It took HUGE organisation that one morning....

One the particular day in mind, Hubby was away doing important stuff in England, and I was singlehandedly in charge of the brood. It was a chaotic morning... as it always has been in our house, for as long as I can remember. I finally got all organised and dressed and ready to leave the house at 8.30. Hubby ordinarily at that time was taking the children to school en route to work, leaving me, with Sensible to have a more leisurely start. Except of course on the "ONE DAY A WEEK" when I had to put in army style organisation to get out on time.....

So... when the stress levels had risen on this special "one day" to the levels that they rose to on the work day, ED, quite sensibly thought that it simply must be Mummy's work day. After all, Mummy was taking them to school and Mummy was stressed.

As we were leaving the house she suddenly turned back.

What NOW? I thought.

She came back out with my (quite big and heavy) basket, full of books that I used for teaching.

"Mummy, you've forgotten your basket" she said.

I looked at her, and I wanted to cry. I gave her a hug and explained that I wasn't working that day..."

And I saw her at that moment, not as the very grown up and eldest child, but as a very intelligent, but still very vulnerable and very young little girl. And even at that moment I knew that it was a memory that I wanted to savour forever.

I miss you ED.... but I do want you to grow up and have the best possible adult life imaginable..... So have a ball!

Good Turn.

2008-09-26T13:42:00.017+01:00

It was Tinkerbell Mushroom's enrolment at Brownies.

Do you know your "promise", I asked. She looked at me vaguely. "I didn't know I had to learn it." It was five minutes to going time. I called in some extra resources. Gymnast who was enrolled much more recently than me to Brownies was able to provide us with the right words for the "promise", and so then all three of us practised it whilst walking to Brownies together. So do you know the Brownie Guide Law too, I checked with Gymnast? "No" she said. I never learnt it. Someone else said it for me when I was enrolled." We got there and I went to speak to the Brownie Leader. (They aren't called Brown Owl now. Perhaps it's because such title shortened to BO. I know not.)

"I'm really sorry I said, but I've been really busy, and I forgot to help her with her vows. She knows her promise, but please may I have a look at the Brownie Guide law, so that I can show her?"

BL obliged and TM and I learnt it together very quickly, the whole thing being a total of sixteen words. Perfect for remiss mother. The ceremony started, minus hubby, who being on a course on the other side of the country, was still skating across Gloucestershire to get to the Brownie hut on time. Fortunately he made by the skin of his teeth, just before she made her promise.

And not to be smug or anything. Well... ok... a bit. But, having learnt it in 30 seconds flat, she said the BG law on behalf of all others present. Apparently she was the only one who had learnt that bit! She has a deep clear voice, and she made us very proud, and made me forget that I'd been a bad mother in forgetting to teach her said words. Brinkmanship had worked, clearly...

I then got home to find a phone bill, for an extraordinarily large amount. I had been coerced into returning to BT again recently, after numerous hassles with every other provider out there. Regular readers will remember only too well.

Well... apart from the fact that they had charged me for all daytime calls, despite having an "Anytime" line. And apart from the fact that there were £17 worth of 0845 calls, I was also seriously unhappy with the number of mobile numbers called to various teenagers' friends phones. I wouldn't mind, but they all have mobile phones, linked to the same network as ours, which WE pay for. "We'll have to have a word with them" said hubby.

"And I shall have a word with BT" said I. "I'm not working tomorrow. It can be my good turn for the day."

I dialled the number given on the bill.

After pressing every option available and then pressing star zero several, (many several) times, and still not getting through to a PERSON, I gave up and had another look at the bill. I found another number to dial. I still couldn't talk to a person, but did eventually get the promise of a call back via a machine operated voice.

"Mrs. Lommax?" "Yes" I said. And then, after making me jump through five hoops, stand on my head and say my alphabet backwards to verify that she was indeed speaking to the person that she had called, she eventually asked me how she could help.

So where did I need to start?

Well...

Clearly the mobile phone number calls were not their problem, but the daytime calls, and the 0845 numbers not being included in the "Anytime" plan were a different matter.

Not wanting to fall out with the poor girl on the end of the line I asked very nicely to be put though to the manager.

There wasn't one.

I finally managed to persuade her that perhaps she didn't own BT and she eventually agreed to put me through to someone else. I then had a serious rant about the inefficacy of 0870 and 0845 numbers and the outrageous charges for such.

He listened, and informed me that they were nothing to do with BT, and asked me why I thought that these should be included in the plan. I was very confused by this, because as I pointed out, in the days when BT were the only telephone provider in the UK, there was no-one else to invent the concept of the "local call for everyone line." But local call rates they are now definitely not, and what's more they are not included in your general calls, and so, whichever plan you opt for, such calls are charged for on top.

SEVENTEEN POUNDS worth of them!

He was having none of it, but he did nevertheless reduce our bill by a sensible amount, on the basis that obviously the person who had resold me back into BT had misinformed me. (Which of course really reads, "Because as one of our customers, you are clearly a little bit stupid, and so we will give you a stupidity discount...." Something like that anyway.)

In the meantime, no teenagers in the Sally household will be allowed to call mobiles from landlines ever again, and the "say no to 0870" website will be seriously encouraged for all at all times.

Oh yes, and he also took off the daytimes calls.... as that was a genuine error......

And to think that in days gone by I would pay bills without checking the items therein. Just think of the pounds we could have saved when we weren't so poor. I should have listened to my Dad all along.

p.s. Gymnast quite rightly reminded me that she too should get a mention... as that very evening she too was promoted - to a sixer at Brownies..... and we are very proud of her. Well done Gymnast!

Late Night Shopping.

2008-09-24T13:41:00.016+01:00

Hubby had man flu.

"On your way home, could you pick up a few bits from the supermarket?" he asked.

It was late. I had been working all day and hadn't had time to get home in between, before going to my "every so often acting thingammy bob" in Cheltenham. We're all a bit luvvy with it really... but the company's great and I get the odd bit of acting work through it.

"I won't see you all day" complained Tinkerbell Mushroom earlier. "No" I reasoned, "but you will see me every other day this week, and you have got Daddy at home all day, and I am normally home by the time you get home, and I am not working at all on Wednesdays and Fridays, or at the weekends, at the moment, and I'm home for you every school holiday......." Unpacified she gave me the look which 8 olds perfect beautifully in order to make mothers feel just that tiny bit more guilty than they already feel.

I arrived at Tesco at 10.30 p.m. Naturally, as you do, you go in for a loaf of bread and end up with a full trolley. I arrived at the checkout at 11.15 p.m. It was a self scanning till. Not being my favourite pastime, I glanced around for an alternative version of paying device. There appeared to be no manned tills at all. An assistant walked past.

"Is this the only type of till available I said?"

"'Fraid so," She said. "They have taken us all off tills after 11 O' Clock. Trouble is, one of us still has to be around because there are always problems with these."

I smiled sympathetically, and grimaced as I did the self scanning. I think that I just can't be very good at finding bar codes because I clearly take longer at self scanning than other people. When I was a student I worked in various shops, but they hadn't invented bar codes then. It must have been a long time ago.

Eventually I got to the card payment bit. I put my card in. Then I remembered that I had some money off vouchers, and a club card to scan too. I looked at the machine and realised that if I were to pay first I wouldn't get my money off, or my Tesco points. So, I did the sensible thing, cancelled the payment and removed my card. Not wanting to have to rescan every item at another till I tried to put my various cards and vouchers in again, but the machine just beeped at me and flashed a warning signal. "Card removed too early, call for supervisor help." Thankfully it didn't instantly lock me into the till for non payment of goods, which was a bit of a relief.

I smiled at the attendant. "It won't let me finish my transaction I said, explaining what had happened and looking weakly." She put in her card and pressed the "override for stupid customers button." I'll be out of here soon I thought. Wrong....

Unfortunately, it was by now 11.20 p.m. and it appears the time when Tesco decides to add up its daily millions of pounds turnover. Well I suppose it might be many millions less one in the current climate, but it is undoubtedly still into the millions I am sure.

The till was having none of it. I was certainly not going to be allowed out of the store just yet. Supervisor called for fellow supervisor. More magic codes were put in. Still no joy.

"It's doing its banking" she explained. "It" being the till.

"I just want to go home." I said. "I'm tired. I've been up since 6 a.m." It was a slight exaggeration, as our alarm doesn't actually go off until 6.30... but it had been a long day nevertheless.

"Look" I said. "Can I leave you my card details, and you can take the payment tomorrow once the machines are all working again?" "No sorry." Clearly it said somewhere on the invisible card details that our cards can be on the um... shall we say...unreliable side...

It was 11.40 p.m........

11.45 p.m. She managed finally to free my shopping from the till and go to the customer service desk. But no.... that till was having none of it either.

I just wanted to pay.

Finally at 11.45 p.m. I had a brainwave. "I'll get some cash from the cashpoint outside, and I'll give you cash!"

Real money.

Ran outside. Got some cash out of the cashpoint and ran back in. I hadn't got the exact change, so, I got out the amount to the nearest £5, rounding up the payment by £1.50. "Please keep the £1.50" I said. "Here's my money. You sort it out. I'm going home." And with that I flounced (as much as a forty six year old with big trolley can flounce) out of the store.

As I was loading up my car, the assistant came running out after me with my £1.50. "Did you sort it out" I asked, surprised. "No, she said, but we at least managed to get the till open, so here's your £1.50." I gratefully accepted the changed and went home arriving home at 12.15 a.m.

Hubby grovelled. "I'm really sorry Sal. I could have nipped out to the shops. I'm not that ill....."

We share guilt lovingly in our family.

Meanwhile, if the tills are still not working at Tesco Gloucester...... then I suggest that Tesco put on some more staff for their late night shifts. We didn't ask you to open your stores 24 hours a day. We simply took advantage of the facilities provided once there...

Happy Birthday!

2008-09-18T05:34:00.002+01:00

A very happy birthday ESOS!!

16 today....

Barking!

2008-08-03T01:01:00.003+01:00

(Started to write this on 27th June, but finally posted it on 3rd August... Catching up for the summer! See note above here, and the blog prior to this one, about ED's 18th Birthday, and have a click on her Spanish Orange Ad too...)

It had a been a long day.

I taught all day and then did a parent teacher evening. It went reasonably well. Well reasonably. Apart from explaining to one mother how the system works, in quite some "just one page ahead" detail and explaining to her that a reading paper is really what we would call a comprehension. She sat and listened, and then, right at the end of the conversation dropped in that she taught English at a neighbouring school. Oh... I groaned, covering my face with my notes to hide my discomfort. "Oh don't worry." She said. "You're doing fine." At least I was very nice about her daughter........

I finally got away at 7.15 p.m and raced down the motorway to collect German Exchange student from ESOS's school. Arrived in good time for the 8 p.m. pickup.

9 p.m....... the coach finally arrived. apparently the flight was diverted to Outer Mongolia first and seriously delayed, before landing at Stansted. Very close to Gloucester...

Got home and showed guest "The room." Switched on the lamp. "Oh sorry" I said, as the shade fell off in true Lomax "nothing in huge house with huge mortgage for huge family either works or is efficient" style. "It's broken." I'll find another one. Went upstairs to where I know that there were was one other unused shade. Brought it down to put it on.

"You can't use that." said Hubby. It's the wrong sort.

"I can put it on upside down." I said. "At least it will take away the glare of the bulb."

"He'll go back to Germany telling everyone that the English are barking mad."

"Well, not all" said I. "Just us."

I then realised that whilst I didn't mind the thought of being thought of as mad, I did mind the thought of reports going back to Germany that we weren't clean. The state of the bathrooms would have been great for your average rodent or teenager... but there was always a chance that this one was of the hygienic variety. So, I set to and cleaned said bathrooms, found some blue things to go into the loos to keep everything smelling vaguely sweet, and explained that he would have to use the baths, as the showers are both broken. Well... one decided not to work at all a few weeks ago and one, despite the new central heating system, is seriously on the cool side. German Boy looked very unimpressed at the thought of such a primitive way of keeping clean.....

Fell into bed, exhausted.

3 a.m. Little head apppeared in our doorway.

"They're having a party in the flat. I can't get to sleep said Tinkerbell Mushroom."

I went into her room. Thump, thump, thump. yes.... I agreed.

"I'll go" I said to Hubby.

Put on large winter coat over dressing gown and unglamorously appeared at the flat door. They agreed to turn down the music and I returned to bed.

Ten minutes later TM appeared again. "It's still noisy".

Not wishing to make another Nora Batty type appearance on the street, she was invited to climb into our bed and we all went back to sleep. Fortunately I am well versed in the "on the shoulder, nearly falling out of bed," version of sleep.

The next morning I thought I would be hospitable to our German guest.

"Guten morgan" I said, in my best school girl German.

"Haben Sie wohl schlafen?"

He looked at me strangely.

ESOS looked at me strangely.

"Mum, what are you trying to say?"

"I was asking if he had slept well," I said, a little put out that my best attempts at German were not quite appreciated.

They both laughed. It's not "wohl" Mum, it's "gut"......."Haben Sie gut schlafen."

Fortunately said German guest did speak good English...................... and has now safely returned to Germany away from the barking barking!

Happy 18th Birthday ED!

2008-07-17T11:29:00.001+01:00

To our very beautiful eldest daughter............

Happy 18th Birthday Emily!!!

Happy Birthday

2008-07-01T05:36:00.001+01:00

To our own Little Gymnast...

Speaking of telephones.....

2008-06-18T12:09:00.008+01:00

Speak Speak ring me.

(Well, actually they are not really called Speak Speak, but, shall we say they are called something a little similar... They are of course the same company that I have had "dealings" with in the past, on a different telephone line...But that's another story)

A nice girl comes on the phone." I am doing a survey, and we just wanted to ask you Mrs. L, why have you decided to leave us?"

"Well", say I. "I actually find your service a little inefficient."

"Why is that?" Says she.

Where shall I start? I think.

"Well....

I ran a small business from home, running a part time theatre school, and I changed my telephone line over to "Speak Speak" on the recommendation of a friend, who also at the time suggested that we change our personal line over to you, but that's another story. Then you said that, as it was a business, I would need to have a business line. I couldn't really understand why, as it was only me making the calls and one person really can't make that many calls in a day, but nevertheless I went along with it and paid twice as much per month as I would have done for a private line. Then I sold the business back to my franchisor, but continued to run it for them for the next period as a manager, and my ex franchisor, who was by now my employer paid my bill.

Then I resigned from the theatre school, and we asked you to change the line back to my name and make it a residential line."

"Sorry" said you. "We can't do that, as you have signed a three year contract with us."

"If I have" said I, "I certrainly can't remember doing so, and if that is the case, then surely, given that in effect the business in my name no longer exists, that contract is null and void....

In the meantime", said I "please can you show me a copy of the contract?"

Silence.

And then.......

"It was a telephone contract", said you.

Great.

"Send me a copy of the conversation." Said I.

Nothing happened.... and then I got a letter telling me that the record of the conversation appeared to have gone missing, so therefore I was free to change my supplier.

I hadn't actually wanted to change my supplier necessarily, just the type of contract... but when the original of original suppliers came back to me and offered me an alternative far more atractive contract, I said: "Yes please" as, it seemed to me that you weren't too sure whether or not your left hand was speaking ....... or even talking to your right."

So, where were we?"

"Actually Mrs. L, I don't seem to be able to find any record of these converstions. Can you tell me when it was?"

"As I said, I closed my account because I found your service a little inefficient. I think that that is the only comment that needs to go on the survey really...."

Our turn?

2008-06-09T17:19:00.012+01:00

They say that good things happen together.

Is it our turn yet please?

So far this year...............

1. Nearly died.

2. Walked out of a supply teaching job after nearly being killed.

3. Was put in a difficult situation and felt had to resign from much loved stage school after seven years as Principal, and have lost that income as a result.

4. Have managed to do all the things that I was cross with my mother for doing as a teenager and have therefore managed to cause a "situation" in relationship with ED.

5. Have run so badly out of money that we now have to borrow all the children's money to fuel the car just to get to work and eat.............. and have now just about used up all their funds too in a vain attempt to keep those miserable so and so s (who steal our money in bank charges anyway) at the bank and various other people happy. ("You really do have to learn to keep better control of your finances Mrs. Lomax." Yes, well I would.... if you didn't take your exorbitant cut. Just you wait Mr.Bank Manager. When I'm rich, you will know about it, and I won't be banking with you.)

6. Have been miserable for so long now that I now seem to fail dismally most of the time in getting Hubby to see things from my point of view.

7. Have failed completely in trying to find a babysitter for a day in July for the two youngest. A babysitter who would be able to drive them around the country to their various commitments that is. This was so that we could go to the Henley Regatta. A rare social occasion that we had been invited to by lovely long standing some of best friends in the world. So are now likely to upset said friends as have shambolically managed to mess up their arrangements as well as ours. Plus, even if we now found a babysitter we have such limited shekels currently that we wouldn't even be able to buy a round of drinks when we did get there.

8. Have failed to read any blogs for weeks or months, and so am now likely to have upset my virtual buddies too.

9. Have lost all sense of humour and ability to be funny, so can no longer have a career as a comedienne.

10. Have failed yet again to get off that excess three stone during the winter and so now even Hubby thinks I'm fat.

11. Have got a nice maternity cover in a really nice school, but have realised that I am too old to be a career teacher and am still not sure that that is what I want anyway, which is why I wasn't, aren't and haven't been to date. Also the school is 38 miles away, so although nice it takes far too much in ridiculously overpriced fuel.

12. On the fuel note, have managed to have my bank card rejected on three occasions at fuel stations, having filled up.

First time: cried and shouted at the bank, on my mobile phone, in the middle of the garage, asking them to refund offending bank charges which had caused lack of much needed funds on that particular day.

Second time, different garage: kept calm, and, when the cashier refused point blank to put through £67 on the card - the only available funds, and the other 66p in cash I insisted.

Calmly.

"Can you not get someone to pay for you?" He said.

At 38 miles from home, and 100 miles from any other family, quite frankly, the answer was no. I HAVE the money here I said. £67 on my card. 66 pence in cash. "There is no need to get stroppy with me Madam. We are simply unable to split the payment." Heckles rising slightly I firmly pointed him in the direction of the supervisor, who came back and allowed him to allow me to pay by manual payment. "You'll have to wait here though, so that I can check that it has been accepted by the bank. We will ring the bank to check that there are sufficient funds." He sneered at me.

I waited, patiently.

Another customer came and went.

Still I waited.

"Yes Madam?" he said.

Suddenly, the moment reminded me of "Dory" in Finding Nemo.

"I'm waiting to see if that money has cleared I explained in my 'patient but feeling slightly tested' voice. "Oh yes." He said. It has. "You're free to go."

There were lots of things I felt like saying. LOTS. I didn't. I simply withdrew, embarrassed and upset. I kept my dignity and then burst into tears in the car.

Third time was due to our wonderful British Banking system who believe they have the right to have the cheques that I pay into my account in their account for a few days first. It makes sense of course. It's another way for them to make a few quick million a day. Well not on my funds you understand.... but on the collective majority of funds. They will probably have made a million or two in bank charges to me though, by the time I die.....

So... back to the - third - petrol station... (That's gas for all you over there in the other side of the Atlantic. And actually I usually buy diesel anyway if we were to call a spade a spade.... But we aren't of course talking about spades. We are talking about fuel.)

I put my card through. "Sorry" said the cashier. "Insufficient funds." "No." I said. "There are definitely sufficient funds." I rang the bank. The cheque that had those sufficient funds was still being looked after by them. How kind...

"Can I write a cheque?" I asked.

"No Madam, we don't accept cheques."

"But, you see, the money is in the account, and if I write a cheque, by the time it gets to the bank, the money will be there, cleared, for you."

"It is company policy Madam. We don't accept cheques."

Fortunately, this time, it was a smaller amount. I gave them the sum total of the remaining cleared funds, and scraped around my purse, bottom of my handbag and bottom of the car and for an extra few pounds cash. I left, red faced and upset again.... with a promise of the remaining £5 to be brought to them by the following day.... once the funds had been released by the bank. And the children ate gruel again..... Well OK.... no, but not far off....

On the positive side:

I do now have a proper acting agent, as of today. I got my Equity card (British Actor's Union) ten year's ago. So at that rate I might get an audition for a soap in about 2020 or thereabouts....

So, I'll buy you all a drink when I get that part.