It was the night of Christmas. Some might call it Christmas night. Not Christmas Eve, but Christmas Day night.
This is getting complicated. It was yesterday.
The Nunn family was a bit merry. We had all eaten plenty, watched the baby zoom around on her new horse/trike combo, watched her open approximately 300 presents, and played a rousing game or two of the card game, Cheat. (Every year my 90 year-old grandma pretends to forget the rules and hustles us shamelessly. We never learn.)
The baby was fast asleep, and at about 9 p.m., Jack - my brother - brought through to the living room a massive plate of cheese: camembert, gorgonzola, cheddar... more cheese than you could shake a mouse at.
Too much food was already nestling in my tummy. I was too full to move. I let out a silent (but ultimately apparently quite violent) large fart.
"Oh!" shouted Mrs Nunn, who was sitting to my right. "That cheese smells awful."
I stifled a giggle. I thought she'd drop it.
"Which cheese is that, Jack? Let me smell your cheese!" The giggle was no longer stifled. TheBloke (TM) didn't know why I was laughing. Jack passed her the cheese plate.
"It's not this cheese," she said, sniffing the camembert.
I started laughing quite openly out loud.
"Nope, not this," proclaimed Mrs Nunn, after taking a big whiff of the cheddar.
I was almost hysterical with laughter sobs wracking me in half. I whispered, through guffaws, to TheBloke (TM) that I'd just - for want of a better phrase - cut the cheese.
Mrs Nunn was not to be disturbed. "I don't think it's this cheese either," she said, taking a great lung bucketful of the gorgonzola. "My word, something smells awful. It smells like old feet!"
By this point TheBloke (TM) was also giggling.
Mrs Nunn hoovered up one last huge breath of the fart cloud that was surrounding her. "Hmm, that's odd," she said. "It seems to have passed."
Sorry Mum. And thanks for hoovering up my flatulence.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Monday, December 23, 2013
Ganging up
I don't talk about my job much. This is for the very good reason that the views I express here are almost certainly not that of my employer. It is - for example - unlikely that they would have such strong feelings as I do about Dairy Milk chocolate or that twat Postman Pat.
It's not a total secret. Anyone half-interested could probably work it out by looking on Linked-In, but the point is, this is categorically not a blog about my work.
However.
Part of my job has involved the design and delivery of training courses - specifically related to process improvement, which is sort of my background. Last week - after three years of delivering the same course on a monthly, and sometimes a weekly (and once, in New York, a daily) basis, it is looking like the course will be retired. I wrote the course. It's brilliant, even if I do say so myself.
For any of you who have written training courses (probably a niche section of my readership), you know it can get a bit fatiguing. You need to make sure you mix up the learning, so there's a good mix of practical and theory, and so you appeal to people with lots of different learning styles. It's tiring. So when there's an opportunity to pop an in-joke into the workbook, well, you have to take it, don't you?
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Another thing about me - it's no secret I'm a Press Gang fan; I have been since 1989. I even went to the conventions in Liverpool. (You can throw your rotten fruit now). So, to those of you in the know, the following page from my Process Improvement workbook may amuse.
For those of you not in the know, the names in the "Who" column of my simple-yet-effective action plan (no falling asleep at the back!), has contained the names of three major Press Gang characters for the last three years! Three years! I totally got away with it.
The final part of my training course was an hour-long session where delegates plan their own process improvement workshop to run back in their workplace. At this stage I quite often get complicated questions about how this will apply in some obscure part of the business that makes very little sense to me. Luckily, I am fantastic atblagging my job, so this is rarely a problem.
"Laura?" someone called for my help. I went over to the desk. They were pointing at the Action Plan page.
"Did you write this training course?" Oh good, a critic. This happens occasionally. They are always wrong. And yes, thank you, I can take feedback. So long as it's uniformly positive. But a quibble? On my last ever training course? Too cruel.
"Yes, yes I did."
Still pointing at the Action Plan page, he said, "These are characters, aren't they? From Press Gang? I was such a massive fan! I have the DVD box set."
"Oh my God," me too, I said in a voice that definitely wasn't at all squealy. "Did you go to the conventions?"
"No."
There was an awkward silence. And then it went on a bit longer. I had to say something.
"Everything OK with your workshop plan?"
"Yep."
It seems fitting I got rumbled on my last ever session. And now I shall look for other ways to crowbar obscure references into my day job.
My life is not empty. Shut up.
And happy Christmas.
It's not a total secret. Anyone half-interested could probably work it out by looking on Linked-In, but the point is, this is categorically not a blog about my work.
However.
Part of my job has involved the design and delivery of training courses - specifically related to process improvement, which is sort of my background. Last week - after three years of delivering the same course on a monthly, and sometimes a weekly (and once, in New York, a daily) basis, it is looking like the course will be retired. I wrote the course. It's brilliant, even if I do say so myself.
For any of you who have written training courses (probably a niche section of my readership), you know it can get a bit fatiguing. You need to make sure you mix up the learning, so there's a good mix of practical and theory, and so you appeal to people with lots of different learning styles. It's tiring. So when there's an opportunity to pop an in-joke into the workbook, well, you have to take it, don't you?
.JPG)
Another thing about me - it's no secret I'm a Press Gang fan; I have been since 1989. I even went to the conventions in Liverpool. (You can throw your rotten fruit now). So, to those of you in the know, the following page from my Process Improvement workbook may amuse.For those of you not in the know, the names in the "Who" column of my simple-yet-effective action plan (no falling asleep at the back!), has contained the names of three major Press Gang characters for the last three years! Three years! I totally got away with it.
The final part of my training course was an hour-long session where delegates plan their own process improvement workshop to run back in their workplace. At this stage I quite often get complicated questions about how this will apply in some obscure part of the business that makes very little sense to me. Luckily, I am fantastic at
"Laura?" someone called for my help. I went over to the desk. They were pointing at the Action Plan page.
"Did you write this training course?" Oh good, a critic. This happens occasionally. They are always wrong. And yes, thank you, I can take feedback. So long as it's uniformly positive. But a quibble? On my last ever training course? Too cruel.
"Yes, yes I did."
Still pointing at the Action Plan page, he said, "These are characters, aren't they? From Press Gang? I was such a massive fan! I have the DVD box set."
"Oh my God," me too, I said in a voice that definitely wasn't at all squealy. "Did you go to the conventions?"
"No."
There was an awkward silence. And then it went on a bit longer. I had to say something.
"Everything OK with your workshop plan?"
"Yep."
It seems fitting I got rumbled on my last ever session. And now I shall look for other ways to crowbar obscure references into my day job.
My life is not empty. Shut up.
And happy Christmas.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Mistletoe and whine
December is upon us and the ground outside is white. Not with snow - not yet this year, but with a thick hibernal frost. And with December comes Christmas. The baby is massively overexcited by the Christmas tree (mostly the opportunity to remove decorations and throw them on the floor repetitively). Our Christmas tree is quite pretty from the top down, to about two feet off the floor, where it has been stripped entirely of glittery ornaments by one over-enthusiastic toddler. The bottom third of our Christmas tree looks like it has been visited by a tiny Grinch.
I'm not the world's biggest fan of Christmas, but we tend to do it fairly low-key in our family. One gift each (apart from the baby, who will of course get horribly spoiled, being the only baby in the family) and a £10 limit. It removes a lot of the unnecessary stress around shopping and wrapping, and pretending to really love the singing socks you've just been handed, like a reluctant house-elf.
One thing I have done for the last few years (excepting last year when I was on maternity leave) is sing with the choir in the carol service at Canary Wharf. I love the choir. I've been singing in it now for about five years. Even when I left the company to whom the choir technically belongs, I still returned to sing. A lovely group of people.
But this year I wondered if perhaps I should retire from carol services. To give a bit of context, I wasn't feeling at my best. Extended vomiting and colds, stretching now for the best part of six weeks meant that I was physically (and mentally) a bit drained and wobbly. The other big problem that stopped me enjoying this particular service was my ever-increasing rampant atheism.
Now, don't get me wrong - I love a good opportunity for a bit of evangelical atheism, but if I'm honest, I'm not sure a carol service is the best place for that. It's a bit like going to a synagogue and offering round bacon sandwiches. But I find it hard to switch off.
The vicar came over to speak to us, "I am sure you will all be singing like angels today," she said.
Another lady (not one from my choir, but from one of the other firms' choirs) said, "Ah, but the angels were all men, weren't they?"
I couldn't help myself. "Plus they were a little bit imaginary."
She gave me a look and continued. "They all have men's names: Michael, Raphael, Gabriel..."
"... Lucifer," I added.
She said, "There's always a heckler, isn't there?" and walked away. And actually, for once, I did feel a bit guilty. Not for taking the piss out of a grown up who believes in fairies - that's par for the course. But probably doing it just before a carol service wasn't really fair. It's a bit like the difference between not actively lying to your child about Father Christmas, and making the effort to go to a Santa's Grotto and shouting out that it's just Dave from Loughton wearing a beard.
Having said that, I suffered through the (approximately) six lessons and carols. A lifetime (no exaggeration) of this, plus a very good verbal memory means I literally know all the words of said lessons and carols off by heart. And it irritates me that so much brain space is taken up with such guff (apart from the lyrics to It Came Upon the Midnight Clear, which are actually very nicely-written).
I have no problem with the great and good of Canary Wharf being rinsed for a bit of charity cash (which is very much what the services are about - and given its demographic, I believe they do extremely well out of it), but I just wish it wasn't in the name of something so unlikely. I have never yet made it to the 9 Lessons and Carols for Godless People, but it is very much on my list of things to do.
I think Christmas is absolutely a time for charity - for thinking about people in the depths of winter with no light at the end of the tunnel. I think it is a time for family. Hell, it can even be time for getting together and singing. But I would love to see that all happen without it needing to be to appease a being supposedly so great that it created the whole of earth... and yet so twattish that it needs to be endlessly praised - or else there will be dire consequences. I think we have all worked for someone like that. And I think we can all agree they are dicks. Easiest just to ignore them. Pretend they don't exist. (In this particular case - no pretence needed.)
So I may retire - not from the choir - but from the carol services. And instead put that time back into the family. At least for Christmas.
I'm not the world's biggest fan of Christmas, but we tend to do it fairly low-key in our family. One gift each (apart from the baby, who will of course get horribly spoiled, being the only baby in the family) and a £10 limit. It removes a lot of the unnecessary stress around shopping and wrapping, and pretending to really love the singing socks you've just been handed, like a reluctant house-elf.
One thing I have done for the last few years (excepting last year when I was on maternity leave) is sing with the choir in the carol service at Canary Wharf. I love the choir. I've been singing in it now for about five years. Even when I left the company to whom the choir technically belongs, I still returned to sing. A lovely group of people.
But this year I wondered if perhaps I should retire from carol services. To give a bit of context, I wasn't feeling at my best. Extended vomiting and colds, stretching now for the best part of six weeks meant that I was physically (and mentally) a bit drained and wobbly. The other big problem that stopped me enjoying this particular service was my ever-increasing rampant atheism.
Now, don't get me wrong - I love a good opportunity for a bit of evangelical atheism, but if I'm honest, I'm not sure a carol service is the best place for that. It's a bit like going to a synagogue and offering round bacon sandwiches. But I find it hard to switch off.
The vicar came over to speak to us, "I am sure you will all be singing like angels today," she said.
Another lady (not one from my choir, but from one of the other firms' choirs) said, "Ah, but the angels were all men, weren't they?"
I couldn't help myself. "Plus they were a little bit imaginary."
She gave me a look and continued. "They all have men's names: Michael, Raphael, Gabriel..."
"... Lucifer," I added.
She said, "There's always a heckler, isn't there?" and walked away. And actually, for once, I did feel a bit guilty. Not for taking the piss out of a grown up who believes in fairies - that's par for the course. But probably doing it just before a carol service wasn't really fair. It's a bit like the difference between not actively lying to your child about Father Christmas, and making the effort to go to a Santa's Grotto and shouting out that it's just Dave from Loughton wearing a beard.
Having said that, I suffered through the (approximately) six lessons and carols. A lifetime (no exaggeration) of this, plus a very good verbal memory means I literally know all the words of said lessons and carols off by heart. And it irritates me that so much brain space is taken up with such guff (apart from the lyrics to It Came Upon the Midnight Clear, which are actually very nicely-written).
I have no problem with the great and good of Canary Wharf being rinsed for a bit of charity cash (which is very much what the services are about - and given its demographic, I believe they do extremely well out of it), but I just wish it wasn't in the name of something so unlikely. I have never yet made it to the 9 Lessons and Carols for Godless People, but it is very much on my list of things to do.
I think Christmas is absolutely a time for charity - for thinking about people in the depths of winter with no light at the end of the tunnel. I think it is a time for family. Hell, it can even be time for getting together and singing. But I would love to see that all happen without it needing to be to appease a being supposedly so great that it created the whole of earth... and yet so twattish that it needs to be endlessly praised - or else there will be dire consequences. I think we have all worked for someone like that. And I think we can all agree they are dicks. Easiest just to ignore them. Pretend they don't exist. (In this particular case - no pretence needed.)
So I may retire - not from the choir - but from the carol services. And instead put that time back into the family. At least for Christmas.
Monday, December 09, 2013
School night
With the baby being sick yet again, I did what any good parent would do, and left her with TheBloke (TM) whilst I went away for the night to see old school chums.
We've been friends since the early 1990s, and I think we've done OK. We are doctors, solicitors, accountants, project managers, and people who do vaguely officey professional things that are difficult to describe. We drank champagne. We ate nibbles. We talked about old school memories, teachers, friends. We laughed (a little bit) about some of the Annabelles we were at school with. And because we are all grown-ups now, we talked about mortgages, children (we have six and a half of the little midgets between us), interest rates... and it turned out we had three National Trust memberships within the group.
Times have changed. It's been over 20 years since we first met, and I suppose it would be a big fat lie to say that we haven't aged or changed in any way. But something weird happens when you get back together with people you've known for ages - you just don't see them as any different than they were when they were wearing school uniform (and probably laughing about Annabelles, whose catchphrase, "Are you talking about me?" would - for once - actually have held true this weekend).
We all stayed overnight. I think the main reason TheBloke (TM) was keen for me to go - despite the vomity baby - was the fact that he still believes girls' sleepovers mean that we all wear satin nighties, have pillow fights that turn (naturally) into lesbian orgies. He wanted me to take photos.
Don't tell TheBloke (TM) but this didn't actually happen, and my Primark pyjamas stayed firmly on all night. Sorry.
The next morning commenced with bacon sandwiches and a cup of tea. Pretty much a perfect weekend. And much better than TheBloke (TM)'s, which mostly involved washing vomit off various surfaces.
So yes, a perfect weekend. Until I got the stupid baby's vomiting virus (again) and spent all of last night with my head down the toilet.
We've been friends since the early 1990s, and I think we've done OK. We are doctors, solicitors, accountants, project managers, and people who do vaguely officey professional things that are difficult to describe. We drank champagne. We ate nibbles. We talked about old school memories, teachers, friends. We laughed (a little bit) about some of the Annabelles we were at school with. And because we are all grown-ups now, we talked about mortgages, children (we have six and a half of the little midgets between us), interest rates... and it turned out we had three National Trust memberships within the group.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Hazel, whose camera adds chins, pounds and grey hairs |
We all stayed overnight. I think the main reason TheBloke (TM) was keen for me to go - despite the vomity baby - was the fact that he still believes girls' sleepovers mean that we all wear satin nighties, have pillow fights that turn (naturally) into lesbian orgies. He wanted me to take photos.
Don't tell TheBloke (TM) but this didn't actually happen, and my Primark pyjamas stayed firmly on all night. Sorry.
The next morning commenced with bacon sandwiches and a cup of tea. Pretty much a perfect weekend. And much better than TheBloke (TM)'s, which mostly involved washing vomit off various surfaces.
So yes, a perfect weekend. Until I got the stupid baby's vomiting virus (again) and spent all of last night with my head down the toilet.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
50 shades of mucus
You know when you're ill? I'm not talking about a tiny sore throat or a slightly stuffy nose. I'm talking about when you feel like an elephant is sitting on your chest, when you can't breathe through either nostril, and your lips are too chapped to open your mouth, and then - as if if that weren't enough - you get an attack of the screaming shits?
Yes, that. That is how I have felt for the last week. Having had "proper" flu about three years ago, I wouldn't describe the recent illness as flu, but I think the medical name is "a fucking awful cold that just bollocksing won't go away". I think it's Latin.
The baby helpfully seems to be an active volunteer in the Revolting Child Germ Rota, and is kindly passing all of her disgusting germs on to Mummy and Daddy. I can no longer remember what she looks like without a snail trail of snot dangling from each nostril.
You know you've just given up caring at the point you pick the baby up, kiss her on her cheek, realise you've just got a mouthful of another human being's snot and think, "Oh well," and continue with whatever you were doing. (Usually you were on the way to make another Lemsip.)
Side note: why does Lemsip taste so awful? Come on scientists, pull your finger out. (They're probably all off sick.)
So yes, our entire house has been like a plague ship for the last - believe it or not - month. I didn't know it was possible to be ill for so long, without a hospital being involved. I also realised that I am an extremely moany patient, and if I ever did get anything properly serious (I'm talking hardcore here - tonsillitis or a hurty toe or something), I think I'd have to investigate our local morphine / heroin market.
We have spent approximately 30% of this week's disposable income at Boots. I wish this wasn't an exaggeration.
So I haven't really got much to tell you. Though I can recommend cold and flu remedies and different brands of tissues if you'd like.
I doubt you would.
Sorry.
Yes, that. That is how I have felt for the last week. Having had "proper" flu about three years ago, I wouldn't describe the recent illness as flu, but I think the medical name is "a fucking awful cold that just bollocksing won't go away". I think it's Latin.
The baby helpfully seems to be an active volunteer in the Revolting Child Germ Rota, and is kindly passing all of her disgusting germs on to Mummy and Daddy. I can no longer remember what she looks like without a snail trail of snot dangling from each nostril.
You know you've just given up caring at the point you pick the baby up, kiss her on her cheek, realise you've just got a mouthful of another human being's snot and think, "Oh well," and continue with whatever you were doing. (Usually you were on the way to make another Lemsip.)Side note: why does Lemsip taste so awful? Come on scientists, pull your finger out. (They're probably all off sick.)
So yes, our entire house has been like a plague ship for the last - believe it or not - month. I didn't know it was possible to be ill for so long, without a hospital being involved. I also realised that I am an extremely moany patient, and if I ever did get anything properly serious (I'm talking hardcore here - tonsillitis or a hurty toe or something), I think I'd have to investigate our local morphine / heroin market.
We have spent approximately 30% of this week's disposable income at Boots. I wish this wasn't an exaggeration.
So I haven't really got much to tell you. Though I can recommend cold and flu remedies and different brands of tissues if you'd like.
I doubt you would.
Sorry.
Saturday, November 09, 2013
Post Woman Prat
I object to women who preface comments with, "I'm not a feminist but...". I always want to shout at them, "Why aren't you a feminist? Why isn't everyone a feminist? How many people in the world would willingly publicly state that they think women don't deserve equal rights to men?" Because that's all feminism is. It's believing that men and women deserve equality.
Drawing evidence from legislation alone, you'd think we were pretty much there as a society. There are laws insisting that women and men are paid equally for the same work. There are laws making it illegal to hire or fire based on gender alone. And there are even laws to protect pregnant women from being fired or chosen for redundancy because of their pregnancy.
And yet... three days ago marked the day in the year where - because of the gender pay gap - women are effectively working for free for the rest of the year.
"Well, it's a complicated issue," you might argue. "Biology isn't on women's side; so long as they continue to step off the career ladder to have babies, there's not much anyone can do."
I agree. It is complicated. And there are arguments to be made about why it's so valuable to have mothers in the workplace. But discarding that entirely for a moment, even when you take mothers out of the equation (not that we should have to), women still earn significantly less than men.
Mysterious market forces. Perhaps. But here is an incident that genuinely happened to me on Thursday.
TheBloke (TM) often accuses me of "Plogging" in my storytelling - exaggerating for comic effect. It's an accusation not entirely without truth. But this - word for word - did actually happen.
After a lovely afternoon at the Breastfeeding Cafe (no, I'm not breastfeeding anymore, but they have cake), the baby and I poddled off to the Post Office to send a parcel.
If I ever take the baby shopping, I have to build extra time into my schedule for SBOLs (Stopping By Old Ladies). The baby is like catnip to pensioners. This was no exception.
As I was dealing with the person behind the counter, the baby was making friends with the well-dressed elderly lady behind me.
Old lady: Oooh, he's lovely. He's just turned round and given me the biggest smile.
Me: Thank you. It's a girl actually, but thank you.
Old lady: Oh, I'm sorry, sorry!
Me: Don't worry; it's very hard to know at this age, and I don't tend to dress her in pink. I'd rather people got her gender wrong occasionally than have to dress her like a princess every morning.
Old lady: I bet your husband would rather have had a boy anyway.
Me: (practically speechless) Absolutely not.
Her: No?
Me: Not at all. And if he did, I'd have given him a swift kick in the scrotum.
I left. And I was genuinely angry. Because this complete stranger had just stated that the baby's father would love her more if his baby had a penis. And I suppose - all things being genuinely equal - the pensioner's gender shouldn't matter. But somehow it does. The fact that she's a woman holding this opinion made me feel genuinely queasy. Was her life so terrible that she thought being female a curse?
Could you imagine the same scenario but with the woman saying about a black child, "I bet your husband would love your baby more if she was white", or about a child in a wheelchair "if she wasn't disabled"? Horrendously offensive.
But this sort of everyday sexism is commonplace and kind of acceptable. And it makes me sick.
So today - male or female - brand yourself a feminist. Celebrate your daughters (and your sons too). And if you see that old lady at Manford Way Post Office, give her a swift kick in the cunt for me. In the name of feminism, of course.
Drawing evidence from legislation alone, you'd think we were pretty much there as a society. There are laws insisting that women and men are paid equally for the same work. There are laws making it illegal to hire or fire based on gender alone. And there are even laws to protect pregnant women from being fired or chosen for redundancy because of their pregnancy.
And yet... three days ago marked the day in the year where - because of the gender pay gap - women are effectively working for free for the rest of the year.
"Well, it's a complicated issue," you might argue. "Biology isn't on women's side; so long as they continue to step off the career ladder to have babies, there's not much anyone can do."
I agree. It is complicated. And there are arguments to be made about why it's so valuable to have mothers in the workplace. But discarding that entirely for a moment, even when you take mothers out of the equation (not that we should have to), women still earn significantly less than men.
Mysterious market forces. Perhaps. But here is an incident that genuinely happened to me on Thursday.
TheBloke (TM) often accuses me of "Plogging" in my storytelling - exaggerating for comic effect. It's an accusation not entirely without truth. But this - word for word - did actually happen.
After a lovely afternoon at the Breastfeeding Cafe (no, I'm not breastfeeding anymore, but they have cake), the baby and I poddled off to the Post Office to send a parcel.
If I ever take the baby shopping, I have to build extra time into my schedule for SBOLs (Stopping By Old Ladies). The baby is like catnip to pensioners. This was no exception.
As I was dealing with the person behind the counter, the baby was making friends with the well-dressed elderly lady behind me.
Old lady: Oooh, he's lovely. He's just turned round and given me the biggest smile.
Me: Thank you. It's a girl actually, but thank you.
Old lady: Oh, I'm sorry, sorry!
Me: Don't worry; it's very hard to know at this age, and I don't tend to dress her in pink. I'd rather people got her gender wrong occasionally than have to dress her like a princess every morning.
Old lady: I bet your husband would rather have had a boy anyway.
Me: (practically speechless) Absolutely not.
Her: No?
Me: Not at all. And if he did, I'd have given him a swift kick in the scrotum.
I left. And I was genuinely angry. Because this complete stranger had just stated that the baby's father would love her more if his baby had a penis. And I suppose - all things being genuinely equal - the pensioner's gender shouldn't matter. But somehow it does. The fact that she's a woman holding this opinion made me feel genuinely queasy. Was her life so terrible that she thought being female a curse?
Could you imagine the same scenario but with the woman saying about a black child, "I bet your husband would love your baby more if she was white", or about a child in a wheelchair "if she wasn't disabled"? Horrendously offensive.
But this sort of everyday sexism is commonplace and kind of acceptable. And it makes me sick.
So today - male or female - brand yourself a feminist. Celebrate your daughters (and your sons too). And if you see that old lady at Manford Way Post Office, give her a swift kick in the cunt for me. In the name of feminism, of course.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Spaced out
I went to a very academic school. The type of school that awarded extra-curricular prizes grudgingly and with an air of suspicion, as though that was time you should have ideally been using to solve Fermat's Last Theorem. And only then if it was on the syllabus.
I did a range of GCSEs in a range of useful-sounding but, practically-speaking, pointless subjects. And at A-level I took English, French, History and General Studies. My French I have (sadly) all but forgotten. I'm not sure I ever knew any History, other than what I had to learn for the exam. (Plus the nature of my education means I have a massive gap from about 1067-1485. What's 400-odd years between friends? Civil War, what?) English was enjoyable but ultimately disposable. And I fell asleep in my General Studies exam (I was ill) and still managed to get a B.
So, from my tender teenage years, did I learn anything useful? Yes. Mrs Nunn enrolled me in an evening class at the local community college. Touch-typing. I was a bit reluctant at first, as I could already type pretty quickly (albeit using the wrong fingers). Plus Monday nights were hell on a plate with Senior Orchestra (hell enough), followed by three hours of homework, and a regular Tuesday morning Biology test, meaning that I generally had to get up at 5.30 a.m. the next day to finish all my prep. Swotty little spod that I was.
I picked up the typing quickly. As a pianist, I had no trouble with deft finger movements, and as a teenager, probably a more absorbent brain (or at the very least, one that was more practised at taking in new info) than most of the other class members.
And the touch typing, oh it's paid dividends. Reaching eventual speeds of about 70 words per minute, university was bloody brilliant. Not the actual university bit; like most people, I found it OK in parts but generally overhyped. But being able to type a 3000-word essay in a fraction of the time it took most people was bloody amazing.
However, there has been one - increasingly significant - drawback. I learned on an actual typewriter. You know, the type you see in films that quite often are in black and white. I'm not that old - they were electric, and I believe our class was the last year to use them, before PCs were brought in.
* DIRTY PORN HERE
There is one significant difference when you learn to type on a typewriter versus learning to type on a PC; the spacing. I was taught that you always must do a double space after a full stop. Like that. Nowadays, this is frowned upon as archaic, pretentious even. But it was how I was taught. And muscle memory means that as soon as my fourth finger on my right hand hits the "." button, I automatically hammer the space bar a couple of times.
I have been trying to wean myself off the double space, but it's tricky. And I would rather be consistently wrong than inconsistent.
But I am going to try. This may (but probably won't) be the last Plog utilising the double space.
I think I may have just written the most boring Plog in the history of the world. Apologies. I am going to go back through it and see if I can insert some dirty porn* or something.
I did a range of GCSEs in a range of useful-sounding but, practically-speaking, pointless subjects. And at A-level I took English, French, History and General Studies. My French I have (sadly) all but forgotten. I'm not sure I ever knew any History, other than what I had to learn for the exam. (Plus the nature of my education means I have a massive gap from about 1067-1485. What's 400-odd years between friends? Civil War, what?) English was enjoyable but ultimately disposable. And I fell asleep in my General Studies exam (I was ill) and still managed to get a B.
So, from my tender teenage years, did I learn anything useful? Yes. Mrs Nunn enrolled me in an evening class at the local community college. Touch-typing. I was a bit reluctant at first, as I could already type pretty quickly (albeit using the wrong fingers). Plus Monday nights were hell on a plate with Senior Orchestra (hell enough), followed by three hours of homework, and a regular Tuesday morning Biology test, meaning that I generally had to get up at 5.30 a.m. the next day to finish all my prep. Swotty little spod that I was.
I picked up the typing quickly. As a pianist, I had no trouble with deft finger movements, and as a teenager, probably a more absorbent brain (or at the very least, one that was more practised at taking in new info) than most of the other class members.
And the touch typing, oh it's paid dividends. Reaching eventual speeds of about 70 words per minute, university was bloody brilliant. Not the actual university bit; like most people, I found it OK in parts but generally overhyped. But being able to type a 3000-word essay in a fraction of the time it took most people was bloody amazing.
However, there has been one - increasingly significant - drawback. I learned on an actual typewriter. You know, the type you see in films that quite often are in black and white. I'm not that old - they were electric, and I believe our class was the last year to use them, before PCs were brought in.
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| Dirty typewriter porn |
There is one significant difference when you learn to type on a typewriter versus learning to type on a PC; the spacing. I was taught that you always must do a double space after a full stop. Like that. Nowadays, this is frowned upon as archaic, pretentious even. But it was how I was taught. And muscle memory means that as soon as my fourth finger on my right hand hits the "." button, I automatically hammer the space bar a couple of times.
I have been trying to wean myself off the double space, but it's tricky. And I would rather be consistently wrong than inconsistent.
But I am going to try. This may (but probably won't) be the last Plog utilising the double space.
I think I may have just written the most boring Plog in the history of the world. Apologies. I am going to go back through it and see if I can insert some dirty porn* or something.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Bird brained
"So, yes," Mrs Nunn says. "Thanks for phoning... Oh, those bloody pigeons are at it again!"
"At what?" I ask.
"They're shagging in the apple tree."
"Oh," I say. There's not much else to say to that than "oh".
"Also, I think they're both male pigeons. The male pigeons are having gay sex in our apple tree."
"You think they're both male?"
"Yes. Or maybe both female. But they're definitely gay."
"Why do you think the pigeons are gay?" This is an area I feel needs exploring.
"Well, they shag and they shag and they shag, but they never have any eggs."
Mrs Nunn, doing her bit for gay pigeon rights.
"At what?" I ask.
"They're shagging in the apple tree."
"Oh," I say. There's not much else to say to that than "oh".
"Also, I think they're both male pigeons. The male pigeons are having gay sex in our apple tree."
"You think they're both male?"
"Yes. Or maybe both female. But they're definitely gay."
"Why do you think the pigeons are gay?" This is an area I feel needs exploring.
"Well, they shag and they shag and they shag, but they never have any eggs."
Mrs Nunn, doing her bit for gay pigeon rights.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Working 9-5 (well, Monday to Wednesday at least)
Well, it's been a whirlwind few weeks, with a return to (part-time) work meaning that I'm trying to fit in all my TV viewing into just two weekdays*.
I was a bit nervous about the return to the office, but so far, so good. My favourite part (so far) is that when I want a chocolate digestive, I don't have to eat it with my head in a cupboard to prevent other people present from throwing a screaming tantrum until they get some too. Apart from Clive in accounts, but he's a dick.
I also like the fact that lunch generally doesn't take 20 minutes to clean up, and I rarely have to pick porridge out of anyone's hair. Having said that, I haven't actually seen my objectives yet. I will let you know if they are more oat-based than expected.
What I'm not such a big fan of is the fact that over the last two years (pre-maternity wear), clearly there's something wrong with the Ikea wardrobe in our bedroom, as it appears to have slightly shrunk all of my clothes. Nothing quite fits properly anymore, and most meetings have an air of frisson as each colleague is wondering which one of my buttons is going to pop first. It would almost certainly take someone's eye out. Clive from accounts has started wearing safety goggles.
TheBloke (TM) suggested that maybe it wasn't a faulty wardrobe, but may have something to do with the last twelve months of covert biscuit eating. This is why he now walks with a limp.
* I don't actually do this, but TheBloke (TM) swears that looking after a baby all day basically involves me watching TV and ignoring her. This is the main reason he hasn't had sex for the last 18 months. With me at least.
Friday, October 04, 2013
Blaise of glory
As you may have gathered from previous posts, I was a bit of a swot at school. One of the highlights of this time of year was cracking the spine of a new academic diary. This diary would be used - obviously - to catalogue homework, each item being dutifully ticked off in a different colour once complete. (And sometimes written in, just for the purpose of ticking it off.)
These academic diaries always came to me courtesy of my parents. I think they were from Mrs Nunn, but I can't be sure, because both of them worked in education, and all we know for sure is that one of them was a big fat thief who raided their workplace's stationery cupboard in order to purloin one whole academic year diary for me each year for me to swottily note down my prep. No wonder the country's in deficit.
These diaries were unremarkable. Churned out for Leicester county council, they were crammed full ofuseless useful information you might need, such as councillors' phone numbers and school term dates which bore absolutely no relation to my own.
They had bank holidays noted, but were in no way religious - no religious festivals (other than Christmas, Easter and perhaps All Saints' Day) were noted.
Apart from one.
Every year, without fail, the county council diary would mark February 3rd as St Blaise's Day - Patron Saint of Sore Throats.
Why this information was vital (on an annual basis) to the people who worked for Leicester County Council, I have never known, and I have always wondered. I liked to imagine some sort of East Midlands sect gathering to perform a hooded ceremony involving some scarves and a packet of Lockets.
And if anyone ever says to me, "Yes, do come to our party on 3 February," I always stop for a second and say, "Oh, that date rings a bell. Let me think... Oh no, that's fine, I am free. It's just that day is St Blaise's Day - Patron Saint of Sore Throats. You know."
I don't get invited to many parties. In February or otherwise.
These academic diaries always came to me courtesy of my parents. I think they were from Mrs Nunn, but I can't be sure, because both of them worked in education, and all we know for sure is that one of them was a big fat thief who raided their workplace's stationery cupboard in order to purloin one whole academic year diary for me each year for me to swottily note down my prep. No wonder the country's in deficit.
These diaries were unremarkable. Churned out for Leicester county council, they were crammed full of
They had bank holidays noted, but were in no way religious - no religious festivals (other than Christmas, Easter and perhaps All Saints' Day) were noted.
Apart from one.
Every year, without fail, the county council diary would mark February 3rd as St Blaise's Day - Patron Saint of Sore Throats.
Why this information was vital (on an annual basis) to the people who worked for Leicester County Council, I have never known, and I have always wondered. I liked to imagine some sort of East Midlands sect gathering to perform a hooded ceremony involving some scarves and a packet of Lockets.
And if anyone ever says to me, "Yes, do come to our party on 3 February," I always stop for a second and say, "Oh, that date rings a bell. Let me think... Oh no, that's fine, I am free. It's just that day is St Blaise's Day - Patron Saint of Sore Throats. You know."
I don't get invited to many parties. In February or otherwise.
Monday, September 30, 2013
The Very Hungry Caterpillar cupcake birthday cake
I was generally an able student at school. I was never gifted, but I did well in most subjects. I leaned heavily towards the arts rather than the sciences, but even most sciences, I did OK generally. Apart from Chemistry. My loathing of Chemistry, if I'm honest, came from the fact I just didn't get it. I was bad-ish at Maths, but if I concentrated - eventually - I'd get there. With Chemistry, I could even see the stupid people in the room would understand a concept long before I did.
Now I'm older, wiser and fully Myers-Briggsed up, I understand that the reason I struggled with Chemistry was partly because I am unwilling to entertain concepts without practical application. And of course, yes, Chemistry has practical applications - but generally not at GCSE level. We were told by our Chemistry teacher, "Valency is all about hooks. But not actual hooks. There are no actual hooks. Now you have to learn how many imaginary hooks each of these imaginary things doesn't have. Understand?"
I mean, if I wanted to learn about imaginary things, I'd have taken Religious Studies.
So - other things I was terrible at: PE (I have never yet understood the notion of getting out of breath and sweaty for fun), Art (Mr Nunn was regularly bribed to "help" with my art homework) and Design, which was our school's name for woodwork. Basically, I was rubbish at almost anything that involved co-ordination.
Which is why - long story short - I'm exceptionally proud of the birthday cake I made recently for the baby, who turned one a couple of weeks ago. I will now do a long and boring post about how I created the Very Hungry Caterpillar birthday cake, and then I will smugly pin it to Pinterest, until someone points out that it would be more suited at a KillMe site.
I would like to say that I chose to do this cake because The Very Hungry Caterpillar is one of the baby's favourite books. This is true. But actually I chose to do the cake because it looked relatively easy. I then hurriedly bought a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, which she had never seen before in her little life, and read it to her ad nauseam in time for it to become one of her favourite books. I am a terrible parent.
Also, because I would never make it as a food blogger because I forget to take photos, plus most of my cakes look a bit wonky, there will be huge stages missing. Sorry.
First of all - the finished article, which actually I only have photos of because party guests remembered to take photos of it. I told you I was crap.
So, first I made a batch of chocolate cupcakes. I used the Hummingbird Bakery's base, but I guess any chocolate cupcake would do. I used chocolate to give an undertone of brown, as per the picture of the Very Hungry Caterpillar below. There's something weird going on with my fan oven, and all my cupcakes end up with tilted tops. Luckily, that's what a knife and a shitload of frosting are for.
Now I'm older, wiser and fully Myers-Briggsed up, I understand that the reason I struggled with Chemistry was partly because I am unwilling to entertain concepts without practical application. And of course, yes, Chemistry has practical applications - but generally not at GCSE level. We were told by our Chemistry teacher, "Valency is all about hooks. But not actual hooks. There are no actual hooks. Now you have to learn how many imaginary hooks each of these imaginary things doesn't have. Understand?"
I mean, if I wanted to learn about imaginary things, I'd have taken Religious Studies.
So - other things I was terrible at: PE (I have never yet understood the notion of getting out of breath and sweaty for fun), Art (Mr Nunn was regularly bribed to "help" with my art homework) and Design, which was our school's name for woodwork. Basically, I was rubbish at almost anything that involved co-ordination.
Which is why - long story short - I'm exceptionally proud of the birthday cake I made recently for the baby, who turned one a couple of weeks ago. I will now do a long and boring post about how I created the Very Hungry Caterpillar birthday cake, and then I will smugly pin it to Pinterest, until someone points out that it would be more suited at a KillMe site.
I would like to say that I chose to do this cake because The Very Hungry Caterpillar is one of the baby's favourite books. This is true. But actually I chose to do the cake because it looked relatively easy. I then hurriedly bought a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, which she had never seen before in her little life, and read it to her ad nauseam in time for it to become one of her favourite books. I am a terrible parent.
Also, because I would never make it as a food blogger because I forget to take photos, plus most of my cakes look a bit wonky, there will be huge stages missing. Sorry.
First of all - the finished article, which actually I only have photos of because party guests remembered to take photos of it. I told you I was crap.
 |
| The cake. I'm going to tell you how I made this. |
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| This is what I was aiming for |
I used gold foil cupcake cases, because I wanted it to look like the yellow outline of the caterpillar's body. I got them on eBay. I assume they weren't second hand.
Cupcakes made, now it was time for some bright green frosting. I bought some of that Wilton green colour gel. It's good stuff, but you'll need to wear gloves. Two weeks later, something in my kitchen still has green food colouring on it somewhere, and whenever I touch it, I end up with vibrantly coloured hands for the next two days. It's very odd.
I used a standard buttercream recipe because I find the Hummingbird Bakery's a little bit too runny for successful piping. I added the horrendous colouring, some peppermint essence, and stuck the whole load in the fridge overnight.
Don't do that. That was a mistake. The next morning (the day of the party), the icing was solid and nowhere near the consistency needed for piping. I ended up microwaving it to warm it up, which actually worked OK, but could have been a complete disaster. I used a 1M Wilton icing tip, did a dot of icing in the middle of the cake, then a clockwise swirl, recovering the initial dot. They looked OK. For me.
So, next I made a sponge. I had bought a small cake tin with a loose base - something like this (but again, I got mine on eBay). It was hard to find a recipe for such a small sponge. I used this one and whilst it tasted fine, I found it needed almost twice as long in the oven as the recipe suggested. Weird, because the quantities were correct for that size tin. Hey ho.
Next, I used two 12 inch cake boards. Isn't it odd that we still use inches so much for baking? I would never normally favour the inch over the centimetre. But there we go. I glued them together. Then sellotaped them. Then covered the whole freaking lot in white icing (which I had bought - ready to roll. I'm not a masochist). This was a fucking disaster. I tried rolling it out on an iced surface first, and it fell apart as soon as I tried to move it. The next try stuck to the table and I had to start again. Then - finally - I decided to roll it out on the cake boards themselves, and that seemed to work OK. I mean, yes it looked a bit shit in places, but isn't that the point of a homemade cake?
Then I iced a message onto the white icing. I bought this icing kit, which came with a variety of nozzles, which worked quite well - though to be honest, you're never going to eat the icing covering a cake board, so I could have used a felt tip. I marked out the message with a toothpick on the icing first. I had to redo it originally because my initial writing was too small for the thickness of the icing.
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| DO NOT TALK TO ME. I HAVE A KNIFE. |
After this, I had to ice the caterpillar's head. I bought Tesco's bright red, ready-to-roll icing. I rolled it out flat, stuck a bit of leftover buttercream all around the sponge (to make the icing stick) and then draped it over the sponge and cut off the extra bits. It was easier than I thought it would be, though from this candid photo, you can see I'm a tiny bit stressed / pissed off / a tad fat.
The rest of it was mostly an assembly job, placing the cupcakes to look like a caterpillar's body. Mr Nunn helped colour some leftover white icing to make the sun, the feet and the eyes and nose (the colouring basically involved adding a few drops of food colouring to the icing and kneading until mixed). Leftover red icing was used to make the antennae.
And that's it. Simple, eh? (FUCK OFF.)
.JPG) |
| My very soul is covered in icing sugar. |
For the final presentation, I put a slice of watermelon (complete with hole) next to the caterpillar, to give it that Eric Carle look (see top photo).
Basically I am a genius. I would say, "hire me to make you one" but I don't think I could go through that again. Ever. Next year she's having a Tesco Value Swiss roll with a number 2 candle stuck in it, and she can be grateful.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Next steps
OK, let's assume you've made it this far. Your baby is about 4 months old and - whilst still liking to mix things up occasionally - probably doesn't scream randomly for about 40% of the day anymore. It can hold its fat little head up without it flopping all over its neck. Life is good.
Now what?
Here are the items that got us through the next few months.
A Jumperoo These are stupidly expensive at about £100. Even second-hand, they seem to go for about £50. So it's an investment. But believe me, an investment that will pay off. They are basically a giant contained baby bouncer (but not a walker) with music and lights and dangly things to pull. We bought ours on the recommendation of a friend, and it's been worth every penny. When we went away to South Africa for a couple of weeks, the baby actually mourned her Jumperoo and tried to substitute by jumping up and down on the laps of everyone who'd hold her. When we came home, we popped her in it, and despite her jetlag, she literally jumped up and down for joy for a solid 30 minutes. Even better, once they start crawling / walking / generally making life difficult for you, the Jumperoo acts as a sort of baby prison you can pop them in whilst they go vacant in front of CBeebies. Because every time your baby moves, it will play an irritating selection of songs, you can hear that your baby is still alive whilst you're in the garden drinking vodka. I mean, putting laundry away.
The downside is that unless you live in a mansion, they will probably take up at least 40% of your living room. Our living room is quite small, and actually (after the sofa) it's the largest piece of furniture we own. It's still worth it.
An iPad OK, OK, I suppose strictly speaking this has to go in the "nice to have" rather than "need to have" category. To further justify this really quite expensive purchase, I used it from her birth, and before:
- Maternity leave: listening to digital radio whilst drifting off into a snoozy stupor for most of the day.
- Labour: used it to track contractions, and then TheBloke (TM) comandeered it to play an Angry Birds marathon for the next 24 hours. Twat.
- Midnight breastfeeding: downloading sitcoms and The Great British Bake Off to watch in the middle of the night. To this date I can't look at a shortcrust pastry without lactating.
- Once the baby was about 3 months old: simple apps that she enjoys. Our favourites have been the dodgily-named Baby Finger, the irritating but popular Giggle Gang (complete with one female character, who of course is pink) and Grindr. Not really. It's Goodnight Moon.
The iPad is also handy as it works as a quick "to hand" camera and video camera when she does something cute (or something embarrassing that might earn us £250 on You've Been Framed).
It's also great if you have friends and family with an iPad, as their Facetime app means that she can irritate Grandma and Grandad from a distance of about 150 miles. In fact, sometimes I leave the iPad propped up, pop the baby in front of Grandma and Grandad on Facetime, go to the pub and let them babysit for a couple of hours*.
An outdoor picnic blanket It's been a lovely summer this year, and for most of the time, crawling straight on the grass hasn't been a problem. But being cooped up in the house all day is rubbish and if the grass is wet but the weather is warm, this can be the difference between creating a bald patch for yourself through repeated hair-pulling and actually having a decent afternoon. Ours was about a fiver from Tesco. We ordered it in grey, it arrived in pink. What can you do?
* Social Services - I don't actually do this. I go down the dogs.
Now what?
Here are the items that got us through the next few months.
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| Just noticed this has been reduced by about £50 since we bought. Twats. |
The downside is that unless you live in a mansion, they will probably take up at least 40% of your living room. Our living room is quite small, and actually (after the sofa) it's the largest piece of furniture we own. It's still worth it.
An iPad OK, OK, I suppose strictly speaking this has to go in the "nice to have" rather than "need to have" category. To further justify this really quite expensive purchase, I used it from her birth, and before:- Maternity leave: listening to digital radio whilst drifting off into a snoozy stupor for most of the day.
- Labour: used it to track contractions, and then TheBloke (TM) comandeered it to play an Angry Birds marathon for the next 24 hours. Twat.
- Midnight breastfeeding: downloading sitcoms and The Great British Bake Off to watch in the middle of the night. To this date I can't look at a shortcrust pastry without lactating.
- Once the baby was about 3 months old: simple apps that she enjoys. Our favourites have been the dodgily-named Baby Finger, the irritating but popular Giggle Gang (complete with one female character, who of course is pink) and Grindr. Not really. It's Goodnight Moon.
The iPad is also handy as it works as a quick "to hand" camera and video camera when she does something cute (or something embarrassing that might earn us £250 on You've Been Framed).
It's also great if you have friends and family with an iPad, as their Facetime app means that she can irritate Grandma and Grandad from a distance of about 150 miles. In fact, sometimes I leave the iPad propped up, pop the baby in front of Grandma and Grandad on Facetime, go to the pub and let them babysit for a couple of hours*.
An outdoor picnic blanket It's been a lovely summer this year, and for most of the time, crawling straight on the grass hasn't been a problem. But being cooped up in the house all day is rubbish and if the grass is wet but the weather is warm, this can be the difference between creating a bald patch for yourself through repeated hair-pulling and actually having a decent afternoon. Ours was about a fiver from Tesco. We ordered it in grey, it arrived in pink. What can you do?
* Social Services - I don't actually do this. I go down the dogs.
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
Elegy for blackberries
The blackberries are almost finished in the garden. This makes me disproportionately sad. This is especially ridiculous because until this year, I didn't even realise we had blackberries in the garden, let alone mourn their passing. But this summer, at home with the baby, picking blackberries has been one of our daily activities. And it's coming to an end. As is my lovely year at home.
I remember feeling a similar thing when I left school. An A-level paper re-mark meant I took an unplanned year out between school and university. I took a job at a local firm to waste time, kill a year, before I could join my friends at uni and my adventure could start. That May, I remember having lunch with my colleagues in the beer garden of the local pub, and laughing so hard my stomach hurt. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted that the horse chestnuts were already green and prickly. A whole school year had almost passed. And I suddenly realised that this was my adventure. When I did finally head off to uni in October, it was my new friends I missed, my colleagues, my adventure.
Anyway, I thought I'd continue with my Big List of Useful Baby Shit. Not literally shit. You will have enough of that anyway. And I haven't found a use for it yet.
So - today - Things to do with your baby
First off, don't worry. This isn't some Godawful Pinterest board where I will be recommending you make organic rainbow spaghetti in sensory tubs. If you have enough time to do that, you've probably forgotten to feed the child or change your own underpants. Double check, just in case.
This is just some stuff that got me through those first few months.
I had an emergency C-section, after full labour. The technical medical term for how you feel after that is "fucking shit". Now add to that a newborn that you know absolutely nothing about, plus the fact that the little screamy thing won't feed properly and won't gain weight. Oh, and you're not allowed to drive, and walking really fucking hurts. You're bleeding like a stuck pig and buses are out of the question because you can't lift the weight of the buggy up steps.
Honestly, I'd like to recommend stuff to do in this first 6-week period before you're allowed to drive again. From memory, I sang a lot of Carpenters songs to the baby (seemed to stop her crying) and counted the minutes until TheBloke (TM) came home. I also watched a lot of ER repeats (with subtitles as the crying tended to drown out the dialogue). I told myself it was good for the baby as she might become a doctor. As an extra bonus, I can now diagnose a sub-cranial haematoma at 30 paces. The rest of my day was spent spunking tit juice into a milking machine. If it was a good day, only one of us would be crying when TheBloke (TM) arrived home.
The good news is, nature is kind/spiteful, so you will actually block out all of the horrific memories of the first few weeks.
Once you can drive / walk a reasonable distance, here are my tips:
1. Go to your local children's centre and register. They will hand you a badly-laid out leaflet of all the classes they run for free! FREE! Yes, most of them will have a waiting list longer than your local orthopaedic surgeon, plus anyone referred by Social Services will automatically skip the queue ahead of you (apparently families with a history of child abuse need to learn nursery rhymes more than the rest of us do) but some of them are worth doing.
2. Don't bother with baby massage. All you will do is make your baby slimy with olive oil, nearly drop them on the floor, and then look at the half-bottle of oil you have left, and nine months down the line wonder if it's OK to put it in a salad.
3. Find a baby music class. We actually did this through the children's centre, and later paid for private sessions. It was brilliant. Not such much for the "there and then" (babies get a bit overwhelmed), but to give you a lot of new rhymes and songs to do at home. Sometimes even you will have had enough of the Carpenters' version of "Ticket To Ride". Unthinkable, I know.
4. If you did NCT, try and meet up with people fairly regularly. If you're lucky (I was) they will be generally nice, normal people. If you're unlucky and they're all freaks, at least you get to look at other babies the same age, and think about how much cleverer/taller/fatter/uglier your own baby is. On a serious note, it was through the NCT friends I made that I realised our baby wasn't gaining weight like she should have been in the first few weeks.
5. The Breastfeeding Cafe. I resisted this for ages. Despite really (and I mean really) struggling with breastfeeding, I could not fathom wanting to go to talk to other people about it. I had done my research online. I had read pretty much everything La Leche League had published. I could be told nothing new. The last thing I wanted to do was to go and sit in a hippy cafe where someone would hold a knitted tit and tell me what I was doing wrong.
Well, more so I could say "I tried everything" before giving up breastfeeding, I did go along to the Breastfeeding Cafe, and it was nothing like I thought it would be. (Well, apart from the fact they did have a knitted tit, but what can you do?). There were free cakes, nice people (all terribly middle-class, because let's face it, the Jeremy Kyle ones are straight on the SMA), and yes, whilst I genuinely had done my research and wasn't told anything new in terms of facts, what I did get (and honestly, what I didn't know that I needed) was a big bucketload of emotional support. But not in a drippy "let's hold hands and feel each other's energy" way. In a, "Here, let me hold your baby. Get yourself a cup of tea and some cake and actually go to the toilet for the first time today" way. It was amazing. I finally stopped breastfeeding about two weeks ago.
6. Until the baby is at least 3 months old, it doesn't really know which way is up, let alone whether or not you're stimulating it appropriately with Lamaze toys. It could not give the tiniest fuck if you are lying it on the floor of your living room, or treating it to an African safari. Believe me, I did both, and she's never mentioned either. Feed it, clean it, don't let it cry for too long, and you're probably doing OK.
As I finish writing this, on what is - statistically - likely to be one of the very last hot drowsy days of summer, the baby is with the childminder for her first "settling in" period. Again, the baby couldn't give the tiniest fuck. So long as she gets fed. Of course it's important she settles in.
But a part of me wishes she were here, with me, and that we were together in the garden, picking fat blackberries.
I remember feeling a similar thing when I left school. An A-level paper re-mark meant I took an unplanned year out between school and university. I took a job at a local firm to waste time, kill a year, before I could join my friends at uni and my adventure could start. That May, I remember having lunch with my colleagues in the beer garden of the local pub, and laughing so hard my stomach hurt. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted that the horse chestnuts were already green and prickly. A whole school year had almost passed. And I suddenly realised that this was my adventure. When I did finally head off to uni in October, it was my new friends I missed, my colleagues, my adventure.
Anyway, I thought I'd continue with my Big List of Useful Baby Shit. Not literally shit. You will have enough of that anyway. And I haven't found a use for it yet.
So - today - Things to do with your baby
First off, don't worry. This isn't some Godawful Pinterest board where I will be recommending you make organic rainbow spaghetti in sensory tubs. If you have enough time to do that, you've probably forgotten to feed the child or change your own underpants. Double check, just in case.
This is just some stuff that got me through those first few months.
I had an emergency C-section, after full labour. The technical medical term for how you feel after that is "fucking shit". Now add to that a newborn that you know absolutely nothing about, plus the fact that the little screamy thing won't feed properly and won't gain weight. Oh, and you're not allowed to drive, and walking really fucking hurts. You're bleeding like a stuck pig and buses are out of the question because you can't lift the weight of the buggy up steps.
Honestly, I'd like to recommend stuff to do in this first 6-week period before you're allowed to drive again. From memory, I sang a lot of Carpenters songs to the baby (seemed to stop her crying) and counted the minutes until TheBloke (TM) came home. I also watched a lot of ER repeats (with subtitles as the crying tended to drown out the dialogue). I told myself it was good for the baby as she might become a doctor. As an extra bonus, I can now diagnose a sub-cranial haematoma at 30 paces. The rest of my day was spent spunking tit juice into a milking machine. If it was a good day, only one of us would be crying when TheBloke (TM) arrived home.
The good news is, nature is kind/spiteful, so you will actually block out all of the horrific memories of the first few weeks.
Once you can drive / walk a reasonable distance, here are my tips:
1. Go to your local children's centre and register. They will hand you a badly-laid out leaflet of all the classes they run for free! FREE! Yes, most of them will have a waiting list longer than your local orthopaedic surgeon, plus anyone referred by Social Services will automatically skip the queue ahead of you (apparently families with a history of child abuse need to learn nursery rhymes more than the rest of us do) but some of them are worth doing.
2. Don't bother with baby massage. All you will do is make your baby slimy with olive oil, nearly drop them on the floor, and then look at the half-bottle of oil you have left, and nine months down the line wonder if it's OK to put it in a salad.
3. Find a baby music class. We actually did this through the children's centre, and later paid for private sessions. It was brilliant. Not such much for the "there and then" (babies get a bit overwhelmed), but to give you a lot of new rhymes and songs to do at home. Sometimes even you will have had enough of the Carpenters' version of "Ticket To Ride". Unthinkable, I know.
4. If you did NCT, try and meet up with people fairly regularly. If you're lucky (I was) they will be generally nice, normal people. If you're unlucky and they're all freaks, at least you get to look at other babies the same age, and think about how much cleverer/taller/fatter/uglier your own baby is. On a serious note, it was through the NCT friends I made that I realised our baby wasn't gaining weight like she should have been in the first few weeks.
5. The Breastfeeding Cafe. I resisted this for ages. Despite really (and I mean really) struggling with breastfeeding, I could not fathom wanting to go to talk to other people about it. I had done my research online. I had read pretty much everything La Leche League had published. I could be told nothing new. The last thing I wanted to do was to go and sit in a hippy cafe where someone would hold a knitted tit and tell me what I was doing wrong.
Well, more so I could say "I tried everything" before giving up breastfeeding, I did go along to the Breastfeeding Cafe, and it was nothing like I thought it would be. (Well, apart from the fact they did have a knitted tit, but what can you do?). There were free cakes, nice people (all terribly middle-class, because let's face it, the Jeremy Kyle ones are straight on the SMA), and yes, whilst I genuinely had done my research and wasn't told anything new in terms of facts, what I did get (and honestly, what I didn't know that I needed) was a big bucketload of emotional support. But not in a drippy "let's hold hands and feel each other's energy" way. In a, "Here, let me hold your baby. Get yourself a cup of tea and some cake and actually go to the toilet for the first time today" way. It was amazing. I finally stopped breastfeeding about two weeks ago.
6. Until the baby is at least 3 months old, it doesn't really know which way is up, let alone whether or not you're stimulating it appropriately with Lamaze toys. It could not give the tiniest fuck if you are lying it on the floor of your living room, or treating it to an African safari. Believe me, I did both, and she's never mentioned either. Feed it, clean it, don't let it cry for too long, and you're probably doing OK.
As I finish writing this, on what is - statistically - likely to be one of the very last hot drowsy days of summer, the baby is with the childminder for her first "settling in" period. Again, the baby couldn't give the tiniest fuck. So long as she gets fed. Of course it's important she settles in.But a part of me wishes she were here, with me, and that we were together in the garden, picking fat blackberries.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Newborn necessities
It's easy to be critical. And also, I'm actually very naturally talented at it. But - hand on heart - there are a few baby items that were worth their... well, not weight in gold, that would be ridiculous... but I'd definitely have swapped Monty Cat for them, if push came to shove.
So, here we go. Stuff What We Found Dead Useful.
A tumble dryer Or a "tumbler dryer" as Mrs Nunn insists on calling them. This one is non-negotiable. I would say this is the single most useful thing we bought prior to the baby's arrival. It arrived about a month before she did - previously we had survived with a combination of indoor airers, occasional garden drying, and running an indoor dehumidifier pretty much constantly. It was fine, because there were only two of us, and TheBloke (TM) wears his pants and socks for at least a week before changing them.
I was sceptical about how much laundry a baby would create. I mean, they can stay in their babygro pretty much indefinitely, surely? And they're only drinking milk, so it's not like they're going to get beetroot down their front. Well, that is all correct. But tiny babies poo constantly, poo spitefully and poo bright yellow. They also vom, and delight in weeing everywhere as soon as you take their nappy off. They also do not restrict their pooing and vomming activity to their own clothes. They like to share. So you will run your washing machine at least once a day for the first three months. Your energy bill will triple.
In the first 16 weeks you will get through at least three bottles of Vanish stain remover. Your hands will be cracked and chapped from rinsing poo in cold water, and then washing your hands in hot water, and then covering them in antibacterial gel. You will begin to not bother changing the baby's outfit if the spot of poo is smaller than your little fingernail. I know you don't think this is true right now, but it will be. It will be.
A tumble dryer doesn't solve this problem, but it makes your house less depressing without dripping puddles of shit-stained laundry hanging from every surface, and a constant wailing in the background. Sometimes it'll be the baby. Sometimes it'll be you.
A one-month free Which? magazine trial This one is actually worth doing a month or so before the baby is due. We used it a lot to help us decide everything from which brand of tumble dryer to buy (Bosch) to which baby monitor is most highly recommended to what baby buggy would suit our needs best (don't be fooled - they all cost the price of a second hand car and are all fucking awful). You can cancel it without obligation after a month. We've actually kept it, and generally get our £10 monthly subscription's worth out of it.
A playmat Something simple is fine. We got ours for about £15 from Argos (TheBloke (TM)'s favourite shop). Other friends had a range of all-singing, all-dancing playmats. Basically, it comes down to the issue that you're leaving your baby lying on the floor whilst you go for a wee. The fact that you're leaving the baby lying on something with primary colours and shiny bits just assuages your guilt slightly. You are a terrible parent. How dare you go to the toilet? You'll only use it for a maximum of six months (as soon as they can roll, it's game over for the playmat), but it's nice whilst it lasts.
A baby bath We were lent one of these, and it was the absolute highlight of the day for all of us. Not all babies like baths. Ours did, and splashing Daddy was her (and my) favourite part of the day. It would stop her crying. It would make her laugh. It would make me laugh. It would make TheBloke (TM) soggy. It was a sad day when she grew out of it. Even if your baby doesn't like baths, it will still need one occasionally, and easier to do it on something that can go on a tabletop rather than trying to bath them in the grown-up bath.
A mobile The first few weeks were hell. The worst thing was, she'd cry whenever I put her down. Even if she was asleep and I was super careful, lying her down an atom at a time, her Spidey Sense would kick in, she'd wake up and immediately start bawling. If I wasn't holding her and she wasn't asleep, she would be crying. I even had to do a poo whilst holding her. This was fine until I realised I needed to wipe. Don't tell anyone, but at one point, I placed her in the bathroom sink, just to have a hand free. Unsurprisingly, being placed into a cold enamel sink woke her up. This mobile was a revelation. It wasn't cheap, but she would watch it delightedly from about six weeks of age for at least twenty minutes. Long enough for me to have a shower, or to have sex twice. I guarantee at some point you will work out exactly how much you would be willing to pay for a nice long shower. (You might also work out exactly how much you might be willing to be paid for sex. This is probably a separate issue.) And I also guarantee it will be at least £50 (the shower, not the sex).
As the baby got more grabby at about four months, we had to lower the cot bed, as the mobile is
not designed for little fingers. And unfortunately, once she learned to sit up, whilst she's still entertained by it, it's not really safe to leave her alone with it, in case she pulls off a part and puts it in her mouth. The one we got though had a detachable music part, meaning we can still play the songs, even though the entertaining giraffe is consigned to a cupboard.
I might do more of these. If they're useful. Or if they're not. Especially if they're not. I like to Plog spitefully.
So, here we go. Stuff What We Found Dead Useful.
 |
| Buy one of these |
 |
| Buy a lot of this. |
In the first 16 weeks you will get through at least three bottles of Vanish stain remover. Your hands will be cracked and chapped from rinsing poo in cold water, and then washing your hands in hot water, and then covering them in antibacterial gel. You will begin to not bother changing the baby's outfit if the spot of poo is smaller than your little fingernail. I know you don't think this is true right now, but it will be. It will be.
A tumble dryer doesn't solve this problem, but it makes your house less depressing without dripping puddles of shit-stained laundry hanging from every surface, and a constant wailing in the background. Sometimes it'll be the baby. Sometimes it'll be you.
A one-month free Which? magazine trial This one is actually worth doing a month or so before the baby is due. We used it a lot to help us decide everything from which brand of tumble dryer to buy (Bosch) to which baby monitor is most highly recommended to what baby buggy would suit our needs best (don't be fooled - they all cost the price of a second hand car and are all fucking awful). You can cancel it without obligation after a month. We've actually kept it, and generally get our £10 monthly subscription's worth out of it.
 |
| Buy this. |
 |
| Buy one of these. Not the baby though. That's ours. |
A baby bath We were lent one of these, and it was the absolute highlight of the day for all of us. Not all babies like baths. Ours did, and splashing Daddy was her (and my) favourite part of the day. It would stop her crying. It would make her laugh. It would make me laugh. It would make TheBloke (TM) soggy. It was a sad day when she grew out of it. Even if your baby doesn't like baths, it will still need one occasionally, and easier to do it on something that can go on a tabletop rather than trying to bath them in the grown-up bath.
A mobile The first few weeks were hell. The worst thing was, she'd cry whenever I put her down. Even if she was asleep and I was super careful, lying her down an atom at a time, her Spidey Sense would kick in, she'd wake up and immediately start bawling. If I wasn't holding her and she wasn't asleep, she would be crying. I even had to do a poo whilst holding her. This was fine until I realised I needed to wipe. Don't tell anyone, but at one point, I placed her in the bathroom sink, just to have a hand free. Unsurprisingly, being placed into a cold enamel sink woke her up. This mobile was a revelation. It wasn't cheap, but she would watch it delightedly from about six weeks of age for at least twenty minutes. Long enough for me to have a shower, or to have sex twice. I guarantee at some point you will work out exactly how much you would be willing to pay for a nice long shower. (You might also work out exactly how much you might be willing to be paid for sex. This is probably a separate issue.) And I also guarantee it will be at least £50 (the shower, not the sex). As the baby got more grabby at about four months, we had to lower the cot bed, as the mobile is
not designed for little fingers. And unfortunately, once she learned to sit up, whilst she's still entertained by it, it's not really safe to leave her alone with it, in case she pulls off a part and puts it in her mouth. The one we got though had a detachable music part, meaning we can still play the songs, even though the entertaining giraffe is consigned to a cupboard.
I might do more of these. If they're useful. Or if they're not. Especially if they're not. I like to Plog spitefully.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Newborn nonsense
My maternity leave officially ended this week. Thankfully, I have six weeks of accrued holiday left, so no massive rush to get back into the office. I did try and explain to TheBloke (TM) that now I was on holiday, not maternity leave, so technically I didn't have to look after the baby any more.
He looked at me with the same expression he does every morning when I try and convince him for the 137th day in a row that it's "Take your Daughter to Work Day".
The last 12 months have been a huge learning curve. From those early days of reading every baby manual on the market, to being something of a seasoned pro (read: blagger). We were very lucky and were lent a lot of baby stuff, so didn't have to buy huge amounts. Even so, there were things we used and things we absolutely didn't.
So here is my guide to things you absolutely do not need when you have a new baby.
A "top and tail" bowl. It wasn't until the baby was about two weeks old that I realised what this was supposed to be for. It's essentially a dish with two compartments for water and a shallow bit for a piece of cotton wool. It allows you to wash a baby's face and its arse with one bowl. You will literally never use this. What you (and any halfway sensible parent) will do is dip some cotton wool in the baby's bath water prior to adding baby wash, in order to wash their face (eyes, nose etc.). And dunk their arse in the bath itself. If its arse is particularly icky, use a wet-wipe before putting the baby in the bath. It's hardly rocket science. If you think you might be the sort of person who wants to give a "mini bath" to their baby in between its daily bath, let me be the first to break it to you; you won't.
More than two bassinet fitted sheets. I bought four of these from John Lewis, in the certainty that motherhood would turn me into someone who changes bedding every two days. In reality, everything in your whole life is so godawful and overwhelming in those first few weeks, you can barely be bothered to peel off your own beshitted clothing, let alone change an already-clean sheet. The baby will refuse to sleep anywhere other than on you, so will not actually touch said sheet in order to necessitate its washing. On the offchance the baby does sleep in its basket (good baby), you will do laundry every two hours anyway. So if you do find yourself needing to wash the bassinet sheet, nothing remains in the laundry basket for longer than about half a morning. And then the bastard baby will spitefully grow out of its bassinet basket after about two months, leaving you with at least two completely unused - and unusable - John Lewis sheets.
Any type of expensive / irreplaceable teddy bear I was savvy about this. I was given a lovely teddy bear from The White Company when I left work to go on maternity leave; I carefully checked its washing instructions (machine washable). Once it became clear that the baby had formed a unbreakable bond with Toby Bear, I went out and bought another one, in case the original got lost. Twoby Bear currently lives in the spare room, hidden in a drawer, awaiting a Toby-related emergency. Don't tell the baby. The point is, whilst you might love the idea of your baby having the same Steiff teddy you had as a child, your baby will inevitably shit on, vomit on and chew your beloved bear. And you will resent them for it. Buy something cheap and machine washable. And buy a back-up.
A nasal aspirator When the baby got her first ever cold, yes, I felt sorry for her, but I was also massively grossed out. She had a lot of green snot and I just didn't feel I was the sort of person who wanted to be dealing with another human being's nasal excretions. So I wimped out and bought one of these. The idea is that you pop the little nozzle up your baby's nose, squeeze the bulb and out pops the green nastiness. What they leave out of their marketing campaigns is that - if this actually works (it usually doesn't), you've then got a bulb full of snot to deal with. Which is somehow even more revolting than if it was just lurking in the baby's nostril area. And, let me tell you, the resale value on these items is not good. (Anyone want to buy one? Slightly used. Comes with free snot.)
Tune in again soon for what you should actually buy.
He looked at me with the same expression he does every morning when I try and convince him for the 137th day in a row that it's "Take your Daughter to Work Day".
The last 12 months have been a huge learning curve. From those early days of reading every baby manual on the market, to being something of a seasoned pro (read: blagger). We were very lucky and were lent a lot of baby stuff, so didn't have to buy huge amounts. Even so, there were things we used and things we absolutely didn't.
So here is my guide to things you absolutely do not need when you have a new baby.
 |
| Don't buy this. |
A "top and tail" bowl. It wasn't until the baby was about two weeks old that I realised what this was supposed to be for. It's essentially a dish with two compartments for water and a shallow bit for a piece of cotton wool. It allows you to wash a baby's face and its arse with one bowl. You will literally never use this. What you (and any halfway sensible parent) will do is dip some cotton wool in the baby's bath water prior to adding baby wash, in order to wash their face (eyes, nose etc.). And dunk their arse in the bath itself. If its arse is particularly icky, use a wet-wipe before putting the baby in the bath. It's hardly rocket science. If you think you might be the sort of person who wants to give a "mini bath" to their baby in between its daily bath, let me be the first to break it to you; you won't.
 |
| Don't buy more than one pack of these |
More than two bassinet fitted sheets. I bought four of these from John Lewis, in the certainty that motherhood would turn me into someone who changes bedding every two days. In reality, everything in your whole life is so godawful and overwhelming in those first few weeks, you can barely be bothered to peel off your own beshitted clothing, let alone change an already-clean sheet. The baby will refuse to sleep anywhere other than on you, so will not actually touch said sheet in order to necessitate its washing. On the offchance the baby does sleep in its basket (good baby), you will do laundry every two hours anyway. So if you do find yourself needing to wash the bassinet sheet, nothing remains in the laundry basket for longer than about half a morning. And then the bastard baby will spitefully grow out of its bassinet basket after about two months, leaving you with at least two completely unused - and unusable - John Lewis sheets.
 |
| Don't buy this |
 |
| Don't buy one of these |
A nasal aspirator When the baby got her first ever cold, yes, I felt sorry for her, but I was also massively grossed out. She had a lot of green snot and I just didn't feel I was the sort of person who wanted to be dealing with another human being's nasal excretions. So I wimped out and bought one of these. The idea is that you pop the little nozzle up your baby's nose, squeeze the bulb and out pops the green nastiness. What they leave out of their marketing campaigns is that - if this actually works (it usually doesn't), you've then got a bulb full of snot to deal with. Which is somehow even more revolting than if it was just lurking in the baby's nostril area. And, let me tell you, the resale value on these items is not good. (Anyone want to buy one? Slightly used. Comes with free snot.)
Tune in again soon for what you should actually buy.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
EABE - the review
Ploggers, I admire you. I'm not sure how you've survived. I promised you I would tell you all about the Eighth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza (EABE) and I've kept you waiting all this time. It's like an end-of-season cliffhanger, but with more burgers.
So - essentially - it was lovely. Dean was sadly unable to join us this year, but our baby joined us for the first time, thus making the numbers up. I mean, technically she was there last year, but she was very much eating food second hand.
So yes, there were burgers. Yes, there were sausages. Of course there was plastic cheese. And for the first time this year, we had professionally-branded cupcakes, made by the fantastic Pip's Puds. If you live in the Midlands, I highly recommend her. In fact, despite never actually having met her, I'm wondering if I can twist her arm and give me the recipe for her lemon cupcake. A lighter lemon sponge I have never tasted. If you don't live in the Midlands, I still highly recommend her. Perhaps you could make a special trip. Or convince her to move to where you live. Go on. Give it a try. But not to the extent she takes out a restraining order against you. I very much disapprove of my readers actually stalking bakers. Perhaps I digress.
After lunch, we played an exciting round of "Mr Sheep Puppet is going to nibble your toes", which perturbed some of the guests more than the others (Erica, bless her, is still having nightmares). Then we finished with a game of "TheBloke (TM) will chase you into the other room and threaten to tickle you". This was especially funny as the baby has just learned to crawl, and - excitably - was trying to keep up by crawling into each room, just as the more mobile EABE members were turning 180 degrees and running back in the other direction. Seeing the baby's efforts to keep up was like watching an enthusiastic, patient but gradually-tiring tortoise.
The weather was good, the food was good, the company was good, the cupcakes were good. Overall EABE score - 10/10.
See you all next year for the NABE.
So - essentially - it was lovely. Dean was sadly unable to join us this year, but our baby joined us for the first time, thus making the numbers up. I mean, technically she was there last year, but she was very much eating food second hand.
So yes, there were burgers. Yes, there were sausages. Of course there was plastic cheese. And for the first time this year, we had professionally-branded cupcakes, made by the fantastic Pip's Puds. If you live in the Midlands, I highly recommend her. In fact, despite never actually having met her, I'm wondering if I can twist her arm and give me the recipe for her lemon cupcake. A lighter lemon sponge I have never tasted. If you don't live in the Midlands, I still highly recommend her. Perhaps you could make a special trip. Or convince her to move to where you live. Go on. Give it a try. But not to the extent she takes out a restraining order against you. I very much disapprove of my readers actually stalking bakers. Perhaps I digress.
After lunch, we played an exciting round of "Mr Sheep Puppet is going to nibble your toes", which perturbed some of the guests more than the others (Erica, bless her, is still having nightmares). Then we finished with a game of "TheBloke (TM) will chase you into the other room and threaten to tickle you". This was especially funny as the baby has just learned to crawl, and - excitably - was trying to keep up by crawling into each room, just as the more mobile EABE members were turning 180 degrees and running back in the other direction. Seeing the baby's efforts to keep up was like watching an enthusiastic, patient but gradually-tiring tortoise.
The weather was good, the food was good, the company was good, the cupcakes were good. Overall EABE score - 10/10.See you all next year for the NABE.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Whipping boy
So, yesterday - out of the blue - I was contacted by an ITV researcher who had read my Plog, and was looking to interview someone about their negative experience of maternity services at Whipps Cross hospital.
See, there is a report out today that is the equivalent of a "could do better" from the headteacher.
The researcher who approached me was very polite - but a) I did not want to be on TV b) I'm not available today anyway and c) news items are generally edited down to a soundbite or two, and I categorically did not want my 15 minutes of fame to be the sentence, "Yes, I shat myself. Twice." I already had visions of it going viral.
Besides which, it's a complex issue, and everyone has a different experience. Even within my small NCT group of 6 or so who delivered at Whipps Cross over the course of about a month, there is a vastly different experience - from those who said that staff could not have been more lovely, to the person (me) who was told 12 hours after a C-section, when I still had no feeling in my legs, "You need to get out of bed and stop being lazy.", to the person that would not hesitate to describe them all as a massive bunch of cunts.
I am glad the NHS is there. If I had unlimited resources, yes, I would probably go private, but giving birth privately costs around £20,000, so it's not like saying, "Oh, maybe we'll just not go out for a meal this month." £20,000 is unaffordable for the vast, vast majority, and (unlike in the USA) I haven't yet seen a private medical insurance policy that covers childbirth.
Yes, my experience of Whipps Cross was also "could do better" (though the birth itself - horrific as it was, was nowhere near as badly managed as when I got labyrinthitis and ended up lying on the corridor floor of Whipps Cross hospital maternity unit, throwing up into a bucket, because they said they had no beds. Two midwives stepped over me and a third told me to get up because the floor was dirty.).
But "could do better" is surely an improvement on no service at all. Already one local maternity hospital to us has closed.
The biggest problems I saw were understaffing, poor processes, yes, a lack of compassion from some of the midwives - and the fact that the "free food for patients" fruit, tea and biscuit stand just contained one lonely digestive. I would have taken a picture but I was in too much pain.
Oh, that and the shower floor was covered in blood. But that was partly my fault. Have you ever tried to take your pants off without bending in half or lifting your legs? Have a go. Go on. Right now. Now imagine you're bleeding copiously from your foof. If you're a bloke, substitute "todger" for "foof".
Look - you've made a mess! Clean it up. Oh, you can't. Because you can't bend over.
The above two paragraphs are why I didn't think I'd make good TV viewing. I can't be trusted not to say "foof" on national television.
See, there is a report out today that is the equivalent of a "could do better" from the headteacher.
The researcher who approached me was very polite - but a) I did not want to be on TV b) I'm not available today anyway and c) news items are generally edited down to a soundbite or two, and I categorically did not want my 15 minutes of fame to be the sentence, "Yes, I shat myself. Twice." I already had visions of it going viral.
Besides which, it's a complex issue, and everyone has a different experience. Even within my small NCT group of 6 or so who delivered at Whipps Cross over the course of about a month, there is a vastly different experience - from those who said that staff could not have been more lovely, to the person (me) who was told 12 hours after a C-section, when I still had no feeling in my legs, "You need to get out of bed and stop being lazy.", to the person that would not hesitate to describe them all as a massive bunch of cunts.
I am glad the NHS is there. If I had unlimited resources, yes, I would probably go private, but giving birth privately costs around £20,000, so it's not like saying, "Oh, maybe we'll just not go out for a meal this month." £20,000 is unaffordable for the vast, vast majority, and (unlike in the USA) I haven't yet seen a private medical insurance policy that covers childbirth.
Yes, my experience of Whipps Cross was also "could do better" (though the birth itself - horrific as it was, was nowhere near as badly managed as when I got labyrinthitis and ended up lying on the corridor floor of Whipps Cross hospital maternity unit, throwing up into a bucket, because they said they had no beds. Two midwives stepped over me and a third told me to get up because the floor was dirty.).
But "could do better" is surely an improvement on no service at all. Already one local maternity hospital to us has closed.
The biggest problems I saw were understaffing, poor processes, yes, a lack of compassion from some of the midwives - and the fact that the "free food for patients" fruit, tea and biscuit stand just contained one lonely digestive. I would have taken a picture but I was in too much pain.
Oh, that and the shower floor was covered in blood. But that was partly my fault. Have you ever tried to take your pants off without bending in half or lifting your legs? Have a go. Go on. Right now. Now imagine you're bleeding copiously from your foof. If you're a bloke, substitute "todger" for "foof".
Look - you've made a mess! Clean it up. Oh, you can't. Because you can't bend over.
The above two paragraphs are why I didn't think I'd make good TV viewing. I can't be trusted not to say "foof" on national television.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
EABE - the build-up
Today is the day of our Eighth Annual Barbecue Extravaganza (EABE).
I am so excited that my knee is jiggling up and down in anticipation.
We have Pimms. We have lemonade. We have plastic cheese. All we need now is Erica* and the festivities can commence.
* Safety announcement: Erica - in this context - is my friend, not a literal barbecue ingredient. Please do not cook your Erica.
I am so excited that my knee is jiggling up and down in anticipation.
We have Pimms. We have lemonade. We have plastic cheese. All we need now is Erica* and the festivities can commence.
* Safety announcement: Erica - in this context - is my friend, not a literal barbecue ingredient. Please do not cook your Erica.
Tuesday, August 06, 2013
Commercial break
So yes, eagle-eyed viewers, I have sold out to da man. You may notice adverts now on the Plog. Hopefully they won't be intrusive or spoil your enjoyment.
It's interesting this ad thing; I get a certain amount of say a) where the ads appear and b) what type of ads are allowed - specifically I'm allowed to ban certain categories. I have so far banned:
- Weight loss
- Get rich quick
- Gambling
- Dating
- Political (after a friend told me an anti-Obamacare ad appeared on my site)
So it's a trial for now. And if it makes me £2 a month, I'll probably give up and remove them. If, however, I can retire from the proceeds, I guess I'll keep it up.
However, dear readers, here's how you can help me:
I'm not allowed to encourage you to click on the ads below. So don't. Don't click that flashing button. Don't do it...
It's interesting this ad thing; I get a certain amount of say a) where the ads appear and b) what type of ads are allowed - specifically I'm allowed to ban certain categories. I have so far banned:
- Weight loss
- Get rich quick
- Gambling
- Dating
- Political (after a friend told me an anti-Obamacare ad appeared on my site)
So it's a trial for now. And if it makes me £2 a month, I'll probably give up and remove them. If, however, I can retire from the proceeds, I guess I'll keep it up.
However, dear readers, here's how you can help me:
- If you find the ads distracting, let me know
- If you find the subject matter of ads offensive (or think that I would), let me know - it's quite easy to prevent irritating ones appearing
I'm not allowed to encourage you to click on the ads below. So don't. Don't click that flashing button. Don't do it...
Monday, August 05, 2013
Sheepish
Over the last ten months or so, I have become a sort of connoisseur (or connoisseuse if you must) of children's literature and television. Well, CBeebies, anyway. I may have given in to the magic glowing box, but fuck me if I'm letting her watch adverts pushing pink mermaids in bikinis and cupcake kitchens. I think I'd genuinely rather she experimented with cannabis than owned a Barbie.
I digress.
So, over the last ten months I have made a study of the type of things represented in children's media, and have analysed this on a distribution curve against their actual appearance in real life*.
Things that appear in baby's books and TV far more than in real life:
* Obviously I haven't actually done this. Most days I don't have enough time to have a shower.
I digress.
So, over the last ten months I have made a study of the type of things represented in children's media, and have analysed this on a distribution curve against their actual appearance in real life*.
Things that appear in baby's books and TV far more than in real life:
- Rainbows. On an average year, I probably see two. Children's television suggests that there's at least one every five minutes. And it almost always causes chaos, with the little twonks trying to find the end of it - with predictably unhilarious consequences. I'm looking at you, Mike the Knight.
- All types of farm animals. I have no idea why it's so important that children need to learn the different noises animals are supposed to make. Looking at the preponderance of animals in children's books and TV, you would imagine that understanding what sheep are and what noise they make is one of the fundamental building blocks of humanity.
- Justin Fletcher. If he ever dies or pulls a Jimmy Saville, CBeebies will go bankrupt overnight. This will mean nothing to non-parents. Basically, Justin Fletcher, aka Mr Tumble, aka Tiny Tumble, aka Timmy, aka Gigglebiz, aka Justin's House is on every single children's television programme. Originally he gave me the creeps, but I've warmed to him, simply because the baby will watch him with a delight normally reserved for when she gets a really good fistful of Monty Cat tail. The amount Justin is on television must surely lead babies to believe that he is our leader. I think we could actually do worse.
Things that appear in baby's books and TV far less than in real life:
- Mortgages
- Divorce
- Cold-callers
- Alcoholics
- Council tax
Therefore, I'm spotting a gap in the market. I'm off to CBeebies head office (which I'm sure is staffed entirely by Justin Fletchers) to pitch my new show. It's a cartoon featuring an alcoholic sheep, played by Justin Fletcher (stick to what you know), who tries to keep up with his mortgage and council tax payments by working as a cold-caller. The extra hours are having an impact on his marriage.
I think I'll call it Justin Fletcher the Alcoholic Sheep. I think it has a ring to it.
* Obviously I haven't actually done this. Most days I don't have enough time to have a shower.
Saturday, August 03, 2013
Germ warfare
TheBloke (TM) came home last night to be greeted by the words, "There's a dead pigeon on the lawn with your name on it."
Perhaps it was something I said, but the next thing I knew, he was pushing past me, running up the stairs to the bathroom, and then making noises that can only be described as simultaneous vomiting and shitting.
The baby helped by punctuating this with random screams for no good reason.
Monty Cat sat on the top stair and licked his cat lips. He'd caught a pigeon. He'd had dinner. He'd stolen some of the baby's melon (who knows why?). He'd slept upside down in the conservatory for at least three hours. Monty was having a good day.
So yes, TheBloke (TM) has now been struck down by the same bug we've all had, and as I've stupidly turned the corner, this means I'm now in charge of dirty nappies and doling out chicken soup. Most of the time, I even remember to wash my hands between those two tasks. Most of the time.
Still, give him his due, TheBloke (TM) did indeed dispose of the dead pigeon. Though our lawn still looks like a pillow-stuffing company.
Anyone want to buy a third-hand ginger cat?
Perhaps it was something I said, but the next thing I knew, he was pushing past me, running up the stairs to the bathroom, and then making noises that can only be described as simultaneous vomiting and shitting.
The baby helped by punctuating this with random screams for no good reason.
Monty Cat sat on the top stair and licked his cat lips. He'd caught a pigeon. He'd had dinner. He'd stolen some of the baby's melon (who knows why?). He'd slept upside down in the conservatory for at least three hours. Monty was having a good day.
So yes, TheBloke (TM) has now been struck down by the same bug we've all had, and as I've stupidly turned the corner, this means I'm now in charge of dirty nappies and doling out chicken soup. Most of the time, I even remember to wash my hands between those two tasks. Most of the time.
Still, give him his due, TheBloke (TM) did indeed dispose of the dead pigeon. Though our lawn still looks like a pillow-stuffing company.
Anyone want to buy a third-hand ginger cat?
Friday, August 02, 2013
Buggy
As I write this Plog, I am desperately trying to con the baby into taking an afternoon nap, a habit she grew out of about three months ago. From the video monitor, I can see she isn't playing ball. In fact, she's sitting bolt upright in her cot, blissfully unaware that Mummy is spying on her, and she hasn't looked more alert for the best part of a week.
The thing is, and you're totally not supposed to say this, I need ten minutes. Why do I need ten minutes? Well, it's been a trying couple of days.
The baby alarm went off yesterday at 6.30 a.m. - I mustn't complain. This is a relative lie-in compared to where we were a month ago. TheBloke (TM) and I got up, and I felt even more dreadful than usual. I suspected tiredness and suspected it would pass, but there was a persistent nausea.
The nausea lasted until the baby decided to do the world's most massive, stinky poo. The type that's so massive and so liquid, it leaves patches on your hardwood floors, which need to be Dettoled immediately. I can hear what you're asking - "How come the nausea passed then? If anything, I would imagine it would worsen."
Indeed. The nausea passed because it quickly turned to uncontrollable vomiting. This is less fun than it sounds when you're trying to change a wiggly baby covered in poo on a waist-height changing table.
Fast forward eight hours or so. It's 2 a.m. I decide to get up for a bit more vomiting, because that's just the sort of person I am. After driving the porcelain bus for half an hour or so, I pop my head in to check on the baby who is - yes - covered in vomit. As is Toby Bear and all her sheets.
I change them all. Toby Bear goes in the washing machine. We all go back to bed.
This morning, Monty Cat decides to help. He's hardly a predator. In his whole ginger furry life he has caught:
- a moth
- a spider, which he accidentally stood on and then looked horrified
- a paintbrush.
So of course today would be the day when he turns killer, with a fresh (though admittedly less-fresh-by-the-moment) pigeon left on our lawn. To be fair, it might not have been him. It might have been one of his cat friends helping him to look hard. But believe me, the poos and vomits I've been dealing with recently (and of course, those I've been doling out myself), I do not have the stomach for dead grouse unless it comes with a jus of some description and is served in an overpriced French restaurant.
I will let that be a little welcome-home present for TheBloke (TM) when he gets back from work. I'm nice like that.
So yes, I need ten minutes. Which are now up. I hope you appreciate it.
The thing is, and you're totally not supposed to say this, I need ten minutes. Why do I need ten minutes? Well, it's been a trying couple of days.
The baby alarm went off yesterday at 6.30 a.m. - I mustn't complain. This is a relative lie-in compared to where we were a month ago. TheBloke (TM) and I got up, and I felt even more dreadful than usual. I suspected tiredness and suspected it would pass, but there was a persistent nausea.
The nausea lasted until the baby decided to do the world's most massive, stinky poo. The type that's so massive and so liquid, it leaves patches on your hardwood floors, which need to be Dettoled immediately. I can hear what you're asking - "How come the nausea passed then? If anything, I would imagine it would worsen."
Indeed. The nausea passed because it quickly turned to uncontrollable vomiting. This is less fun than it sounds when you're trying to change a wiggly baby covered in poo on a waist-height changing table.
Fast forward eight hours or so. It's 2 a.m. I decide to get up for a bit more vomiting, because that's just the sort of person I am. After driving the porcelain bus for half an hour or so, I pop my head in to check on the baby who is - yes - covered in vomit. As is Toby Bear and all her sheets.
I change them all. Toby Bear goes in the washing machine. We all go back to bed.
This morning, Monty Cat decides to help. He's hardly a predator. In his whole ginger furry life he has caught:
- a moth
- a spider, which he accidentally stood on and then looked horrified
- a paintbrush.
So of course today would be the day when he turns killer, with a fresh (though admittedly less-fresh-by-the-moment) pigeon left on our lawn. To be fair, it might not have been him. It might have been one of his cat friends helping him to look hard. But believe me, the poos and vomits I've been dealing with recently (and of course, those I've been doling out myself), I do not have the stomach for dead grouse unless it comes with a jus of some description and is served in an overpriced French restaurant.
I will let that be a little welcome-home present for TheBloke (TM) when he gets back from work. I'm nice like that.
So yes, I need ten minutes. Which are now up. I hope you appreciate it.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Crocodile tears
Regular readers will know I am not a girly girl. I have no great love for pink, glittery things, and a somewhat abject hatred of clothes shopping.
But the thing I detest most of all? Shoes. Especially new shoes. Oh, don't get me wrong, I can admire them, sitting there in the shop like a gleaming work of art. I get that. What I don't get is why the buggery bollocks I would want to put them on my feet and balance improbably like a dog on stilts.
And let's be honest, most "stylish" shoes hurt. I mean really hurt. Anyone who says that they feel more comfortable in heels than flats is either mental or lying. Or both.
Being on maternity leave has been brilliant as I have literally worn three pairs of shoes, depending on the weather:
- Cold weather = UGGs
- Intermediate weather = trainers
- Warm weather - Crocs
With an actual, real-life summer happening at the moment, Crocs have been my staple. I love my Crocs. I bought them in Singapore in 2007, and they don't even look like Crocs. Just a lovely pair of sandals, but comfortable like walking on clouds. And because they're rubber, you can wear them on the beach, in the rain and I love them. Love them, love them, love them.
So yesterday I was in the garden with the baby, wearing the Crocs. (I was wearing the Crocs. The baby had bare feet). The baby was eating her lunch, so I went to sit with her on the grass, and kicked off the Crocs. I could do that, because they are so easy to put on and off. Whee!
Anyway - believe it or not, the baby managed to entirely dress herself in yoghurt; rather than put my shoes back on, I just picked her up and came back into the house to hose her down. So far, so routine.
Last night when TheBloke (TM) got home from work, he said to me, "Your Crocs are outside if you are looking for them." I meant to go and get them, I really did. But I didn't. And I doubted it was going to rain - and even if it did, the Crocs would have been fine. That's how good they are.
But this morning at 5 a.m. (because that's when our days start these days), as I was spooning porridge roughly towards the baby, I noticed the Crocs were gone!
I knew immediately what had happened to them. Roving burglars? Nope. Jealous neighbour? Well, she's 89 years old and not very likely to pole-vault our 11 foot hedge.
A fox stole my Crocs.
We have had foxes in the garden ever since we moved here - and this year we see them almost every morning. Young ones, mostly, playing with any toys we leave out (such as footballs) and eating up any scraps that the baby leaves on the lawn.
But come on. Both of my Crocs? Bad foxes. I am planning on sending TheBloke (TM) into their lair tonight to see if we can get them returned.
I feel like I'm writing a Dr Seuss book.
The naughty foxes
They stole my Crocses
A naughty fox
Hid them in a box
A box with locks
Just like Fort Knox
My poor Crocs!
I'm swiftly changing my opinion on fox hunting.
But the thing I detest most of all? Shoes. Especially new shoes. Oh, don't get me wrong, I can admire them, sitting there in the shop like a gleaming work of art. I get that. What I don't get is why the buggery bollocks I would want to put them on my feet and balance improbably like a dog on stilts.
And let's be honest, most "stylish" shoes hurt. I mean really hurt. Anyone who says that they feel more comfortable in heels than flats is either mental or lying. Or both.
Being on maternity leave has been brilliant as I have literally worn three pairs of shoes, depending on the weather:
- Cold weather = UGGs
- Intermediate weather = trainers
- Warm weather - Crocs
With an actual, real-life summer happening at the moment, Crocs have been my staple. I love my Crocs. I bought them in Singapore in 2007, and they don't even look like Crocs. Just a lovely pair of sandals, but comfortable like walking on clouds. And because they're rubber, you can wear them on the beach, in the rain and I love them. Love them, love them, love them.
So yesterday I was in the garden with the baby, wearing the Crocs. (I was wearing the Crocs. The baby had bare feet). The baby was eating her lunch, so I went to sit with her on the grass, and kicked off the Crocs. I could do that, because they are so easy to put on and off. Whee!
.jpg) |
| Me and the Crocs in happier times |
Anyway - believe it or not, the baby managed to entirely dress herself in yoghurt; rather than put my shoes back on, I just picked her up and came back into the house to hose her down. So far, so routine.
Last night when TheBloke (TM) got home from work, he said to me, "Your Crocs are outside if you are looking for them." I meant to go and get them, I really did. But I didn't. And I doubted it was going to rain - and even if it did, the Crocs would have been fine. That's how good they are.
But this morning at 5 a.m. (because that's when our days start these days), as I was spooning porridge roughly towards the baby, I noticed the Crocs were gone!
I knew immediately what had happened to them. Roving burglars? Nope. Jealous neighbour? Well, she's 89 years old and not very likely to pole-vault our 11 foot hedge.
A fox stole my Crocs.
We have had foxes in the garden ever since we moved here - and this year we see them almost every morning. Young ones, mostly, playing with any toys we leave out (such as footballs) and eating up any scraps that the baby leaves on the lawn.
But come on. Both of my Crocs? Bad foxes. I am planning on sending TheBloke (TM) into their lair tonight to see if we can get them returned.
I feel like I'm writing a Dr Seuss book.
The naughty foxes
They stole my Crocses
A naughty fox
Hid them in a box
A box with locks
Just like Fort Knox
My poor Crocs!
I'm swiftly changing my opinion on fox hunting.
Sunday, July 07, 2013
Project in its infancy
The return to work is looming. Not for a little while yet, but I'm more than two thirds through my (generous) maternity leave. So it makes sense to start thinking about it.
Over the years I have been astonished as clever woman after clever woman at a wide range of different companies tells me that they're treated differently on their return to work - as if they can't handle difficult situations, complex problems or multitasking. They are seen as a "mum" who comes to spend a bit of time in the office, before going home - presumably to lick the kitchen clean and bake cupcakes with soya milk.
This is a real shame as over the last ten months or so, I have definitely had the opportunity to hone some skills and to practise some new ones. Yes, stupid spell checker, that is "practise" with an "s" because it's a verb. Honestly, you can't get the virtual staff.
Here are the skills I've polished up since having a baby:
Patience
Never a strong suit of mine, this has probably been the skill brought most sharply into focus. Be it trying for (literally) the fifteenth time to get a pair of tights on a baby who would really rather not be wearing a pair of tights without shouting, slapping or throwing either the baby or the tights down the stairs - or be it saying, "Shh, shh, shh" in what started as a soothing voice (but started to become very slightly threatening after sixteen attempts at settling the baby at 4 in the morning). I have patience sorted.
How will this transfer to the workplace?
Managing Director: Laura, this performance is unacceptable. You have missed your deadlines and come in over budget. What on earth were you thinking? Shouty shouty shout.
Laura: Oh dear, someone's cranky. Do you need a nap? Shall we go and see your teddy bear. Who's got a tickly tummy? You have! You have!
OK, well, moving on...
Problem solving
Once a baby is past about four months old (before that they like to practise random demon screaming at nothing at all, just to keep you on your toes), generally there's one of the following list wrong: hungry, tired, too hot, too cold, nappy needs changing. If it's none of the above, they're probably teething. Stick some Calpol down their fat little neck.
Actually, that paragraph above could save you a lot of time reading all those wanky baby books. You're welcome.
OK, so back in the office, it's mid-morning and a perfect temperature. We will give the senior management the benefit of the doubt and assume that they are toilet trained and not currently teething.
Managing Director: Laura, this performance is unacceptable. You have missed your deadlines and come in over budget. What on earth were you thinking? Shouty shouty shout.
Laura: Hmm, well you aren't tired or cold or hot... Someone must be a hungry bungry! Who's a hungry bungry? You're a hungry bungry. *Whips tit out to give breastfeed*
That could either go really well or really badly. I stand a 50-50 chance of being promoted, I reckon.
Time management
Those early days of having a baby are so horrific. You can't put the thing down because it yelps. So in order to do anything - and I mean anything - you need to plan about fifteen steps ahead. For example, let's say you need to go to the toilet. You are holding the baby. Your internal process will go like this:
- I need to go to the toilet
- But I can't put the baby down because she'll cry
- If I fed her first, she might fall asleep
- But I can't feed her before I've expressed because I won't have enough milk for later
- But I can't express before I've sterilised the equipment
- So I'll unload the dishwasher and put the stuff in the steriliser. This is tricky one-handed but achievable.
- Oh dear, she's pooed again. And it's leaked again.
- So whilst the steriliser is on, I will change the baby, put more laundry on, come downstairs, then express some milk, put it in the fridge, feed the baby, put the baby to sleep and THEN I can go to the toilet. And whilst I'm expressing, I'll order some useful baby equipment from Amazon.
There isn't a mother alive who couldn't give a PRINCE2 project manager a run for her money.
I would promote me immediately.
Over the years I have been astonished as clever woman after clever woman at a wide range of different companies tells me that they're treated differently on their return to work - as if they can't handle difficult situations, complex problems or multitasking. They are seen as a "mum" who comes to spend a bit of time in the office, before going home - presumably to lick the kitchen clean and bake cupcakes with soya milk.
This is a real shame as over the last ten months or so, I have definitely had the opportunity to hone some skills and to practise some new ones. Yes, stupid spell checker, that is "practise" with an "s" because it's a verb. Honestly, you can't get the virtual staff.
Here are the skills I've polished up since having a baby:
Patience
Never a strong suit of mine, this has probably been the skill brought most sharply into focus. Be it trying for (literally) the fifteenth time to get a pair of tights on a baby who would really rather not be wearing a pair of tights without shouting, slapping or throwing either the baby or the tights down the stairs - or be it saying, "Shh, shh, shh" in what started as a soothing voice (but started to become very slightly threatening after sixteen attempts at settling the baby at 4 in the morning). I have patience sorted.
How will this transfer to the workplace?
Managing Director: Laura, this performance is unacceptable. You have missed your deadlines and come in over budget. What on earth were you thinking? Shouty shouty shout.
Laura: Oh dear, someone's cranky. Do you need a nap? Shall we go and see your teddy bear. Who's got a tickly tummy? You have! You have!
OK, well, moving on...
Problem solving
Once a baby is past about four months old (before that they like to practise random demon screaming at nothing at all, just to keep you on your toes), generally there's one of the following list wrong: hungry, tired, too hot, too cold, nappy needs changing. If it's none of the above, they're probably teething. Stick some Calpol down their fat little neck.
Actually, that paragraph above could save you a lot of time reading all those wanky baby books. You're welcome.
OK, so back in the office, it's mid-morning and a perfect temperature. We will give the senior management the benefit of the doubt and assume that they are toilet trained and not currently teething.
Managing Director: Laura, this performance is unacceptable. You have missed your deadlines and come in over budget. What on earth were you thinking? Shouty shouty shout.
Laura: Hmm, well you aren't tired or cold or hot... Someone must be a hungry bungry! Who's a hungry bungry? You're a hungry bungry. *Whips tit out to give breastfeed*
That could either go really well or really badly. I stand a 50-50 chance of being promoted, I reckon.
Time management
Those early days of having a baby are so horrific. You can't put the thing down because it yelps. So in order to do anything - and I mean anything - you need to plan about fifteen steps ahead. For example, let's say you need to go to the toilet. You are holding the baby. Your internal process will go like this:
- I need to go to the toilet
- But I can't put the baby down because she'll cry
- If I fed her first, she might fall asleep
- But I can't feed her before I've expressed because I won't have enough milk for later
- But I can't express before I've sterilised the equipment
- So I'll unload the dishwasher and put the stuff in the steriliser. This is tricky one-handed but achievable.
- Oh dear, she's pooed again. And it's leaked again.
- So whilst the steriliser is on, I will change the baby, put more laundry on, come downstairs, then express some milk, put it in the fridge, feed the baby, put the baby to sleep and THEN I can go to the toilet. And whilst I'm expressing, I'll order some useful baby equipment from Amazon.
There isn't a mother alive who couldn't give a PRINCE2 project manager a run for her money.
I would promote me immediately.
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