Pause For Thought

Last I left you we were mid lockdown, it got worse, I’ll tell you another day. Fast forward to A’Level results, for No.2 ... I know I’m late and we’ve had GCSE results too now! 

I consider myself a pragmatist, others may consider me a fatalist and some, just lazy .... I reckon I’m a mix of the three, but, still primarily a pragmatist. 

The night before A’Level results I sent No.2 this text

❤️ and 🙏 for tomorrow, just remember, nobody died ... unless I smother your father with a pillow overnight 😘

It’s easy to be a pragmatic when nothing ‘too bad’ has ever really happened in your life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved and I’ve lost, in many ways, BUT only relative to the rhythm of life. 

No.2 got what he needed to get into his university and course of choice, HOORAH. One less large human inhabiting Haversham House, even if I am having to sell one of his siblings organs to put a roof over his head while he’s there. I’m subscribing to the ‘High School Musical’ ethos of  ‘We’re All  In This Together’.

Joking aside, I abhor the ‘I’m alright Jack’ culture. Am I delighted for my son? Yes. Am I devastated for all of those bright, talented and aspirational students who didn’t get what they wanted/ needed to move on to the next stage of their educational journey? ABSOLUTELY.  I’m not a academic so I apologise if it’s poor grammar to start a sentence with ‘Am’, but I think it reads ok. 

Apart from the fact that the government couldn’t organise a party in a brewery, what went wrong?

Apologies if you didn’t enjoy Citizen Smith but primarily, what went wrong is that we live in a country run by public school boys, who are in positions of power. Are they in these positions because they are astonishingly bright and have worked tirelessly to earn them. No, they’re not. They are in these positions because they are primarily wealthy and therefore welcome among the elite. They propagate their social equalitarian spin but seriously does anybody who has a brain cell believe them? Does anybody not see the narrative, because it’s not subtle enough to be ‘sub’. They perceive they are above everyone and beyond reproach. I’d qualify the last statement with examples but I’d be here for the next year and I want to talk about the people that really matter.

The people that matter are those students, their hopes and their dreams. Some of them will have consistently worked hard throughout their courses, others will have coasted up to their mocks, had a wake up call and hit it hard thereafter. We all tick differently. In the absence of a pandemic they would ALL have had the opportunity to prove themselves by sitting examinations. They were denied this opportunity, through no fault of their own. In a ideal, non economically driven world we’d have just written the year 2020 off and started again. Unfortunately we don’t live in a ideal world, so how do we move forward in the fairest way possible? 

We have a algorithm ... that considers class numbers and postcode ... not human interaction or professional experience.

The other people that matter in this equation are educational professionals. All of us who have children in full time education should have nothing but respect for teachers, never take them for granted. Maybe I’m fortunate, but I can hand on heart say that my children’s teachers work tirelessly to ensure that not only are their individual educational needs met but they are safe, happy and supported. I go to parents evenings and these people know my kids strengths and weaknesses, nearly as well as I do. They care about our kids and genuinely want them to reach their potential. That said, they are also realistic and honest. Let’s face it, not everyone is going to be a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist. That’s ok because there are so many other things that we can be and are good at, what matters is that that those talents are discovered and developed. Teachers worked hard assessing student’s progress, ability and predicting grades only to be ignored in favour of a algorithm. If I were a teacher I’d feel as disrespected and disillusioned by the exam fiasco as I do as a nurse by the ‘clap for carers’.

I would go on to rant about u-turns, ‘no but, yeah but, no but’, except Thursday is my Friday and I’ve had a glass of wine. So I’ll sign off requesting a commiseratory clap ... for those of us who did very little work for their A’Levels, had a great social life, turned up for the exam, attained D, E, U and have survived adult life relatively successfully thus far.

 

‘I’m awight’

‘You awight?’, ‘yeah I’m awight, but are you awight?’, ‘yeah, I’m awight ‘, ‘so we’re all awight then’. 

This is the usual morning conversation with No.4 as my foot hits the bottom stair and he realises I’m out of bed. We find it amusing, it’s our thing. Unfortunately it’s not everyone else’s thing and apparently ‘it’s too loud and irritating’. 

What I have found even more irritating is that due to lockdown my house is full of bodies, varying in size and age pretty much 24/7. The house feels full. Not in a loving, life enriching way, just in a ‘everybody is in the way’ way. 

I had great expectations for lockdown. I envisaged instigating a new routine free from the constraints of the loathed school run. I would tidy, organise and clean Haversham House to facilitate this new regime. Grumpy husband would have a peaceful work space. The children would rise, breakfast, do their school work, lunch and then go outdoors to exercise and to appreciate the beauty of nature. We would in fact be the U.K.’s answer to the Waltons. I oozed positivity, informing the family we would have the opportunity to reconnect and that we would all come to realise what is important in life.

What I now understand is that Jesus turning water into wine was THE most miraculous thing, ever.

WELCOME to Covid HQ ... Gold commander (aka Grumpy husband, aka Covid Hitler) is on it, like a car bonnet. News bulletins on a hourly basis, dissected regularly with his special advisors (No.1,No.2 and apathetic me). It was all go here, twice daily death figure announcements, random scientific articles and of course serious political commentary. I’ve re named the dining room the ‘Westminster Suite’. 

Grumpy husband is ‘AT WORK’ (in the Westminster Suite’), lots of door slamming and mouthed ‘GO AWAY’s’ and ‘SHHHH’s’. If you’re not up for breakfast before he starts work you’re confined to a minute, clutter free area of the kitchen table, the breakfast bar, the garden (if it’s not raining) or your bedroom. Everything from emptying the dishwasher, the fridge door beeping (because somebody left it open) and the washing machine spinning has disturbed him to the extent he had to buy noise cancelling ear phones from a fruity, popular and expensive retailer. 

No.1 got a job working from home in customer relations, apparently everyone who complains is called Karen? 

No.2, has ensured the nation’s shelves have been stocked with tinned beans and tomatoes, pasta and the ever important loo roll.

No. 3, the family wild card, has viewed the situation as a mathematical equation, school work hours vs Xbox hours. In his defence, he has been up every morning, breakfasted, dressed, school work completed by lunch time with no assistance or interaction from anybody else. 

No.4 will be appearing as a contestant on Mastermind. His specialist subject is up for discussion ... Roblox or Skylanders (recently rediscovered). In true intellectual and eccentric style, he will make his appearance on TV in his pyjamas. In his defence he did complete one piece of schoolwork, yes ONE. 

I have been at work as usual, well as usual as is usual, as a nurse, in a pandemic. The greatest struggle for me, as a fat, nearly fifty year old has been the requirement to wear PPE, all day. I’ve been seriously hot stuff but not in a good way. The latter is my excuse for bra free, pyjama wearing on my days off. 

Tonight’s clap goes out to all of you who have managed to be washed and dressed when the the postman played knock and run. 

Tempus Fugit

Well I haven’t blogged in such a long time ... So before I share my Covid Tales with you, I think It only right and proper to bring you up to speed on Haversham House and it’s inhabitants. Haversham House is still Haversham House. Filled with cobwebs, clothes that don’t fit (mainly mine) and shoes that are no longer comfortable. Not forgetting memorabilia of years gone by that everybody else is reluctant to throw out. I did, briefly, regain control of the living room. 

The children, some no longer, children. The eldest, 22 travelling in Australia, actually thinking about what she wants from life. No. 2 is 18 and poised to sit A’Levels, he has a plan and is currently funding his driving lessons and social life courtesy of a famous supermarket. No.3 now 15, is nearly as tall as No.2 and both are taller than their Dad. Eating habits, much improved due to amount of fuel required to sustain height. No.4 is 10, still cute, hates school, loves me and is mainly still on hunger strike, unles it’s a Nutella sandwich or a happy meal. The husband remains grumpy and not in the best of health having now developed sero negative arthropathy (rheumatoid arthritis without the rheumatoid factor) and is taking a biologic drug which suppresses the immune system. If anybody is currently considering marriage I would advise genetic testing of your proposed partner before you commit to ‘in sickness and in health’. I would also encourage you to consider the implications of ‘til death do us part’, at 24 I’m not sure I gave that one enough thought. 

Finally me, escaped A&E (thank God), two new jobs, still nursing. Still not motivated to clean.

Blissful chaos was the status quo in Haversham House until ...

In January we started to hear news about a Corona virus that was causing problems in China. We were all a little bit appalled by the authorities there, locking people in their houses etc but it was OK, because China is miles away, right? In February, there were cases reported in Italy which by March had escalated to the extent their healthcare services, especially in the Lombardy region (which are superior to the U.K’s) were overwhelmed. The rest of Europe was soon to be engulfed by a disease we knew little about. Italy begged the world to learn from what was happening there. Some countries listened and were quick to respond, the U.K., was not one of those countries that listened or acted in a timely manner. I could talk to you about the lack of testing, lack of PPE and inadequate planning but you’ve read it all in the news and will all come to your own conclusions, dependent on your personal circumstances.

This is my personal perspective.

A week before lockdown my husband and I, who rarely agree on anything were in accordance that we needed to lockdown, NOW. We were already wading through e-mails from concerned colleagues and attempting to navigate our way through the vague advice issued by government agencies. Our social media feeds were beginning to fill with alarming posts from intensivists.

Two weeks before lockdown my husband’s colleagues were concerned and questioned whether he should be having face to face consultations with patients given his immunosuppression and he moved to telephone/ video consultations. We had both booked annual leave the following week. No.4 was due to go on residential with school and I felt really uneasy about letting him go. When I expressed my concern to the playground mums, they looked at me as if I was bonkers. I have nothing but praise for school, their risk assessment was comprehensive and I had to concede he was probably safer in a small group, in the middle of nowhere than he was in the general school population.

Fortunately No.1 had already booked her flight home. Leading up to her departure in our WhatsApp conversations, she asked me if she ‘should be worried about this virus’, I tried to remain calm whilst praying the ‘evolving picture.

On the same day No.2 and No.3 were told school was closing. No.3 was indifferent but No.2 was thrown into dissaray. He had so many questions I couldn’t answer and worries I couldn’t alleviate, especially regarding his A’Levels. No.4 returned from residential delighted to be home and even more delighted that school was out, probably for summer.

That evening, as a family we made the decision to lockdown and on the Monday the rest of the country was told to. I knew I didn’t want any of my family to be a statistic and the relief of having them all home was overwhelming. Everyone’s circumstances are unique and we all have the freedom to make our own, often difficult, choices. I don’t think any of us realised how challenging this was going to be or on how many levels.

Ok, so I’m all flowery now, reflecting on the beginning. The interim has been tough, at times unbearable. For us, as for so many others, there is no end in sight. I’ll save the actuality for another day when I’m in better humour. I would at this point, ask you all to stand on your doorsteps and clap, not for key workers but for ever single individual who has managed to not bury a loved one under a patio.

New Year. New Mona?

I'd like to think so, but in honesty I very much doubt it. I am planning on keeping it real and my goals achievable. I aim to do what I already do most days, weeks, months, and years and that is survive!

New Years Day is just another day, another goal post from which another resolution can be moved except it's the worst day to make promises you probably won't keep. Why? You've just had Christmas and the majority of us have over-spent, over-eaten, and over-indulged on alcohol. We're saturated and therefore perceive it's going to be easy-peasy to deny ourselves the things we usually enjoy in moderation. Add in the rubbish weather and you've got a recipe for disaster, darling. 

The world and his wife seem to evaluate their lives over the Christmas period and generally conclude that they have SO much to change. I, on the other hand, spend most of Christmas and the run up to it wondering how I will get it all done, wishing I didn't have to go to work and calculating how much sleep I will, or rather, won't get. I simply don't have the time - let alone the head-space - to pontificate on what's wrong with me or my life. The only way I get through it is by taking comfort from what's gone well, and reinforcing the positives which cancel the negatives.

'Mum, why haven't we got a Christmas tree yet, Father Christmas is coming tomorrow?'
'Don't worry it will be done before he gets here, just remember I was only five minutes late for your school play and I didn't forget to order the turkey.'

I understand that New Year is and should be an opportunity for hope, especially for those whom 2015 was unkind to and have been touched by loss, sadness, or hardship. I genuinely hope for those of you to whom this applies that you have a better 2016 and experience peace, happiness, and good fortune.

For the rest ...

I know you want to be thinner, it won't make you happy 

I know you want to be richer, it won't make you happy

I know you want to be more organised, it's not going to happen

... the list is inexhaustible.

My advice for 2016: stop giving yourselves a hard time about what's wrong and celebrate what's beautiful and right in your life!

I may sort Haversham House out, I may not. I might find time to blog more often - who knows - but if I don't, you know what, nobody dies! 

Lost in translation.....

So much of life, is, exactly that and not just real life. Literature across the ages is littered with devastating missed moments, is it a human failing or a genetic deficit? Clarity, in some aspects comes with age and experience and everything is always obvious in retrospect. 

I'm always shocked when people confide in me that it matters to them what people think of them. I think I vaguely remember my younger self feeling that way but it seems such a long time ago. It always makes me feel a little unsettled and sad. The appropriateness of not caring what people think of me is what unsettles me and the concept that people gauge their value on others opinions is what saddens me.

Family life is busy, rammed with practical and emotional stuff that must be done and there simply isn't enough time to do it all properly. Everybody wants a bit of you. A friend's mum who had six children and worked says that while one was always on the hand the others were left a little to their own devices and even now they are grown it's no different. How could it be any other way? You have to prioritise what matters most constantly, things change and you wonder why you ever attempted to 'have a plan'. 

I am spectacularly disorganised and have an aversion to mornings, not a good mix. Arriving home after a late shift I indulge in a glass or two of wine to unwind which generally results in sacking any preparation for the next day. I'm tired, throw my uniform off at the side of the bed and climb under the duvet resolving to 'get up and sort it in the morning'. I must have been Spanish in a past life, 'mañana, mañana, manana' but we all know 'tomorrow never comes'. The alarm goes off, I hit snooze to have 'five more minutes', which turns into ten, then everybody else gets up and attempts to drag me from my pit, in varying degrees, shapes and form, unsuccessfully. I find it impossible to tune into life in the morning until I have to. My daughter refers to this as 'parenting from the bed' and assures me it's 'not working for me'. Eventually vertical I deduce I have enough time to shout at the children to get their shoes and coats on and get in the car and dress in the nearsest thing available. You guessed it, yesterday's uniform is thrown on my back plus a coat and I'm out of the door. At the school gates other mums presume I've been on a night shift and cast me sympathetic smiles which I acknowledge with a grateful glance. Those mums who know me well, wink and remark 'nights AGAIN' prompting a smirk from me and them. Lack of head space for anything other than what has to be done is my justification for not caring what random others think of me. I would never intentionally offend, or want to appear arrogant, I'm just doing the best with what I have. 

The younger me, who agonised and brooded about how I was perceived by others would never have behaved that way but she simply had too much time on her hands. She overthought things, wrote the script, attempted to stage manage life, generally badly and it often led to disappointment. She mostly knew what she wanted but wasn't able to articulate it in real terms. She lacked the courage and confidence to say it as it was. She dropped hints and dangled carrots in the hope others would 'get her drift', take the lead and tell her what she wanted to hear. When things didn't go as planned she'd blame others or write the situation off with a fateful 'not meant to be'. Above all she tried to conform and be who she thought others wanted. I say she because 'she's' so far removed from me. I no longer have time to be like her, I have to accept I am who I am. 

Bernard M. Baruch suggested 'Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.' I can subscribe to this philosophy surrounded by family and good friends but had I the confidence to do so earlier in life I might have had fewer Tess of the d'Urbevilles moments. 

 

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Or at least that's what I'm hoping. So much has NOT happened since my last post.

September arrived, then disappeared just as quickly. I can only assume I became lost in the euphoria of not having a small child at home for the first time in SIXTEEN, yes, 16 years!

The first day of school is a distressing scene to behold, not just for the teachers. Yummy mummies stood at the school gates, hankies at the ready with crying small children super glued to their legs, clinging on for grim death. Children extracted expertly by teachers from their parents, some more successfully than others and patiently coaxed through the door, some still hysterical, there came the second wave. A trail of broken women, supported by friends, physically in some cases. Reluctant to leave, peering through windows to catch a glimpse of their little one in the hope they had 'settled down' unconvinced by reassurances of 'they'll be fine'.

I, on the other hand approached the first day of school in my usual tardy, disorganised manner. I did have a slight celebratory spring in my step and found it difficult to hide my excitement at the prospect of relative freedom. I was relieved to have survived the six weeks summer holiday and to be honest I think that the kids were as glad to see the back of me as much as I was them. HOORAH for full time education.

In terms of 'family time' the summer holidays are overkill. At the beginning of week two I told my children I was going to change my name as I was sick of hearing 'mummy'. The youngest asked me 'What to? Mona?' 'No' says I 'to Supercalifragilisticexbealidocious' in the hope that they wouldn't master that in a drawn out whiny tone.

My master plan for the first school term was to sort out Haversham House, regain some order and control over my life. What has actually happened is, 'Pro-cras-tin-ation...Doo dee doo dee dee dee doo, to the tune of the 80's Belouis Some song, 'Imagination'! I've looked at it, pondered it, felt overwhelmed by the enormity of it and have become ninja at avoiding and ignoring it. The only time I feel alarmed or embarrassed is when somebody comes to call that hasn't been previously inducted to the maze of clothes, shoes, boxes, toys and piles of post littered everywhere and then, only if they look aghast as they cross the threshold.

So December arrived, I shut my eyes and put my fingers in my ears in attempt to blank out the Christmas adverts, music and decorations forced upon me wherever I glanced. As the month has progressed I have become greener and more Grinch like by the day. It is now only two sleeps away and I'm still ignoring it. I do briefly acknowledge it with palpitations and nausea when the children remind me Fr. Christmas is coming SOON but am still contemplating feigning catatonia in the hope of incarceration in a mental asylum till February.

This year I am even more spectacularly disorganised than previously. I have failed to write and send any cards even to those who really should have received one, I still haven't wrapped all the presents and the Christmas tree remains on the patio in its netting. The biggest problem with the tree is the lack of a space to put it; let's face it they're supposed to live in forests not houses. We do have food ordered but I can't claim the glory for that, it has been my husband's one contribution to the festive season unless you count the dent to his bank balance. I should actually be doing something instead of writing about it but I'm sure you're seeing a theme, I have evolved into the 'avoiding Christmas ninja'!

The older I get, the more I hate Christmas. I'm not sure I'd ever be organised even if I began preparations in January. I don't hate 'Christ'mas but I do feel saddened by what society has done to it.

Don't worry I'm not poised to have a religious rant. I think all moral people probably feel the same pangs of guilt as they purchase toys for children who neither need or want for anything, struggle to find that present for the person who has everything and overfill their fridges with food that won't get eaten while others have nothing. I have and do regularly remind my children of those less fortunate in the world, donate to charity and support fundraising but I do wonder if that is enough? Black Friday was a shocking example of what has gone wrong with Christmas and society in general, greed, selfishness and a lack of respect for others.

I have just been reminded by a wave of breathtaking nausea that I really do need to get off my back, out of my bed and on it and off the internet. I am simply aiming to survive the festive season but I hope your Christmas is happy, filled with love, peace and goodwill to all men. Unless you are having your 'in-laws' for dinner, 'In-laws' are exempt from all of the above especially at Christmas!

Dead Dad Day

Today is the twenty third anniversary of my father's death! I am now four years longer in life without him than with him. Starring at this in black and white is startling, for some days it only seems like yesterday he was still here with us. Today I want to remember only happy things about him, the memories we share as a family, especially the ones that make us smile. Remembering those who have passed is what keeps them alive in our hearts thus enabling us to still feel close to them.

'My Daddy is tall and has orange hair' is how I described him in my primary school books supported with a drawing! He was quite happy to be tall but made a point that his hair was actually 'auburn'. 

A bright boy, he fared well at grammar school and despite his mother encouraging him to embark on further education he left school at sixteen eager to make a living. A talented mathematician with a love of science and how things worked led him to a job in engineering and he became a mechanical fitter. Working on large machinery in the steel works, my earliest memories are of him working shifts and coming home dirty. I looked forward to his return when he would grasp his hands on my forearms, lift me to his eye level and rub his stubbled face against mine. It tickled in a weird way and I would shriek to be let go but demand to picked up again almost as quickly.

Que sera...

...sera, whatever will be will be, the future's not ours to see, que sera, sera!

I decided to inject a little fifties glamour whilst attempting to sooth my daughter's pre-GCSE result jitters as I sensed my usual 'whatever happens, nobody died' routine wasn't quite hitting the spot.

Results day dawned and she did fantastically well, or at least I thought she did! Nothing below a C to be seen on the paper print out, let alone a U or a resit to be had.

I was delighted, yet she was disappointed. She managed to hold back the tears until we got in the car and by the time we pulled into the drive we were both bawling. I was deeply saddened and deflated that she felt she could/should have done better. Had I walked out of school on results day with her piece of paper, (more years ago than I'm keen to count), I would have been walking on air.

Four kids and a ****.....

...... in a van is like PMT on acid. Feel free to use your own poetic licence with the asterixes! For my part it's an inappropriate, politically incorrect, term of endearment for my husband and his bilateral prosthetic hips!

Just had a few days away with some fantastic friends and laughed so much I've bought shares in Tena Lady. Some of us camped, others glamped/seriously glamped and the less hardy among us, me included, took the 'luxury' option and hired a caravan.

I use the term 'luxury' loosely, very loosely, as in reality caravans are more like glorified sheds. They are just too small and I felt like Gulliver in the limited time I spent in 'the van' but with fellow giants for company and not Lilliputians.

Everywhere I turned I tripped over somebody and those with their own hip joints moaned less about this than those without! In spite of being inhabited by giants the beds were constructed for Lilliputians too, well the single ones at least. Not that it really mattered where anybody planned or wanted to sleep as this changed as frequently as the weather and the moods of the teenagers amongst us.

Mork calling Orson

I was genuinely saddened to learn of the death of Robin Williams. Whilst his work was varied and talents wide ranging, for me he will always be Mork from Ork. Oh how I loved Mork and Mindy, it wasn't just funny it was bonkers but in parts touched your heart. Even my Gran Kane and Great Aunty Mary watched it.

The outpouring of grief when a 'celebrity' dies never ceases to surprise me and there's a part of me feels uncomfortable with it, it feels more than a little intrusive. When all said and done however sad or upset we feel, this is not our loss to grieve. We will all carry on with our daily routines and Robin Williams not being here in the morning won't stop us from sleeping tonight.