So at some moment in the murky lands of Grit time – a zone that permits no calendar on earth - I come round to find Dig has legged it to the Philippines and the computer system crashed.
It has happened before.
That single item of computer equipment, essential for all internet nirvana? The one in the cupboard? Little happy fella that blinks cute green light uncomplainingly 24/7 for six months? Yup. That one. Breaks down thirty seconds after Dig leaves the building for Indonesia. For two weeks. Sort it, Grit, sort it. Me in the cupboard with the computer is like a surgeon in your liver with a power saw. You don't want to know what happens next.
Which is why we always execute Plan B.
Plan B for all internet and computer connection failure is called P-h-o-n-e. Which would be fine if Dig's phone worked. But it doesn't. And don't suggest using another phone. Because he doesn't know my number. It's stored on his phone. All of which he emails to tell me. Except our email doesn't work. So I phone him to tell him that.
But now it's sorted. And that circumstance of feeling ill, overwrought, overwhelmed, alone, realising I am probably doomed, awaiting execution? The moment I realise I don't know which organisation Dig has travelled to Philippines with, what hotel he's staying at, who he's with, why he's there, what date is set for his return? That sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach is one I get accustomed to, married to the Scarlet Pimpernel.
So I am glad he is back, my wobblehead did not dropoff, the Internet is up and running. We survived. Another day, eh? Is that the time already?
Showing posts with label late. Show all posts
Showing posts with label late. Show all posts
Monday, 13 September 2010
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Because this really is June 10
Chronologically challenged and diary disabled, when I get to the end of a year, I look back and think What the fuck happened? So I entrusted blogger as the vehicle to capture what we were doing, what I was thinking, and which field I was in.
The blog also is a useful record because I may need to remember where Dig was, where I was, and the circumstances of a particular time in case we are taken to court.
Everyday now we are made into a new form of criminal in this lovely British society of ours, and consequently we are threatened frequently with prosecution. Companies routinely rip monies from our bank accounts for services we cancelled years ago, and for which the bank agrees we do not owe, and then said company sells the debt that isn't there, attempts to send round the bailiffs and take us to court. TRY IT AGAIN U-NET.
We home educate, run a business, manage more than one household and STILL I deal with debt collection agencies chasing the tennant for £315.12. The tennant lived in one part of our house and LEFT TEN YEARS AGO.
So for my record, on Wednesday 10 June, hours before the Badman report was unleashed and the newspapers in readiness churning out the propaganda from the government on how we home educators abuse our children, Grit and the gritlets packed a bag to go live in a caravan for two nights in Suffolk.
The blog also is a useful record because I may need to remember where Dig was, where I was, and the circumstances of a particular time in case we are taken to court.
Everyday now we are made into a new form of criminal in this lovely British society of ours, and consequently we are threatened frequently with prosecution. Companies routinely rip monies from our bank accounts for services we cancelled years ago, and for which the bank agrees we do not owe, and then said company sells the debt that isn't there, attempts to send round the bailiffs and take us to court. TRY IT AGAIN U-NET.
We home educate, run a business, manage more than one household and STILL I deal with debt collection agencies chasing the tennant for £315.12. The tennant lived in one part of our house and LEFT TEN YEARS AGO.
So for my record, on Wednesday 10 June, hours before the Badman report was unleashed and the newspapers in readiness churning out the propaganda from the government on how we home educators abuse our children, Grit and the gritlets packed a bag to go live in a caravan for two nights in Suffolk.
Thursday, 4 June 2009
No wonder people are suspicious
Time is one of those life skills I haven't quite cracked.
I can wake up on a Monday thinking it is Wednesday, then someone spoils it all by saying it's Thursday and if we don't pay the milk bill this minute, Dairy Daisy will see us in court.
This is bad, because Wednesday was the day I was aiming to be good mummy and stay at home and learn how cook green beans without setting two wooden spoons on fire. Thursday was the day I was going to shave my legs. And now those days are all mixed up and we may eat leg shavings and charcoal again for dinner.
It's not only the days that are hazardous. Mixing up any time at all can be dangerous to your health, so let me warn you about that.
One confusing day when we ate lunch before anyone had breakfast, Squirrel yells out Why is there glitter stuck to the potatoes? You tell me, Squirrel. Maybe I was forced into a five hour craft session starting at 7am while I am wearing a towelling robe, and then lunch needs to happen otherwise I hit the cooking sherry. But now thanks to your glitter consumption I spend the rest of the day naked at the keyboard typing in questions like Do potatoes cooked in PVA and glitter result in intestinal problems? That one will confuse all medical practitioners supporting the online NHS help systems. Forever.
So there is no doubt about it. Some days are just all mixed up and all crossed out. See that calender? Those are not tear-off dates, they are certificates of achievement.
Of course some days in this home educating whirlwind of ours, I achieve more in seven hours than I would normally fit into a seven day wake-sleep cycle. OK, it is mainly stuff the children want to do, and usually because they're chasing me with pointed sticks. At least Shark has a new strategy. She has taken to hyperventilating with stress half an hour before I think we might go out, because being late to arrive anywhere is even more humiliating than having a mother who cuts her own hair. But this is a good technique because now for any appointment I definitely need to leave ready for the drive by the hospital, so these days we are arriving mostly on time.
But look at this week. I have already spun down that cosmic hole of time confusion. Already it is Thursday and no-one told me. We didn't yet do the stuff I planned to do last week. Or on Tuesday. And I still have a to-do list that is unrolling right now along the M1.
In my defence, we did plenty other things on Tuesday. OK, I cannot actually recall them, so I will read my own blog later to try and decipher when and what I should have done, like pay Dairy Daisy for 15,000 bottles of milk over five years.
But there is only one solution when I am not absolutely sure what day it is. Choose the local open pool. A little sunshine sparkles the air. I couldn't have planned better. What's to lose? We are faced with a black hole of infinite timeless existence and this may be the last afternoon where a little sunshine seeps from the sky. And it doesn't really matter what day it is, because let's face it, I don't need to take the kids to school.
And although that lack of ability to recognise and follow that time thing, or to keep to a timetable much beyond getting up and falling over is all downright annoying, and the milkman has probably in all vengeance now run his electric trolley over the cat thinking it is ours, once we step out of a routine then we home educators experience the most fantastic, thrilling, freedom.
I can wake up on a Monday thinking it is Wednesday, then someone spoils it all by saying it's Thursday and if we don't pay the milk bill this minute, Dairy Daisy will see us in court.
This is bad, because Wednesday was the day I was aiming to be good mummy and stay at home and learn how cook green beans without setting two wooden spoons on fire. Thursday was the day I was going to shave my legs. And now those days are all mixed up and we may eat leg shavings and charcoal again for dinner.
It's not only the days that are hazardous. Mixing up any time at all can be dangerous to your health, so let me warn you about that.
One confusing day when we ate lunch before anyone had breakfast, Squirrel yells out Why is there glitter stuck to the potatoes? You tell me, Squirrel. Maybe I was forced into a five hour craft session starting at 7am while I am wearing a towelling robe, and then lunch needs to happen otherwise I hit the cooking sherry. But now thanks to your glitter consumption I spend the rest of the day naked at the keyboard typing in questions like Do potatoes cooked in PVA and glitter result in intestinal problems? That one will confuse all medical practitioners supporting the online NHS help systems. Forever.
So there is no doubt about it. Some days are just all mixed up and all crossed out. See that calender? Those are not tear-off dates, they are certificates of achievement.
Of course some days in this home educating whirlwind of ours, I achieve more in seven hours than I would normally fit into a seven day wake-sleep cycle. OK, it is mainly stuff the children want to do, and usually because they're chasing me with pointed sticks. At least Shark has a new strategy. She has taken to hyperventilating with stress half an hour before I think we might go out, because being late to arrive anywhere is even more humiliating than having a mother who cuts her own hair. But this is a good technique because now for any appointment I definitely need to leave ready for the drive by the hospital, so these days we are arriving mostly on time.
But look at this week. I have already spun down that cosmic hole of time confusion. Already it is Thursday and no-one told me. We didn't yet do the stuff I planned to do last week. Or on Tuesday. And I still have a to-do list that is unrolling right now along the M1.
In my defence, we did plenty other things on Tuesday. OK, I cannot actually recall them, so I will read my own blog later to try and decipher when and what I should have done, like pay Dairy Daisy for 15,000 bottles of milk over five years.
But there is only one solution when I am not absolutely sure what day it is. Choose the local open pool. A little sunshine sparkles the air. I couldn't have planned better. What's to lose? We are faced with a black hole of infinite timeless existence and this may be the last afternoon where a little sunshine seeps from the sky. And it doesn't really matter what day it is, because let's face it, I don't need to take the kids to school.
And although that lack of ability to recognise and follow that time thing, or to keep to a timetable much beyond getting up and falling over is all downright annoying, and the milkman has probably in all vengeance now run his electric trolley over the cat thinking it is ours, once we step out of a routine then we home educators experience the most fantastic, thrilling, freedom.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Grit, your continual lateness continues to astound us
Normally I have excuses for late blog entries. It is that I am an overwhelmed, under-resourced inadequate, worse the wear after two large glasses of beer.
Add to that, I am worn out and hoarse after yelling at small kids arguing at who gets in the bath first. Then by 10.30 pm I still have the kitchen to clean up, a mouse to deprive of trodden in bits of pasta and the rubbish to put out because it is bin night. Not forgetting the stink pile called laundry. Or the dishwasher, because let's face it Dig does absolutely sod all in that domestic direction. Plus the online library fines which will go up at midnight and the email I need to reply to, sent two weeks ago marked URGENT and probably containing a death threat.
Then spewing my mind nightly into the blogger confessional so I can go to bed cleansed and refreshed takes at least twenty minutes. Some days I cannot squeeze in twenty minutes before I pass out.
These are my normal reasons for always being behind on the date with the blogging thing. But today I have a better. The server in the cupboard keeps breaking down and making life very bad. So Dig took out the server from the cupboard then dropped it in the hall. It made a big bang sound. Dig then drank heavily and attacked things with screwdrivers. As a result we have internet access again but it keeps going off. As you can see, I am quite the technician when it comes to talking about wires and things like that.
Well Dig has probably saved the day. And I am posting this now. Which should mean I am on track to be late again tomorrow.
Add to that, I am worn out and hoarse after yelling at small kids arguing at who gets in the bath first. Then by 10.30 pm I still have the kitchen to clean up, a mouse to deprive of trodden in bits of pasta and the rubbish to put out because it is bin night. Not forgetting the stink pile called laundry. Or the dishwasher, because let's face it Dig does absolutely sod all in that domestic direction. Plus the online library fines which will go up at midnight and the email I need to reply to, sent two weeks ago marked URGENT and probably containing a death threat.
Then spewing my mind nightly into the blogger confessional so I can go to bed cleansed and refreshed takes at least twenty minutes. Some days I cannot squeeze in twenty minutes before I pass out.
These are my normal reasons for always being behind on the date with the blogging thing. But today I have a better. The server in the cupboard keeps breaking down and making life very bad. So Dig took out the server from the cupboard then dropped it in the hall. It made a big bang sound. Dig then drank heavily and attacked things with screwdrivers. As a result we have internet access again but it keeps going off. As you can see, I am quite the technician when it comes to talking about wires and things like that.
Well Dig has probably saved the day. And I am posting this now. Which should mean I am on track to be late again tomorrow.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Nine months late? Is that all?
Grit has finally got around to the gritlet's birthday celebrations. Yes, I know how long ago their birthday actually was. February.
In a moment of stupid drunkenness, foolish Grit casually suggested to the gritlets that for their eighth birthday they could invite some chums to a local paint-your-own ceramics studio. And kids don't forget anything, do they? Like who ate the last slice of pie last December and who had to wear Shark's coat when they didn't want to.
Well I say some things take time. Anyway, in the home educating community you can never get everyone together on the same day at the same time. And Trinny went back to school in September, so she can't come at 2pm, can she?
Oh blimey, just better go with who's around, right here and now, and then I can get the ruddy thing done and dusted by Christmas.
Happy birthday, gritlets!
In a moment of stupid drunkenness, foolish Grit casually suggested to the gritlets that for their eighth birthday they could invite some chums to a local paint-your-own ceramics studio. And kids don't forget anything, do they? Like who ate the last slice of pie last December and who had to wear Shark's coat when they didn't want to.
Well I say some things take time. Anyway, in the home educating community you can never get everyone together on the same day at the same time. And Trinny went back to school in September, so she can't come at 2pm, can she?
Oh blimey, just better go with who's around, right here and now, and then I can get the ruddy thing done and dusted by Christmas.
Happy birthday, gritlets!Monday, 7 July 2008
Washed out
It's 9am and here we all are, bagged up with Tesco carrier bags wound round our heads to stop the Listerine dribbling down our backs.
Mummy Grit has already got four bottles more of Listerine lined up and they are not even on special offer. How dedicated is that? When we've done with the Listerine, then I unwind everyone's hair and start combing. I cannot find anything alive or dead in anyone's hair, except Tiger's, so that's either bad news or good news depending on whether you are Tiger.
And Dig. Poor Dig, who has been nit examined too. Come on, big boy, says sexy wife Grit, sit down and be examined like the rest of us. Do you know there are some elements of the bondage sado masochism group that finds this sort of thing erotic? Shall we join them, you and I? After all, isn't this just about the most romantic thing we have done together since those evenings we spent on the Lake Palace in India when we watched the elephants crossing the lake while we sipped gin and lime soda? Doesn't this experience equate to that? This nit picking business could be exactly what it takes to kick our marriage back from that lonely place where it took refuge precisely eight years ago.
When everyone's been examined with Dr Grit's not very erotic nit technique, it's Tiger who has to sit still, watching two films on DVD back to back while I nit comb her hair, dragging out lice eggs with my fingernails. The whole front room looks like a surgical operating theatre with buckets of water, towels, Listerine, combs, jugs and Dr Grit with a Tesco bag on her head in case one of Tiger's troupe develops super louse skills, and jumps.
After three hours of nit combing and shouting die die die over the cute lion in Madagascar, Grit is ready for a turn outside in the fresh air. Actually the air's not very fresh because it is raining, but the alternative is to go insane. Anyway, common sense and wisdom have been combed out of Grit's head as well as most of her scalp and all her dandruff in the search for head lice, so I pour some more Listerine over us all and get everyone in the car to go to the farm. Here there is comfort because we go to dig up potatoes, collect onions and gather strawberries.
It is only half way down the A5 that I wonder am I mad? Am I mad? Yes I am. I am mad and bloody furious and possibly deranged and crazy because now it is thunderstorming and I am lost because I always get lost on the way to the farm and now I really should go home and cry but I am not going to. I will not give up. This is grit in the face of all disaster. I am Hilda Ogden with my bagged up hair and gritted teeth in the face of all woe and fallen about life.
And you would think that it could not get worse, wouldn't you? Let me just say to Shark, that when I am on a farm, miles from home, in the middle of a thunderstorm, in a field, that when I have just realised we have five minutes to walk the 15 minutes to the entrance if we are to make your drama performance tonight at 6pm which I had forgotten about along with everything else, that we have lost the potatoes, that we are late, having got lost on the way because I always take the wrong turning, no matter how many times I make this journey, that I am soaked to the skin, up to my knees in mud, and have discovered both my boots leak, that I stink of Listerine, that we are alone on this farm in this awful world of despondency, misery and despair, that this is not the moment to shout out Mummy! For drama tonight I need a pair of black leggings and a frog costume.
Mummy Grit has already got four bottles more of Listerine lined up and they are not even on special offer. How dedicated is that? When we've done with the Listerine, then I unwind everyone's hair and start combing. I cannot find anything alive or dead in anyone's hair, except Tiger's, so that's either bad news or good news depending on whether you are Tiger.
And Dig. Poor Dig, who has been nit examined too. Come on, big boy, says sexy wife Grit, sit down and be examined like the rest of us. Do you know there are some elements of the bondage sado masochism group that finds this sort of thing erotic? Shall we join them, you and I? After all, isn't this just about the most romantic thing we have done together since those evenings we spent on the Lake Palace in India when we watched the elephants crossing the lake while we sipped gin and lime soda? Doesn't this experience equate to that? This nit picking business could be exactly what it takes to kick our marriage back from that lonely place where it took refuge precisely eight years ago.
When everyone's been examined with Dr Grit's not very erotic nit technique, it's Tiger who has to sit still, watching two films on DVD back to back while I nit comb her hair, dragging out lice eggs with my fingernails. The whole front room looks like a surgical operating theatre with buckets of water, towels, Listerine, combs, jugs and Dr Grit with a Tesco bag on her head in case one of Tiger's troupe develops super louse skills, and jumps.
After three hours of nit combing and shouting die die die over the cute lion in Madagascar, Grit is ready for a turn outside in the fresh air. Actually the air's not very fresh because it is raining, but the alternative is to go insane. Anyway, common sense and wisdom have been combed out of Grit's head as well as most of her scalp and all her dandruff in the search for head lice, so I pour some more Listerine over us all and get everyone in the car to go to the farm. Here there is comfort because we go to dig up potatoes, collect onions and gather strawberries.
It is only half way down the A5 that I wonder am I mad? Am I mad? Yes I am. I am mad and bloody furious and possibly deranged and crazy because now it is thunderstorming and I am lost because I always get lost on the way to the farm and now I really should go home and cry but I am not going to. I will not give up. This is grit in the face of all disaster. I am Hilda Ogden with my bagged up hair and gritted teeth in the face of all woe and fallen about life.
And you would think that it could not get worse, wouldn't you? Let me just say to Shark, that when I am on a farm, miles from home, in the middle of a thunderstorm, in a field, that when I have just realised we have five minutes to walk the 15 minutes to the entrance if we are to make your drama performance tonight at 6pm which I had forgotten about along with everything else, that we have lost the potatoes, that we are late, having got lost on the way because I always take the wrong turning, no matter how many times I make this journey, that I am soaked to the skin, up to my knees in mud, and have discovered both my boots leak, that I stink of Listerine, that we are alone on this farm in this awful world of despondency, misery and despair, that this is not the moment to shout out Mummy! For drama tonight I need a pair of black leggings and a frog costume.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Everything takes a long time
Today is an endurance test, and really, I am not up to it.
The problem starts because I have too much to do and not enough time to do it in. I already gave up the English Heritage workshop, although I later kick my own shins when I realise, as things turned out, we could have fitted it in.
You see, even though I am overloaded and overwhelmed with places to get to, people to see, home education to do, laundry to wash, I still beat myself up because I think I could have done more. I could have been better organised, I could have planned better. I could have fitted more into the day. I wasted valuable seconds of the day being disorganised.
This is all ridiculous, and I've told it myself often. I know with kids I can create any plan I like and then, when I think everything is in place for the military-timed operation to GO! GO! GO! I am stymied. All is lost. Today Tiger will only wear white socks. White socks? White? I hadn't thought of that. I planned for pink! I didn't plan for white! Next time, cover all bases and plan: pink in the house and white in the car!
Seriously, getting ready to 'pop' to the library in the city centre can take two hours. The library is a ten minute drive away. We have done that. Two hours! And then of course we are so late we have to have lunch before we go, so make that three hours. And possibly four.
Of course I know what would be logical and sensible. It would be to stop planning anything, expect less, shrug my shoulders, utter all of that whatever and shit happens stuff, because, quite frankly, this is a better option than a nervous breakdown on a layby on the A6, which is something else in our busy schedule I have to make time for today.
We are driving to a birthday party, which is our first engagement of the day. Of course we are late setting off. And I nearly caused a traffic accident about Northampton. And I have been driving round Wellingborough for nigh on an hour looking for a turning to a place name. I have beat myself about the ears in a layby, rung Dig, rung the woman who's expecting us, looked at the map, driven round Wellingborough again, and stared red-eyed out of the window in despair at the car crash on the A6 thinking ten minutes earlier, that could have been me.
When I do find our destination I am kicking myself all over again for my deep ineptitude. The place name has been sitting by a roadside staring at me all along and I may even have driven past it twice. Worse, it is writ in large fluorescent letters on a sign so huge that it would dwarf our house by comparison. I do not know why I am so bad at this, finding my way without my saviour sat nav, which is sitting at home, as powerless as me. I just am. I have serious navigation problems. I would think 'north is somewhere over there' and drive happily to oblivion if the road would take me. In fact I am sure I have driven north while complaining about the sun setting directly in my eyes. It is that bad.
Well we do arrive at our destination - a birthday party - three hours late. This has a consequent wreckage all of its own and it is not just in the chocolate, crisps and cake. We are so late in arriving, really we should turn round immediately and drive straight home again if we are to be in time for Squirrel's ballet lesson.
At the sight of the swimming pool and cake, Squirrel quietly decides to miss her ballet lesson this week, which is a very brave decision I tell her, but I seethe all the same. Because if I knew she would give up ballet today in advance, then I could have fitted in the English Heritage workshop after all.
There you go, I'm doing it again.
With pressure on Shark to get out the pool and be quick about it, we arrive home from the party just in time to make the narrowboat trip that several people have spent several days organising for us. I simply cannot explain this event. We became bizarrely tangled up in some local architectural celebration in which a highlight was to sit on a narrowboat. It so far has involved several phone calls and three changes of narrowboat times.
But we, fresh faced, panting and gasping from a birthday party in Wellingborough, arrive there on time. The narrowboat doesn't, because it is running two hours late. We get sent home with a bottle of fizzy white in lieu, and told that the organisers are sorry, because they could have fitted us in, if they had known just how long these things take.
Do not worry, I say to the lady who apologetically hands over the fizz. Because if there's one person who is destined to everyday repeat the lesson of how late things can run, and how long everything can take, it's me.
The problem starts because I have too much to do and not enough time to do it in. I already gave up the English Heritage workshop, although I later kick my own shins when I realise, as things turned out, we could have fitted it in.
You see, even though I am overloaded and overwhelmed with places to get to, people to see, home education to do, laundry to wash, I still beat myself up because I think I could have done more. I could have been better organised, I could have planned better. I could have fitted more into the day. I wasted valuable seconds of the day being disorganised.
This is all ridiculous, and I've told it myself often. I know with kids I can create any plan I like and then, when I think everything is in place for the military-timed operation to GO! GO! GO! I am stymied. All is lost. Today Tiger will only wear white socks. White socks? White? I hadn't thought of that. I planned for pink! I didn't plan for white! Next time, cover all bases and plan: pink in the house and white in the car!
Seriously, getting ready to 'pop' to the library in the city centre can take two hours. The library is a ten minute drive away. We have done that. Two hours! And then of course we are so late we have to have lunch before we go, so make that three hours. And possibly four.
Of course I know what would be logical and sensible. It would be to stop planning anything, expect less, shrug my shoulders, utter all of that whatever and shit happens stuff, because, quite frankly, this is a better option than a nervous breakdown on a layby on the A6, which is something else in our busy schedule I have to make time for today.
We are driving to a birthday party, which is our first engagement of the day. Of course we are late setting off. And I nearly caused a traffic accident about Northampton. And I have been driving round Wellingborough for nigh on an hour looking for a turning to a place name. I have beat myself about the ears in a layby, rung Dig, rung the woman who's expecting us, looked at the map, driven round Wellingborough again, and stared red-eyed out of the window in despair at the car crash on the A6 thinking ten minutes earlier, that could have been me.
When I do find our destination I am kicking myself all over again for my deep ineptitude. The place name has been sitting by a roadside staring at me all along and I may even have driven past it twice. Worse, it is writ in large fluorescent letters on a sign so huge that it would dwarf our house by comparison. I do not know why I am so bad at this, finding my way without my saviour sat nav, which is sitting at home, as powerless as me. I just am. I have serious navigation problems. I would think 'north is somewhere over there' and drive happily to oblivion if the road would take me. In fact I am sure I have driven north while complaining about the sun setting directly in my eyes. It is that bad.
Well we do arrive at our destination - a birthday party - three hours late. This has a consequent wreckage all of its own and it is not just in the chocolate, crisps and cake. We are so late in arriving, really we should turn round immediately and drive straight home again if we are to be in time for Squirrel's ballet lesson.
At the sight of the swimming pool and cake, Squirrel quietly decides to miss her ballet lesson this week, which is a very brave decision I tell her, but I seethe all the same. Because if I knew she would give up ballet today in advance, then I could have fitted in the English Heritage workshop after all.
There you go, I'm doing it again.
With pressure on Shark to get out the pool and be quick about it, we arrive home from the party just in time to make the narrowboat trip that several people have spent several days organising for us. I simply cannot explain this event. We became bizarrely tangled up in some local architectural celebration in which a highlight was to sit on a narrowboat. It so far has involved several phone calls and three changes of narrowboat times.
But we, fresh faced, panting and gasping from a birthday party in Wellingborough, arrive there on time. The narrowboat doesn't, because it is running two hours late. We get sent home with a bottle of fizzy white in lieu, and told that the organisers are sorry, because they could have fitted us in, if they had known just how long these things take.
Do not worry, I say to the lady who apologetically hands over the fizz. Because if there's one person who is destined to everyday repeat the lesson of how late things can run, and how long everything can take, it's me.
Saturday, 14 June 2008
In the nick of time
We are invited to a birthday party. This is great, because it is a pool party, and we haven't been swimming for ages, so I can tick socialisation and swimming, all in one go.
Going to the pool party which starts at 6.45 actually means forgetting all about it while pottering in the garden, losing track of time because the clock doesn't work, then realising at 6.20 that we are going to a pool party and it starts in 25 minutes.
Now comes the horror that is the realisation that we have no cards or presents, nor have prepared swimming gear. Worse, I have not fed the children since midday. Since they are now wading knee-deep in satsuma peel and have picked out the centre of the loaf again leaving the crust behind like a sloughed off skin, I deduce they are starving and need immediate carbohydrate. Without that, we will not get through the next hour without a major triplet tantrum. That three-way explosion, of course, will be perfectly timed to blast the pool apart just as everyone else is singing Happy Birthday to the happy children for whom the adoring mamma and pappa just paid a wheelbarrow load of cash to hire out a swimming pool, lifeguards and inflatable submarine.
There is only one solution. Run around the house with hands clamped to head shouting Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod!
When that is done, jump in car, covered in soil and smelling of courgette fertilizer, and rocket on two wheels straight to Tesco while simultaneously shouting instructions to Dig about where the swimming costumes were last seen, last week in a pile somewhere over there. At Tesco, run through the present aisle, grab two gift bags and stuff them with sparkling glitter pens and drawing paper then run off to the Green and Black's chocolate department. I may be in an hour of need, but there is no way we are sinking to dog chocolate.
At the checkout, rip tags off goods and write happy birthday messages while checkout woman narrows eyes and stares. Hand over large quantities of cash. This is one problem solved by throwing money at it.
Drive home, screech to a halt outside the door, shout at children to get in, throw packet of fruit scones at them and drive off. Drive back to shout at Dig, who is still standing at the side of the road and who didn't get in quick enough. Shout. Drive off while Dig has one foot out of door and say it is all his fault because he should know what the time is and I told him there was a pool party on Wednesday and he should bloody well remember these things because I am covered in soil.
Arrive at pool party 10 minutes after start. Shoo children about, order Dig around and look at water. Need drink, large gin and tonic would do except there is no bar and glass is not allowed. Observe we are the only people I can see who are wandering about with presents in gift bags and lock presents in a locker. Then slump on bench, pick fight with swimming pool attendant over air humidity, take a deep breath, and relax.
There. Another successful arrival, which counts in the Grit book as better late than never.
Going to the pool party which starts at 6.45 actually means forgetting all about it while pottering in the garden, losing track of time because the clock doesn't work, then realising at 6.20 that we are going to a pool party and it starts in 25 minutes.
Now comes the horror that is the realisation that we have no cards or presents, nor have prepared swimming gear. Worse, I have not fed the children since midday. Since they are now wading knee-deep in satsuma peel and have picked out the centre of the loaf again leaving the crust behind like a sloughed off skin, I deduce they are starving and need immediate carbohydrate. Without that, we will not get through the next hour without a major triplet tantrum. That three-way explosion, of course, will be perfectly timed to blast the pool apart just as everyone else is singing Happy Birthday to the happy children for whom the adoring mamma and pappa just paid a wheelbarrow load of cash to hire out a swimming pool, lifeguards and inflatable submarine.
There is only one solution. Run around the house with hands clamped to head shouting Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod!
When that is done, jump in car, covered in soil and smelling of courgette fertilizer, and rocket on two wheels straight to Tesco while simultaneously shouting instructions to Dig about where the swimming costumes were last seen, last week in a pile somewhere over there. At Tesco, run through the present aisle, grab two gift bags and stuff them with sparkling glitter pens and drawing paper then run off to the Green and Black's chocolate department. I may be in an hour of need, but there is no way we are sinking to dog chocolate.
At the checkout, rip tags off goods and write happy birthday messages while checkout woman narrows eyes and stares. Hand over large quantities of cash. This is one problem solved by throwing money at it.
Drive home, screech to a halt outside the door, shout at children to get in, throw packet of fruit scones at them and drive off. Drive back to shout at Dig, who is still standing at the side of the road and who didn't get in quick enough. Shout. Drive off while Dig has one foot out of door and say it is all his fault because he should know what the time is and I told him there was a pool party on Wednesday and he should bloody well remember these things because I am covered in soil.
Arrive at pool party 10 minutes after start. Shoo children about, order Dig around and look at water. Need drink, large gin and tonic would do except there is no bar and glass is not allowed. Observe we are the only people I can see who are wandering about with presents in gift bags and lock presents in a locker. Then slump on bench, pick fight with swimming pool attendant over air humidity, take a deep breath, and relax.
There. Another successful arrival, which counts in the Grit book as better late than never.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
Is this normal?
If I were left alone long enough and could make up the events my life, I would go ahead full steam. 'Today I am kidnapped by aliens disguised as albatrosses and they lock me in a cell with an android who says the only way to escape is to feed sardines to the twenty-eight penguins on guard duty who will turn into mice'.
Today's actual events sound a bit like that. And that saying of San's keeps coming back to me. Is this normal?
Today's home ed outing is a visit to a working Benedictine Abbey. I haven't arranged this; it's thanks to a local organiser and, although Grit is not religious, we think the Gritlets should learn about tolerance and respect, so they can be tolerant and respectful just like mamma.
Naturally, we are late setting off, for which I blame everybody else. The abbey is a 40 minute drive. I even think I know where it is. But there are 30 minutes before the time when a monk is going to talk. Typically, I have no petrol in car. All of these things will not matter, I think. I might know where the abbey is, and we will just have enough petrol to find it. I will buy petrol there. Such is the nature of hope. I forget that I do not actually know where the abbey is. Or that abbeys do not sell petrol.
Twenty minutes later we are lost. The abbey is not where I would like it to be. Mr and Mrs Taylor say it is their house, and it is private land, so clear off. The Sat nav has no power in it, and I cannot charge it up in the car because last year someone stole the charger. It is not a good time to recall that monks shut themselves away in the countryside for years.
Off we go again. I have to go in a direction. The petrol gauge says now definitely there is no petrol in the car. I estimate we have 20 miles. I tell Shark, Squirrel and Tiger who are all complaining about dinner, that I am ditching the monks and aiming for a petrol station. I ignore the groaning and ask, What is the alternative? Is it to drive until we stop, on an English one-track lane with grass growing in the middle, surrounded by fields and hedges, in the middle of nowhere, then stay there forever and probably die from starvation because we are looking for a monk? Would you like that? Would you? Or would you like to fill your faces with flapjacks on a petrol station forecourt? You choose.
When Grit has been instructed to point the car in the direction of flapjacks, she does so with renewed hope. She creeps along, turning here and there, trying not to put her foot on the accelerator. We crawl through a little village where there is no petrol and suddenly we pass a wobbly road sign. Bell Lane. Bell Lane! That is it! I am sure that is it! I have Bell Lane written down on my scribbled instructions from midnight when I did my thorough preparation for this trip. The abbey is down there! I swing the car around, suddenly confident that if I get stuck in the abbey with a hungry Shark, Tiger and Squirrel, the monks will get their prayers for petrol answered pretty fast.
We arrive at the end of a tiny twisting lane. We see another car ahead, parked in front of a locked 5-bar gate. It is Dee! Yippee! A face I recognise! We are saved! This is the right place! I was lost and now I am found! Right now I could jump out of the car and dance, even though we are in the middle of nowhere with a locked gate and no petrol. Dee says she has been punching numbers in the box to open the gate and nothing has happened. She has rung the organiser of the trip who is not answering. She has tried pushing at the gate and it doesn't open. Grit tries all the same, like it is all going to happen, because miracles happen, like you find an abbey when you were looking for a petrol station. After five minutes of trying to break in, a cross-looking man arrives on a tractor and asks what we are doing trying to break into his property. We say we are looking for monks.
When the farmer has cleared us off his property and given us instructions on how to get to the abbey, we crawl back up the tiny twisting lane. At the top of the lane Shark announces, 'There is the sign I read on the way in!' Even in the midst of this despair there is joy, because this is reading in action! Shark can read! Grit asks what does the sign read. Sharks answers, No entrance to Abbey.
Well the abbey is right next door to the turning that we took; there is the organiser, flapping her arms on the grass verge, shouting Car park back down lane turn left! Grit turns the car round again and heads off down another lane. We park the car, with only one small bump to an indicator lamp, which is OK because it is not ours, and then I repark the car somewhere else sharpish, and we walk back to where the organiser was standing. Only the organiser has now disappeared, along with Dee. How do we get in? thinks Grit. Grit and Gritlets wander about some outhouses. No-one to be seen. Grit considers climbing in through a window in search of monks and then sees a little wooden door set back in a wall. Of course! she thinks. This is a door! So I bang on it. No answer. I bang again. And again.
I am about to shoo everyone away when suddenly door opens and a nun appears. Nuns? Nuns? Do monks and nuns live together then? This is confusing. Grit is overwhelmed and would like to sob. Forty minutes late, no petrol and no monks. No wonder people arrive at Church doors in despair and weeping.
Grit gabbles to the nun that she is here on an educational outing and please let this be a place where there are monks because she has no petrol and the organiser has vanished into thin air. Well at this, the nun gets snippy. She looks down her nose at Grit, which is pretty good for a nun who has the physical stature of a five-year old, then the nun doesn't let Grit finish asking about the monks but sharply says she will look at the diary; turns on her heel and walks away, leaving Grit standing at door shouting. Grit is in turmoil. Not only has she just caused a nun to break her 25-year vow of silence, now I feel a sudden urge to make smart comments and start shouting rude names. But you cannot shout at nuns. You cannot call them names. Or get cross because they just cut you dead and disappear down corridors.
The nun reappears and curtly says the monks are through the arch. Round the corner, turn right, you cannot miss them. Then shuts the door. Grit is a pissed off Grit now and vows never to be a nun ever ever ever, not even if she is paid a million pounds. However the instructions are true.
Grit and the Gritlets find all the home ed group and two monks, one of whom is elderly and looking about to fall over, and the other who is an ex-headteacher monk getting cross. Apparently someone asked him a question which he says is asking him to justify his existence. He sounds pretty snippy to me too and I wonder what the question was. Do you really believe in God? Are you a secret Buddhist? Apparently it is neither of these, it is Do you vote? Politics and religion, there you go, two subjects you should never discuss. I guess if I had asked Can you get away with wearing yellow underpants? that would've been OK.
Even though we have missed the talk and all but the last question, we get a tour of the abbey. We get to peer in through the nun's garden to their back windows before the ex-headteacher monk gets out his pet moth to show the kids. Then I'm thinking Can it get more bizarre than this? Here we are looking at a monk's pet moth miles from anywhere and I have been told off by a nun already and wondered what underpants monks wear. Can home ed get more surreal?
Now at the final bit of the tour the ex-headteacher monk leads us all into the chapel and asks everyone to shut up and put bits of the furniture back. And for a few quiet minutes I sit there praying for petrol, even though I do not believe in God, but probably might start now for a petrol station. And just as I am thinking about this great void between knowing and unknowing, faith and reason, hope and despair, the door opens and the Jesus Army arrives.
So today, this is where you can find Grit.
'Today I have been trespassing twice, committed an act of vandalism in a car park, run out of petrol at an abbey, am kidnapped by the Jesus Army, locked in a chapel with three starving kids, a politics home ed group and an ex-headteacher monk who has a pet moth. And the only escape is back through a priory full of snippy metre-high nuns.'
Today's actual events sound a bit like that. And that saying of San's keeps coming back to me. Is this normal?
Today's home ed outing is a visit to a working Benedictine Abbey. I haven't arranged this; it's thanks to a local organiser and, although Grit is not religious, we think the Gritlets should learn about tolerance and respect, so they can be tolerant and respectful just like mamma.
Naturally, we are late setting off, for which I blame everybody else. The abbey is a 40 minute drive. I even think I know where it is. But there are 30 minutes before the time when a monk is going to talk. Typically, I have no petrol in car. All of these things will not matter, I think. I might know where the abbey is, and we will just have enough petrol to find it. I will buy petrol there. Such is the nature of hope. I forget that I do not actually know where the abbey is. Or that abbeys do not sell petrol.
Twenty minutes later we are lost. The abbey is not where I would like it to be. Mr and Mrs Taylor say it is their house, and it is private land, so clear off. The Sat nav has no power in it, and I cannot charge it up in the car because last year someone stole the charger. It is not a good time to recall that monks shut themselves away in the countryside for years.
Off we go again. I have to go in a direction. The petrol gauge says now definitely there is no petrol in the car. I estimate we have 20 miles. I tell Shark, Squirrel and Tiger who are all complaining about dinner, that I am ditching the monks and aiming for a petrol station. I ignore the groaning and ask, What is the alternative? Is it to drive until we stop, on an English one-track lane with grass growing in the middle, surrounded by fields and hedges, in the middle of nowhere, then stay there forever and probably die from starvation because we are looking for a monk? Would you like that? Would you? Or would you like to fill your faces with flapjacks on a petrol station forecourt? You choose.
When Grit has been instructed to point the car in the direction of flapjacks, she does so with renewed hope. She creeps along, turning here and there, trying not to put her foot on the accelerator. We crawl through a little village where there is no petrol and suddenly we pass a wobbly road sign. Bell Lane. Bell Lane! That is it! I am sure that is it! I have Bell Lane written down on my scribbled instructions from midnight when I did my thorough preparation for this trip. The abbey is down there! I swing the car around, suddenly confident that if I get stuck in the abbey with a hungry Shark, Tiger and Squirrel, the monks will get their prayers for petrol answered pretty fast.
We arrive at the end of a tiny twisting lane. We see another car ahead, parked in front of a locked 5-bar gate. It is Dee! Yippee! A face I recognise! We are saved! This is the right place! I was lost and now I am found! Right now I could jump out of the car and dance, even though we are in the middle of nowhere with a locked gate and no petrol. Dee says she has been punching numbers in the box to open the gate and nothing has happened. She has rung the organiser of the trip who is not answering. She has tried pushing at the gate and it doesn't open. Grit tries all the same, like it is all going to happen, because miracles happen, like you find an abbey when you were looking for a petrol station. After five minutes of trying to break in, a cross-looking man arrives on a tractor and asks what we are doing trying to break into his property. We say we are looking for monks.
When the farmer has cleared us off his property and given us instructions on how to get to the abbey, we crawl back up the tiny twisting lane. At the top of the lane Shark announces, 'There is the sign I read on the way in!' Even in the midst of this despair there is joy, because this is reading in action! Shark can read! Grit asks what does the sign read. Sharks answers, No entrance to Abbey.
Well the abbey is right next door to the turning that we took; there is the organiser, flapping her arms on the grass verge, shouting Car park back down lane turn left! Grit turns the car round again and heads off down another lane. We park the car, with only one small bump to an indicator lamp, which is OK because it is not ours, and then I repark the car somewhere else sharpish, and we walk back to where the organiser was standing. Only the organiser has now disappeared, along with Dee. How do we get in? thinks Grit. Grit and Gritlets wander about some outhouses. No-one to be seen. Grit considers climbing in through a window in search of monks and then sees a little wooden door set back in a wall. Of course! she thinks. This is a door! So I bang on it. No answer. I bang again. And again.
I am about to shoo everyone away when suddenly door opens and a nun appears. Nuns? Nuns? Do monks and nuns live together then? This is confusing. Grit is overwhelmed and would like to sob. Forty minutes late, no petrol and no monks. No wonder people arrive at Church doors in despair and weeping.
Grit gabbles to the nun that she is here on an educational outing and please let this be a place where there are monks because she has no petrol and the organiser has vanished into thin air. Well at this, the nun gets snippy. She looks down her nose at Grit, which is pretty good for a nun who has the physical stature of a five-year old, then the nun doesn't let Grit finish asking about the monks but sharply says she will look at the diary; turns on her heel and walks away, leaving Grit standing at door shouting. Grit is in turmoil. Not only has she just caused a nun to break her 25-year vow of silence, now I feel a sudden urge to make smart comments and start shouting rude names. But you cannot shout at nuns. You cannot call them names. Or get cross because they just cut you dead and disappear down corridors.
The nun reappears and curtly says the monks are through the arch. Round the corner, turn right, you cannot miss them. Then shuts the door. Grit is a pissed off Grit now and vows never to be a nun ever ever ever, not even if she is paid a million pounds. However the instructions are true.
Grit and the Gritlets find all the home ed group and two monks, one of whom is elderly and looking about to fall over, and the other who is an ex-headteacher monk getting cross. Apparently someone asked him a question which he says is asking him to justify his existence. He sounds pretty snippy to me too and I wonder what the question was. Do you really believe in God? Are you a secret Buddhist? Apparently it is neither of these, it is Do you vote? Politics and religion, there you go, two subjects you should never discuss. I guess if I had asked Can you get away with wearing yellow underpants? that would've been OK.
Even though we have missed the talk and all but the last question, we get a tour of the abbey. We get to peer in through the nun's garden to their back windows before the ex-headteacher monk gets out his pet moth to show the kids. Then I'm thinking Can it get more bizarre than this? Here we are looking at a monk's pet moth miles from anywhere and I have been told off by a nun already and wondered what underpants monks wear. Can home ed get more surreal?
Now at the final bit of the tour the ex-headteacher monk leads us all into the chapel and asks everyone to shut up and put bits of the furniture back. And for a few quiet minutes I sit there praying for petrol, even though I do not believe in God, but probably might start now for a petrol station. And just as I am thinking about this great void between knowing and unknowing, faith and reason, hope and despair, the door opens and the Jesus Army arrives.
So today, this is where you can find Grit.
'Today I have been trespassing twice, committed an act of vandalism in a car park, run out of petrol at an abbey, am kidnapped by the Jesus Army, locked in a chapel with three starving kids, a politics home ed group and an ex-headteacher monk who has a pet moth. And the only escape is back through a priory full of snippy metre-high nuns.'
Sunday, 20 April 2008
Hard labour
I am the late Grit. Getting round to this at last. Thank you Mean Mom, for providing this puzzle.
1. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning.
(Here they are. I am very obedient, obviously.)
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
(Am I a player? Do I get a prize? I want a prize. I hope the questions aren't difficult. Like what is 567.3 x 3453 and do it in your head. Or how many grains of salt are there in the average salt pot? I bet my brother could answer that one. Can I call him?)
3. At the end of the post, the player tags 5 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, which should inform them that they've been tagged and that the details are on the player's blog.
(Blimey. I need to do some browsing and clicking and wandering about for that. I will post that at a later date. Honest.)
Here goes.
What were you doing 10 years ago?
Can't remember. Teaching, possibly, in a school from the pit of hell. Or sneaking off to the gym as a lady of leisure and pretending to work while Dig set about being important.
Name 5 snacks you enjoy.
Treacle flapjacks. Here's the recipe. For a big batch.
8 oz self-raising flour
2 tsp baking powder
salt
8 oz porridge oats
4 oz sugar
6 oz black treacle or molasses
8oz margarine (vegan, obviously, after the dairy farm experience)
Mix flour, baking powder, salt and oats. Melt margarine, treacle and sugar. Mix this with oats. Press into baking tin and bake centre of a moderate oven for 20-25 minutes. Cut into chunks while warm. Scoff. I am experimenting with the mix. More oats, more treacle. Less sugar, less fat, that sort of thing.
Of course there are always crisps. Crisps, crisps and crisps. And fruit and nuts and rum plum bread and biscuits. Apples. Buttered apples. Toast. Jam. Jammy toast.
Name 5 jobs you have had.
Writing, teaching, copy editing, typesetting, and cleaning the toilets because nobody else round here does it. As you can see this career life started with promise and went backwards downhill from there. I blame the glass ceiling. Either that or idleness and indifference.
Name 3 bad habits you have.
What's a bad habit? Is that something I don't like doing? Or something that somebody else doesn't like me doing? I do lots of thing I don't like doing. And most things I do seem to piss Dig off. I would need to compile a list, so long as I've got a couple of days spare. Dig doesn't like me buying junk at the tip for starters, bursting in through the front door, shouting 'What a bargain this was!'
And being late. For that, children make an easy excuse. I am not as late as The Hat. She got me to post some letters for her in January 2008. They were a pile of greetings cards she'd written in May 2006.
Name 5 places where you have lived.
What is 'lived'? Stayed a week? A month? Enjoyed there or suffered there? In a rented, borrowed, inherited, couch-surfed or purchased place? I might need more information here before I answered that one.
Is that it? Do I get a prize now? Well, Mean Mom, I am not sure what you may have found out about me apart from the fact that I am a down-beat, dead-end, complaining, cantankerous, argumentative late git with a crisp fetish.
1. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning.
(Here they are. I am very obedient, obviously.)
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
(Am I a player? Do I get a prize? I want a prize. I hope the questions aren't difficult. Like what is 567.3 x 3453 and do it in your head. Or how many grains of salt are there in the average salt pot? I bet my brother could answer that one. Can I call him?)
3. At the end of the post, the player tags 5 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, which should inform them that they've been tagged and that the details are on the player's blog.
(Blimey. I need to do some browsing and clicking and wandering about for that. I will post that at a later date. Honest.)
Here goes.
What were you doing 10 years ago?
Can't remember. Teaching, possibly, in a school from the pit of hell. Or sneaking off to the gym as a lady of leisure and pretending to work while Dig set about being important.
Name 5 snacks you enjoy.
Treacle flapjacks. Here's the recipe. For a big batch.
8 oz self-raising flour
2 tsp baking powder
salt
8 oz porridge oats
4 oz sugar
6 oz black treacle or molasses
8oz margarine (vegan, obviously, after the dairy farm experience)
Mix flour, baking powder, salt and oats. Melt margarine, treacle and sugar. Mix this with oats. Press into baking tin and bake centre of a moderate oven for 20-25 minutes. Cut into chunks while warm. Scoff. I am experimenting with the mix. More oats, more treacle. Less sugar, less fat, that sort of thing.
Of course there are always crisps. Crisps, crisps and crisps. And fruit and nuts and rum plum bread and biscuits. Apples. Buttered apples. Toast. Jam. Jammy toast.
Name 5 jobs you have had.
Writing, teaching, copy editing, typesetting, and cleaning the toilets because nobody else round here does it. As you can see this career life started with promise and went backwards downhill from there. I blame the glass ceiling. Either that or idleness and indifference.
Name 3 bad habits you have.
What's a bad habit? Is that something I don't like doing? Or something that somebody else doesn't like me doing? I do lots of thing I don't like doing. And most things I do seem to piss Dig off. I would need to compile a list, so long as I've got a couple of days spare. Dig doesn't like me buying junk at the tip for starters, bursting in through the front door, shouting 'What a bargain this was!'
And being late. For that, children make an easy excuse. I am not as late as The Hat. She got me to post some letters for her in January 2008. They were a pile of greetings cards she'd written in May 2006.
Name 5 places where you have lived.
What is 'lived'? Stayed a week? A month? Enjoyed there or suffered there? In a rented, borrowed, inherited, couch-surfed or purchased place? I might need more information here before I answered that one.
Is that it? Do I get a prize now? Well, Mean Mom, I am not sure what you may have found out about me apart from the fact that I am a down-beat, dead-end, complaining, cantankerous, argumentative late git with a crisp fetish.
Saturday, 15 December 2007
Happy Birthday Blog!
HA HA! I've done it! A post every day! For 365 days! What a pointless exercise! What a complete waste of time!
But at least I can say YA BOO SUCKS.
But at least I can say YA BOO SUCKS.
Friday, 21 September 2007
Brown. Not fresh.
You might have noticed that I am always late with these blog entries. On that point, I seem to have been doing some explaining recently in one way or another. Well, I am going to explain the procedure here, so that when someone asks me what I am doing and why the blog is always late, then I can say 'look on the blog' because the explanation is here.
Actually, saying 'look on the blog' is becoming the perfect reply for everything, as well as providing a great excuse to not say anything to anyone if I don't feel like it, so when the polite inquiry comes, 'how are you Grit?' I can say, 'look on the blog' and leave it at that.
Now I'm thinking about it, perhaps I do not need to speak at all, which would suit me fine on extra-grumpy and depressed days, but I could wear a badge that reads 'Grit happens. Look on the blog' and then I can just grunt and point.
Well anyway, since someone asked, this is what happens. Each day I crash into the office and type very badly and quickly into the computer something that happened. Then, when I have time, I go back and rewrite what I wrote so that nearly all the spelling mistaikes are gone and the grammar is better and all that, with punctuation too, if I can manage it.
Sometimes I astonish myself, or I get left alone for a few hours, and then I catch up on all the dates and the draft entries, nearly completely. But in reality I do not have a lot of time. And for that explanation there's the label.
In truth, this wasn't the post I intended for today. But clearly I was pressed for time, because I only have the following three words in my draft version, and right now I cannot make head nor tail of them. But here they are, just in case you were wondering what happened in Grit's world today.
Brown. Not fresh.
Actually, saying 'look on the blog' is becoming the perfect reply for everything, as well as providing a great excuse to not say anything to anyone if I don't feel like it, so when the polite inquiry comes, 'how are you Grit?' I can say, 'look on the blog' and leave it at that.
Now I'm thinking about it, perhaps I do not need to speak at all, which would suit me fine on extra-grumpy and depressed days, but I could wear a badge that reads 'Grit happens. Look on the blog' and then I can just grunt and point.
Well anyway, since someone asked, this is what happens. Each day I crash into the office and type very badly and quickly into the computer something that happened. Then, when I have time, I go back and rewrite what I wrote so that nearly all the spelling mistaikes are gone and the grammar is better and all that, with punctuation too, if I can manage it.
Sometimes I astonish myself, or I get left alone for a few hours, and then I catch up on all the dates and the draft entries, nearly completely. But in reality I do not have a lot of time. And for that explanation there's the label.
In truth, this wasn't the post I intended for today. But clearly I was pressed for time, because I only have the following three words in my draft version, and right now I cannot make head nor tail of them. But here they are, just in case you were wondering what happened in Grit's world today.
Brown. Not fresh.
Friday, 12 January 2007
We are late
We have been early three times in our life with the triplets. The first was the birth, by about two months. The second was the home ed visit to the quarry, when we arrived 10 minutes early thanks to Jee scaring me witless about the quarry manager. The third was a home ed visit to an Egyptian workshop, when we turned up the day before. But mostly, we are late. In fact, we are very late, for mostly everything.
This is how it happens. This morning we are booked to a craft and social session between 10 and 12. It takes just under an hour to drive there, so we should start off at 9, and we'll be early. Simple. It's 11.20 when we get there.
The reason why we're late starts at 5.30 am. I wake with a blinding headache and take two aspirin. This is an early mistake; the aspirin knock me out, so the next thing I know of is Squirrel standing over me demanding to know why it's 9am and why I'm not waking everyone at 8am like I threatened. I think this is excellent progress for a child who's having difficulty reading a clock, and as I stumble out of bed and crash to the floor I tell her so.
The next reason why we are late is when I'm standing in the shower. Shark comes to ask me if we can take a craft activity. Through the foam I tell her this is a wonderful idea and I wish I'd thought of it and suggest paper and a pair of scissors. This is a second mistake. Now everyone wants to take a craft activity. By the time I get downstairs, Squirrel is cutting out pictures of flags; Shark is squeezing A4 paper and scissors into a triangular-shaped toy box and Tiger is asking me to go out into the garden to look for a fir tree that has pine cones. Dig is reading the newspaper. Apparently he can't possibly go into the garden because he has no trousers on. It's 9.35. I've had no breakfast.
I tell Squirrel to take the flags with her and cut them out there. I tell Shark that I will find her a folder to take the paper in so it doesn't crease and I tell Tiger we don't have a fir tree in the garden that grows pine cones. We have holly, hawthorn, and damson. No firs. No pines. Dig is eating breakfast and asks if I saw the article about the talking parrot.
Tiger is determined. At least she's wearing shoes, although on the wrong feet. So I unlock the garden door for her. She wants me to come because there might be monsters. I tell Tiger we don't keep monsters in the garden, no firs, no pines either. I tell her from under the bed, which is where I'm looking for the folder that doesn't squash the A4 paper. Then I shout to Squirrel to take the flags with her and wait in the hall. Dig is enjoying his breakfast toast over the newspaper. It's 9.45.
Tiger comes back in, holding a fir cone that we must have brought back from a nature walk last year because it looks like it's been in a waterlogged puddle all winter. I tell her not to bother taking a craft activity. I say I've got paper and shout stop trying to cram everything into the toy box and get a coat instead. I say take the ruddy flags into the hall and wait. I've lost my car keys. Actually, I lost them last Monday, so I take Dig's. It's 9.55.
Shark is ready to get in the car. She's wearing her coat on back to front so her hood's over her face. She thinks this is very funny because she can't see where she's going. I propel her to the car shouting to Tiger to put her shoes on the right way round and to Squirrel to take the flags into the hall or I will destroy them. Dig has gone back to his computer. He's still not got any trousers on, but that's the benefit of working from home he says. It's 10am.
Shark is in the car trying to fasten her safety belt with her hood over her face. Tiger is sitting on the floor asking for glue. I ask Squirrel where the flags are and she says under the hall table. By the time I get a bag for Squirrel to put her flags into, say no no no no no no no about the glue, and get everyone to the car it's 10.10. I can't get the car out the parking space. I have to bump the car behind. We set off at 10.15 and the panic is rising.
The first bit is the motorway. This is easy at 90 mph. Then we turn off to go across the hills to our destination. Oh dear. The petrol light is on. With horror I recall Dig last night over his glass of wine saying that the car has no petrol. I consider the 15 miles we just drove, probably with the light on and in such a panic that I didn't see it, and then the 35 miles we have to do through the middle of nowhere. We turn back to the nearest petrol station. Add 15 minutes.
When we set off again I can't get the CD player to work with one hand and the kids are complaining that Roald Dahl's not there. Squirrel has dropped her favourite flag and is upset that I cannot stop the car and find it. I am desperate for a wee. Tiger is in tears. Shark says she's hungry.
When we get there, we have 40 minutes left of the 2-hour craft session. Jol invites us to lunch and we all readily agree, because the kids can play with Am, who gets them to dress up and hide in the toilet and shout 'bum' which everyone thinks is a wonderful thing. So we're six hours late getting home. And I forget to phone to tell Dig to say we won't be home till dark. But that's OK. I bet he's only just got his trousers on anyway.
This is how it happens. This morning we are booked to a craft and social session between 10 and 12. It takes just under an hour to drive there, so we should start off at 9, and we'll be early. Simple. It's 11.20 when we get there.
The reason why we're late starts at 5.30 am. I wake with a blinding headache and take two aspirin. This is an early mistake; the aspirin knock me out, so the next thing I know of is Squirrel standing over me demanding to know why it's 9am and why I'm not waking everyone at 8am like I threatened. I think this is excellent progress for a child who's having difficulty reading a clock, and as I stumble out of bed and crash to the floor I tell her so.
The next reason why we are late is when I'm standing in the shower. Shark comes to ask me if we can take a craft activity. Through the foam I tell her this is a wonderful idea and I wish I'd thought of it and suggest paper and a pair of scissors. This is a second mistake. Now everyone wants to take a craft activity. By the time I get downstairs, Squirrel is cutting out pictures of flags; Shark is squeezing A4 paper and scissors into a triangular-shaped toy box and Tiger is asking me to go out into the garden to look for a fir tree that has pine cones. Dig is reading the newspaper. Apparently he can't possibly go into the garden because he has no trousers on. It's 9.35. I've had no breakfast.
I tell Squirrel to take the flags with her and cut them out there. I tell Shark that I will find her a folder to take the paper in so it doesn't crease and I tell Tiger we don't have a fir tree in the garden that grows pine cones. We have holly, hawthorn, and damson. No firs. No pines. Dig is eating breakfast and asks if I saw the article about the talking parrot.
Tiger is determined. At least she's wearing shoes, although on the wrong feet. So I unlock the garden door for her. She wants me to come because there might be monsters. I tell Tiger we don't keep monsters in the garden, no firs, no pines either. I tell her from under the bed, which is where I'm looking for the folder that doesn't squash the A4 paper. Then I shout to Squirrel to take the flags with her and wait in the hall. Dig is enjoying his breakfast toast over the newspaper. It's 9.45.
Tiger comes back in, holding a fir cone that we must have brought back from a nature walk last year because it looks like it's been in a waterlogged puddle all winter. I tell her not to bother taking a craft activity. I say I've got paper and shout stop trying to cram everything into the toy box and get a coat instead. I say take the ruddy flags into the hall and wait. I've lost my car keys. Actually, I lost them last Monday, so I take Dig's. It's 9.55.
Shark is ready to get in the car. She's wearing her coat on back to front so her hood's over her face. She thinks this is very funny because she can't see where she's going. I propel her to the car shouting to Tiger to put her shoes on the right way round and to Squirrel to take the flags into the hall or I will destroy them. Dig has gone back to his computer. He's still not got any trousers on, but that's the benefit of working from home he says. It's 10am.
Shark is in the car trying to fasten her safety belt with her hood over her face. Tiger is sitting on the floor asking for glue. I ask Squirrel where the flags are and she says under the hall table. By the time I get a bag for Squirrel to put her flags into, say no no no no no no no about the glue, and get everyone to the car it's 10.10. I can't get the car out the parking space. I have to bump the car behind. We set off at 10.15 and the panic is rising.
The first bit is the motorway. This is easy at 90 mph. Then we turn off to go across the hills to our destination. Oh dear. The petrol light is on. With horror I recall Dig last night over his glass of wine saying that the car has no petrol. I consider the 15 miles we just drove, probably with the light on and in such a panic that I didn't see it, and then the 35 miles we have to do through the middle of nowhere. We turn back to the nearest petrol station. Add 15 minutes.
When we set off again I can't get the CD player to work with one hand and the kids are complaining that Roald Dahl's not there. Squirrel has dropped her favourite flag and is upset that I cannot stop the car and find it. I am desperate for a wee. Tiger is in tears. Shark says she's hungry.
When we get there, we have 40 minutes left of the 2-hour craft session. Jol invites us to lunch and we all readily agree, because the kids can play with Am, who gets them to dress up and hide in the toilet and shout 'bum' which everyone thinks is a wonderful thing. So we're six hours late getting home. And I forget to phone to tell Dig to say we won't be home till dark. But that's OK. I bet he's only just got his trousers on anyway.
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