Blimey, this month just disappeared in a daze.
Recently, I hypothesised to myself that parous women have memory problems (there's a link goes here to an observer news item) for a while post-natally not because we're wired to remember nothing but our babies, or because we go wibbly-brained in the puerperium, or because we're chronically sleep-deprived*, or any other scandalously patronising reason, but because in the absence of work, or school, or other regular activities involving temporal patterns and temporal conventions, and travel, and down-time, and head-space (the vital processing / consolidating type), it's very hard to get events and memories into any sensible order. My head is, post-partum, just in a bit of a jumble, all the time. There's nothing to add order or delineation to my memories. I remember conversations (well, snippets), but can't place when. I don't link things that happened in a day with things that happened the same evening. Weeks are a bit of a blur, and I can't remember what days things happened on, or what I was doing last Friday, say. To me, this is all about temporal signposting. The days have lost their particular meanings - Mondays and Fridays can be interchangeable now; though I have the 'no Terry for 5 days' and 'Whoo hoo, Terry for 2 days' thoughts/feelings - but that's not the same as the Sunday evening terrors and Monday misery and Friday pub elation that were with me week in, week out, for, ooh, 20 years. Not since Babs and I had very regular daily activities when she was 4-16 weeks old, and I knew what day it was by what we were doing, have I really felt part of the world. When my dad died, our weeks changed. I'm not sure how much the two things are related; I just know that after the few weeks of back and forth to mum's I felt wrong, and I worked out that it was that I had no pattern namore.
Anyway, it's now the end of January, and I remember thinking back in September about going back to work on Jan 13th and how close it felt, and yet now Christmas feels like miles away and January has been a blur despite the temporal signposting of work (part-time maybe doesn't make the difference). I don't know, but possibly because, with all the other things going on -
writing the thank you letters
getting cards out (almost) on time to my 8 friends with January birthdays
dispatching ex-tenant
dealing with remaining tenants' anxieties
fixing up flat
angsting about (not) finding new tenant
sorting out house rental
finding new childcare at very short notice
negotiating the childcare contract
writing a coursework assignment
going on more course dates
re-acquainting myself with the MOSES project
likewise the Safety Culture project
sorting out dad's tax return
catering and hosting a little party
oh, and keeping the household going with shopping and cooking (nod to T for some good cookin' for a whole week of early hometimes) and laundry and the occasional bit of cleaning
- I haven't really had the head-space to process, let alone consolidate things.
Anyway, suffice to say, it ain't because I've had a bloody baby.
* Babies do sleep, y'all; and you know what? You can train them: to sleep at sensible times and to stay in bed (going back to sleep) for decent durations.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Friday, 2 January 2009
Christmas Crocker
Well, Christmas passed without major incident. Flesh and M and little Weaver came for dinner and vegan mince pies on the 20th, in a nice boozy evening that involved Christmas bubbles and ended with us taking a hundred photos and me, Flesh and R practising photo faces with varying degrees of ineptitude.
On the 21st, Terry's sister and her family came over an hour earlier than expected, as we were finishing lunch and trying to coax 'just a little more, please' into Babs. They were invited 'after lunch', but when I asked if they'd eaten (stupid, stupid me) R said no and threw me into panic, since we had nothing in. They ignored the mince pies I put in front of them as we all had tea, and I finally cornered Terry in the kitchen and hissed at him to address the lunch situation. Thank god, we had bread in because F&M had stayed over and so Terry had been out for bread for breakfast. Sister agreed to sandwiches but for someone so direct was bizarrely vague about what she wanted, then laboriously picked out all the cheese in her cheese sarnie; niece didn't like any of the options I ran through, so sister told us she'd be happy with bread and butter. Well, sorry, but no-one comes to my house and has only b&b and water. Fortunately she does eat tuna and sweetcorn, so we rustled up a sarnie for her too and while they ate 3pm lunch I tried not to feel uncomfortable about our apparent rubbish hospitality. Babs handled all the passing and the prodding very well but was very happy to go off for an afternoon nap. Although the conversation was fluent (sister is very talkative, unlike father), it was still a taxing afternoon and I was very relieved when they left.
On Christmas eve we took the baby to be weighed, because I was convinced she'd been eating better and must surely have put on more in these three weeks than the pitiful 100 grams in the fortnight before. Well, my mistake: no weight gain whatsoever. So our 10 minute pop was an hour long visit, as they made us see yet another health visitor to tell me something different from the health visitor before. (Conclusion: lack of continuity means lack of tailored and meaningful advice. No single health professional has a real grasp of our habits, routine, or my efforts to get more food into the baby; since they don't read each others' entries in my hand-held notes they don't even get to build up a picture that way. They recommend vitamins almost every time I visit, as though lack of weight gain equals lack of nutrients. She'll eat broccoli for breakfast, for Christ's sake, and she eats better than we do.) To be fair, we did get some reasonable tips: give water when she wakes up at night to reduce the reward and feed her from our plates so she'll eat more, but they did nothing to stop me worrying, in fact they probably made me worry more.
Mummy arrived in the afternoon with fish pie for supper. After a smoked salmon and bagel breakfast we opened pressies on Christmas day until Babs was overwhelmed enough for us to decide to hold stuff back for boxing day, and then we cooked. Terry pulled off a yummy and seriously meaty meat-free stuffed cabbage with mushrooms and chestnuts. I wished I hadn't decided lunch would be at tea-time and was a bit stroppy by the time we sat down at 5 o'clock when I should have been on the sofa for two hours already; the same old bloody red wine/onion gravy was a bit disappointing given it was a special occasion and the potatoes were just a touch too floury to be brilliantly crisp roasties. But, in our usually meat-free household, we had fantastic pigs in blankets - Waitrose perfectly seasoned and traceable pork chipolatas wrapped in their similarly traceable streaky bacon - and Crocker-tastic stuffing balls: seasoned pork sausagemeat combined with the fantastically packaged Kraft (R) Stove Top Stuffing Mix from - where else? - me dad's house! Feeel the quality.
On Boxing day mum and I spent the morning making feta filo parcels (surprisingly easy), vegan sausage rolls and hot spiced nuts, then we all went to join Flesh and M and their families at their house, which meant more pass the baby and yet more confusion for poor Babs. She did a very good job of holding it together while being thrown around by over-enthusiastic wannabe grandparents and had a nap with her new alligator on Flesh's bed.
Meanwhile we got to try the infamous vegan cheesecake, which was good but very sharp; M's dad made me laugh and laugh as usual (makes me feel like a young child and he's the funny uncle); M's granny was good value as only deaf and slightly batty old folk can be; and we got to make off with some decent leftovers for supper. Perfect.
So that was baby's first Christmas. Hopefully next year we'll get Terry's dad as well as my mum, and maybe uncle monkey & mj might make it too. That way it won't pass without incident, I'll get to revert to tradition and cry on Christmas day, and we'll get some decent - turkey - gravy.
On the 21st, Terry's sister and her family came over an hour earlier than expected, as we were finishing lunch and trying to coax 'just a little more, please' into Babs. They were invited 'after lunch', but when I asked if they'd eaten (stupid, stupid me) R said no and threw me into panic, since we had nothing in. They ignored the mince pies I put in front of them as we all had tea, and I finally cornered Terry in the kitchen and hissed at him to address the lunch situation. Thank god, we had bread in because F&M had stayed over and so Terry had been out for bread for breakfast. Sister agreed to sandwiches but for someone so direct was bizarrely vague about what she wanted, then laboriously picked out all the cheese in her cheese sarnie; niece didn't like any of the options I ran through, so sister told us she'd be happy with bread and butter. Well, sorry, but no-one comes to my house and has only b&b and water. Fortunately she does eat tuna and sweetcorn, so we rustled up a sarnie for her too and while they ate 3pm lunch I tried not to feel uncomfortable about our apparent rubbish hospitality. Babs handled all the passing and the prodding very well but was very happy to go off for an afternoon nap. Although the conversation was fluent (sister is very talkative, unlike father), it was still a taxing afternoon and I was very relieved when they left.
On Christmas eve we took the baby to be weighed, because I was convinced she'd been eating better and must surely have put on more in these three weeks than the pitiful 100 grams in the fortnight before. Well, my mistake: no weight gain whatsoever. So our 10 minute pop was an hour long visit, as they made us see yet another health visitor to tell me something different from the health visitor before. (Conclusion: lack of continuity means lack of tailored and meaningful advice. No single health professional has a real grasp of our habits, routine, or my efforts to get more food into the baby; since they don't read each others' entries in my hand-held notes they don't even get to build up a picture that way. They recommend vitamins almost every time I visit, as though lack of weight gain equals lack of nutrients. She'll eat broccoli for breakfast, for Christ's sake, and she eats better than we do.) To be fair, we did get some reasonable tips: give water when she wakes up at night to reduce the reward and feed her from our plates so she'll eat more, but they did nothing to stop me worrying, in fact they probably made me worry more.
Mummy arrived in the afternoon with fish pie for supper. After a smoked salmon and bagel breakfast we opened pressies on Christmas day until Babs was overwhelmed enough for us to decide to hold stuff back for boxing day, and then we cooked. Terry pulled off a yummy and seriously meaty meat-free stuffed cabbage with mushrooms and chestnuts. I wished I hadn't decided lunch would be at tea-time and was a bit stroppy by the time we sat down at 5 o'clock when I should have been on the sofa for two hours already; the same old bloody red wine/onion gravy was a bit disappointing given it was a special occasion and the potatoes were just a touch too floury to be brilliantly crisp roasties. But, in our usually meat-free household, we had fantastic pigs in blankets - Waitrose perfectly seasoned and traceable pork chipolatas wrapped in their similarly traceable streaky bacon - and Crocker-tastic stuffing balls: seasoned pork sausagemeat combined with the fantastically packaged Kraft (R) Stove Top Stuffing Mix from - where else? - me dad's house! Feeel the quality.
On Boxing day mum and I spent the morning making feta filo parcels (surprisingly easy), vegan sausage rolls and hot spiced nuts, then we all went to join Flesh and M and their families at their house, which meant more pass the baby and yet more confusion for poor Babs. She did a very good job of holding it together while being thrown around by over-enthusiastic wannabe grandparents and had a nap with her new alligator on Flesh's bed.
Meanwhile we got to try the infamous vegan cheesecake, which was good but very sharp; M's dad made me laugh and laugh as usual (makes me feel like a young child and he's the funny uncle); M's granny was good value as only deaf and slightly batty old folk can be; and we got to make off with some decent leftovers for supper. Perfect.
So that was baby's first Christmas. Hopefully next year we'll get Terry's dad as well as my mum, and maybe uncle monkey & mj might make it too. That way it won't pass without incident, I'll get to revert to tradition and cry on Christmas day, and we'll get some decent - turkey - gravy.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
Things I remember from school
I hated school. Absolutely, dog-gone utterly, hated it. Partly - early on - for keeping me apart from my mother, who I really was besotted with. Partly because I never really fit in. And partly because it just never really engaged me.
Flesh invited me to share my recollections. Hers are beautifully organised into triumphs and, modestly, rather more humiliations. Mine will be a rag-tag stream of consciousness. I fear there are rather more disappointments than anything else. At the moment I can think of no triumphs, but maybe some will emerge:
Jane Hollis (yes, I'm naming and shaming) falsely telling Jo Wilson that I'd disparaged her in some way, leading to much bad feeling and the end of a smiling acquaintance and what may have been a nascent friendship. (This memory is always associated with the deep end of the swimming pool. Literal or metaphorical, I don't know).
Mrs Corless being unable to disguise her dislike for me. She had a mean face, and the demeanour to match. I must have been 10. She made me sit at the front so she could keep a close eye on me.
I remember being regularly separated from friends.
OK, time to organise. There were 3 schools, then sixth form. I think I need some demarcation.
Primary school:
All I remember is Miss Missin, our violin teacher. She was tiny - tiny - and had big hair like Crystal Tipps (better links gratefully received), and she really got into the music: eyes closed and whole body trembling.
Junior/senior school 1:
This is where I was rent from friends by staff and pupils alike. By staff, because I was disorderly, talkative and distracting, and had to be separated from friends presumably to give the class some peace; by pupils, why? Dislike, jealousy, spitefulness? Who knows. Flesh (my contemporary from age 7-14) remembers me as 'a boisterous and angry child at school', which was painful when I first read it, but now makes me sad, and fearful for my baby. My fears for my child's school life are long-standing and wide-ranging, and my dislike of school and general childhood and adolescent dissatisfaction and sense of alienation are what contributed to my intention (prior to the intervention of my body clock) never to have children.
The happiest memory I have of this school is hanging out with Flesh at sports day in the third year (now ~year 9?). We went out the back way and hung out by the river, and I remember thinking she was really cool. Seven years at school together and she'd never really figured on my radar, and meeting her was quite exciting.
Oh dear, now I remember more: 'Pushing Dr S down the stairs.' This is a lie. I didn't, but he said I did, and he was the teacher. The headmistress took a dim view.
Not doing my homework for Dr S. And being smug and insolent about it.
Really not understanding matrices.
Let's move on.
Senior school 2:
Being fancied by the boys in my year and the year above when I arrived aged 14 in the 4th year (year 10).
Being ridiculed and reviled by the boys in my year and above when the novelty wore off. Specifically, being called 'scum' in the lunch queue by a particularly charming boy from the sixth form.
Writing bloody awful poetry.
Using laxatives to lose weight.
Using my lunch money to buy half-ounces of Old Holborn and smoking rollies with Jessie in town.
Mr Wade-Wright being a fantastic physics teacher, who spent loads of time with me when I just couldn't understand moments. And who bounced around pretending to be an atom. And being endearing, rather than the tit that makes him sound.
Being suspended from the school bus for a week as punishment for I don't know what.
Mr Gough being contemptuous to me as I exited an exam.
Sitting outside the deputy head's office doing O-Level exam papers in French because the French classes weren't taxing enough.
Figuring out the only way to leave at lunchtime was to sneak under the staff room window towards the gate. Then doing it, often. It was scary, not exhilarating.
Sixth form, after all that, was glorious. I met one of my best friends, K, aged 15, on a coach trip to see the Cure at Wembley, and she introduced me to all her friends. When I had to choose where to go to Sixth Form, I chose their school, which was a great, great choice. (Not necessarily academically; the abiding memory being walking out of an A-Level Psychology paper after 30 minutes because I'd revised 4 topics and only 1 had come up. I had to answer 3 questions.)
None of my memories of school prior to sixth form involve achievement of anything other than negative attention. Since my dad died this summer and my mum has cleared out his house, several school reports have turned up. In the senior schools and sixth form the more generous teachers' efforts to make positive remarks are almost palpable. But ultimately each report is littered with 'could try harder's. Ms Mooney comments on my lackadaisical attitude. Mr Hayes despairs of my apparent ignorance when he knows I know the answers. In primary school I was 'polite' and 'helpful'. I don't know what went wrong. I don't know quite when or why junior school became difficult and I became alienated. I do know that not many teachers attempted to help me. This is troublesome because not every child who is difficult or alienated at school has a supportive and cohesive family, and because not every child will turn out ok because they're clever enough (or ultimately conformist enough) to push the boundaries only so far, and to toe the line enough to make some conventional achievements that'll see them through to adult life.
God, I feel like Jerry Springer. Take care of yourselves... and each other.
Flesh invited me to share my recollections. Hers are beautifully organised into triumphs and, modestly, rather more humiliations. Mine will be a rag-tag stream of consciousness. I fear there are rather more disappointments than anything else. At the moment I can think of no triumphs, but maybe some will emerge:
Jane Hollis (yes, I'm naming and shaming) falsely telling Jo Wilson that I'd disparaged her in some way, leading to much bad feeling and the end of a smiling acquaintance and what may have been a nascent friendship. (This memory is always associated with the deep end of the swimming pool. Literal or metaphorical, I don't know).
Mrs Corless being unable to disguise her dislike for me. She had a mean face, and the demeanour to match. I must have been 10. She made me sit at the front so she could keep a close eye on me.
I remember being regularly separated from friends.
OK, time to organise. There were 3 schools, then sixth form. I think I need some demarcation.
Primary school:
All I remember is Miss Missin, our violin teacher. She was tiny - tiny - and had big hair like Crystal Tipps (better links gratefully received), and she really got into the music: eyes closed and whole body trembling.
Junior/senior school 1:
This is where I was rent from friends by staff and pupils alike. By staff, because I was disorderly, talkative and distracting, and had to be separated from friends presumably to give the class some peace; by pupils, why? Dislike, jealousy, spitefulness? Who knows. Flesh (my contemporary from age 7-14) remembers me as 'a boisterous and angry child at school', which was painful when I first read it, but now makes me sad, and fearful for my baby. My fears for my child's school life are long-standing and wide-ranging, and my dislike of school and general childhood and adolescent dissatisfaction and sense of alienation are what contributed to my intention (prior to the intervention of my body clock) never to have children.
The happiest memory I have of this school is hanging out with Flesh at sports day in the third year (now ~year 9?). We went out the back way and hung out by the river, and I remember thinking she was really cool. Seven years at school together and she'd never really figured on my radar, and meeting her was quite exciting.
Oh dear, now I remember more: 'Pushing Dr S down the stairs.' This is a lie. I didn't, but he said I did, and he was the teacher. The headmistress took a dim view.
Not doing my homework for Dr S. And being smug and insolent about it.
Really not understanding matrices.
Let's move on.
Senior school 2:
Being fancied by the boys in my year and the year above when I arrived aged 14 in the 4th year (year 10).
Being ridiculed and reviled by the boys in my year and above when the novelty wore off. Specifically, being called 'scum' in the lunch queue by a particularly charming boy from the sixth form.
Writing bloody awful poetry.
Using laxatives to lose weight.
Using my lunch money to buy half-ounces of Old Holborn and smoking rollies with Jessie in town.
Mr Wade-Wright being a fantastic physics teacher, who spent loads of time with me when I just couldn't understand moments. And who bounced around pretending to be an atom. And being endearing, rather than the tit that makes him sound.
Being suspended from the school bus for a week as punishment for I don't know what.
Mr Gough being contemptuous to me as I exited an exam.
Sitting outside the deputy head's office doing O-Level exam papers in French because the French classes weren't taxing enough.
Figuring out the only way to leave at lunchtime was to sneak under the staff room window towards the gate. Then doing it, often. It was scary, not exhilarating.
Sixth form, after all that, was glorious. I met one of my best friends, K, aged 15, on a coach trip to see the Cure at Wembley, and she introduced me to all her friends. When I had to choose where to go to Sixth Form, I chose their school, which was a great, great choice. (Not necessarily academically; the abiding memory being walking out of an A-Level Psychology paper after 30 minutes because I'd revised 4 topics and only 1 had come up. I had to answer 3 questions.)
None of my memories of school prior to sixth form involve achievement of anything other than negative attention. Since my dad died this summer and my mum has cleared out his house, several school reports have turned up. In the senior schools and sixth form the more generous teachers' efforts to make positive remarks are almost palpable. But ultimately each report is littered with 'could try harder's. Ms Mooney comments on my lackadaisical attitude. Mr Hayes despairs of my apparent ignorance when he knows I know the answers. In primary school I was 'polite' and 'helpful'. I don't know what went wrong. I don't know quite when or why junior school became difficult and I became alienated. I do know that not many teachers attempted to help me. This is troublesome because not every child who is difficult or alienated at school has a supportive and cohesive family, and because not every child will turn out ok because they're clever enough (or ultimately conformist enough) to push the boundaries only so far, and to toe the line enough to make some conventional achievements that'll see them through to adult life.
God, I feel like Jerry Springer. Take care of yourselves... and each other.
Saturday, 13 December 2008
Crazy driving. My worries as a parent.
Well, my worries in general; but now I'm a parent, I can sound more middle England.
When I used to walk to the station alone on my way to work, even though I was pregnant I used to cross anywhere, playing Frogger through gaps in the traffic. Once my precious cargo was truly in this world (and probably - I don't remember - once I was very big and pretty sure the baby was sticking around), I started walking the longer way to use the zebra crossing. Now, the crossing is not well-placed: a few metres from a mini roundabout on a corner (a tri-crossing), meaning cars zoom round the corner and can't slow down in time, and a few metres from a corner, meaning cars don't see, don't anticipate, and don't slow down in time. (I'll post a photo later). Anyway, quite often, I have to wait for one or other lane of traffic to stop, and more often than not, a car zooms over the crossing. To give them their dues, the drivers do often wave their apology, but really, too little too effing late. If I weren't scared for my own and the baby's welfare, and trying to set a good example of quiet tolerance to my baby, I'd give them a round bollocking, but mostly I just scowl, or shake my head, or otherwise attempt to exhibit my shock or despondency to the other drivers, so they can feel pleased with themselves and their safe and courteous driving, which I hope will reinforce good driving behaviour. (I know, I am delusional. And a little self-important).
Anyway, the kind of crazy driving beloved of our youth, the Poles over the road and local mini-cab drivers was limited, I thought, to the generally scary folk of North-East London. But no. It happens in leafy Muswell Hill, too. Leafy, bourgeois, yummy mummy Muswell Hill. We were invited last weekend to a Christmas knees-up in the rather specific interval of 3-5pm. We arrived late, in a flap, having dropped and smashed the wine as we walked the wrong way up the street looking for the flat. Poor Babs was in the throes of an eye infection which had suddenly developed such that her little eye was gummed shut when we woke her from her little travelling slumber. And walking up the road, a car zoomed so fast it made us look up, and so close to a parked car that it knocked the rear-view mirror clean off. It was quite alarming. The driver seemed to slow down, and I naturally assumed he would stop, but no, just drove off. Anyway, I took the number, and I was determined to let the other car's driver know, having just spent £100 getting my car fixed after someone bumped it outside the house and left it for us to find. But someone had borrowed my pen the day before, so we couldn't find it. So we wrote both numbers in Terry's iPhone, so we could let someone know.
That was a week ago. I'd look into it now, but the baby's awake, I need a shower, and I've just opened an email giving me a month's notice (so unfair at this time of year) on a room in my dad's flat. Bugger.
Crazy driving though. I worry.
When I used to walk to the station alone on my way to work, even though I was pregnant I used to cross anywhere, playing Frogger through gaps in the traffic. Once my precious cargo was truly in this world (and probably - I don't remember - once I was very big and pretty sure the baby was sticking around), I started walking the longer way to use the zebra crossing. Now, the crossing is not well-placed: a few metres from a mini roundabout on a corner (a tri-crossing), meaning cars zoom round the corner and can't slow down in time, and a few metres from a corner, meaning cars don't see, don't anticipate, and don't slow down in time. (I'll post a photo later). Anyway, quite often, I have to wait for one or other lane of traffic to stop, and more often than not, a car zooms over the crossing. To give them their dues, the drivers do often wave their apology, but really, too little too effing late. If I weren't scared for my own and the baby's welfare, and trying to set a good example of quiet tolerance to my baby, I'd give them a round bollocking, but mostly I just scowl, or shake my head, or otherwise attempt to exhibit my shock or despondency to the other drivers, so they can feel pleased with themselves and their safe and courteous driving, which I hope will reinforce good driving behaviour. (I know, I am delusional. And a little self-important).
Anyway, the kind of crazy driving beloved of our youth, the Poles over the road and local mini-cab drivers was limited, I thought, to the generally scary folk of North-East London. But no. It happens in leafy Muswell Hill, too. Leafy, bourgeois, yummy mummy Muswell Hill. We were invited last weekend to a Christmas knees-up in the rather specific interval of 3-5pm. We arrived late, in a flap, having dropped and smashed the wine as we walked the wrong way up the street looking for the flat. Poor Babs was in the throes of an eye infection which had suddenly developed such that her little eye was gummed shut when we woke her from her little travelling slumber. And walking up the road, a car zoomed so fast it made us look up, and so close to a parked car that it knocked the rear-view mirror clean off. It was quite alarming. The driver seemed to slow down, and I naturally assumed he would stop, but no, just drove off. Anyway, I took the number, and I was determined to let the other car's driver know, having just spent £100 getting my car fixed after someone bumped it outside the house and left it for us to find. But someone had borrowed my pen the day before, so we couldn't find it. So we wrote both numbers in Terry's iPhone, so we could let someone know.
That was a week ago. I'd look into it now, but the baby's awake, I need a shower, and I've just opened an email giving me a month's notice (so unfair at this time of year) on a room in my dad's flat. Bugger.
Crazy driving though. I worry.
What I did on my holidays
For our first family holiday*, Terry, Babs and I went to Venice.
Magical, it was. Crazy, it is. We arrived about 8pm, a bit too late for the baby and therefore a little too stressful for me, but when we (Terry) stopped procrastinating and (I) asked someone for help, we found the boat-bus to the hotel, and took a little journey down the Grand Canal in the evening, with crazy Venice prettily lit and looking just - just- like Venice in Vegas.
Yes, Venice - the real Venice, steeped in history and culture, evocative of masquerade and Renaissance and corsets and Casanova - reminded me of Vegas. And of the 2005 Sienna Miller movie. I'm trash.
Anyhoo, it was beautiful:
There were many and varied yummy delights:
And after a couple of days, the sun shone:
Five days was just about enough with an 8-month old, which is just a little too old to happily be constrained all the time. Babs held up very well, sleeping in the buggy in the mornings and kick-kick-kicking in the BabyBjorn in the afternoons. (I think this was the end of the window for holidays of this kind 'til she's walking properly). The Italians were very sweet and friendly and enchanted by the baby (alright, all babies), with lots of waving and 'Ciao, ciao!' to the baby and 'Complimenti' to us. The food was pretty yummy - Terry went back for seconds on some rigatone with smokey salmon, porcini and courgette; I chowed through several good pizzas, some yummy calamari and a rubbish spaghetti alla vongole. And we only got ripped off once, for some hot chocolate and a coffee overlooking the Grand Canal at the Rialto bridge, when we needed to sit in the sun to get some food into the baby.
The hotel - just the 'most popular' on lastminute.com where we booked - was super-central, super-easy to find off the boat, and the breakfast girls were super-helpful given the grim hours of their job and the grumpiness of some of our fellow guests. We were upgraded to a junior suite, so Babs had her own room, which made things a little easier. The only downer was the lack of hotel restaurant (off season), so we subsisted on king-size bed picnics in the evenings and had to cope with the super-repetitive CNN (I thought the BBC world news channel was bad...) or Italian X-Factor.
Anyway, Venice gets my thumbs up. Next time we go away I will be taking a portable DVD player (we deliberated about taking the laptop, then decided we had enough stuff) and more baby food if we have a baby this small (trying to ensure Babs could eat out was a bit too hard). And get a baby who'll breastfeed on the plane.
*not my first holiday with the baby, which was to my mum's. The first day of which we found out my dad had died. This holiday passed without mishap.
Magical, it was. Crazy, it is. We arrived about 8pm, a bit too late for the baby and therefore a little too stressful for me, but when we (Terry) stopped procrastinating and (I) asked someone for help, we found the boat-bus to the hotel, and took a little journey down the Grand Canal in the evening, with crazy Venice prettily lit and looking just - just- like Venice in Vegas.
Yes, Venice - the real Venice, steeped in history and culture, evocative of masquerade and Renaissance and corsets and Casanova - reminded me of Vegas. And of the 2005 Sienna Miller movie. I'm trash.
Anyhoo, it was beautiful:
There were many and varied yummy delights:
And after a couple of days, the sun shone:
Five days was just about enough with an 8-month old, which is just a little too old to happily be constrained all the time. Babs held up very well, sleeping in the buggy in the mornings and kick-kick-kicking in the BabyBjorn in the afternoons. (I think this was the end of the window for holidays of this kind 'til she's walking properly). The Italians were very sweet and friendly and enchanted by the baby (alright, all babies), with lots of waving and 'Ciao, ciao!' to the baby and 'Complimenti' to us. The food was pretty yummy - Terry went back for seconds on some rigatone with smokey salmon, porcini and courgette; I chowed through several good pizzas, some yummy calamari and a rubbish spaghetti alla vongole. And we only got ripped off once, for some hot chocolate and a coffee overlooking the Grand Canal at the Rialto bridge, when we needed to sit in the sun to get some food into the baby.The hotel - just the 'most popular' on lastminute.com where we booked - was super-central, super-easy to find off the boat, and the breakfast girls were super-helpful given the grim hours of their job and the grumpiness of some of our fellow guests. We were upgraded to a junior suite, so Babs had her own room, which made things a little easier. The only downer was the lack of hotel restaurant (off season), so we subsisted on king-size bed picnics in the evenings and had to cope with the super-repetitive CNN (I thought the BBC world news channel was bad...) or Italian X-Factor.
Anyway, Venice gets my thumbs up. Next time we go away I will be taking a portable DVD player (we deliberated about taking the laptop, then decided we had enough stuff) and more baby food if we have a baby this small (trying to ensure Babs could eat out was a bit too hard). And get a baby who'll breastfeed on the plane.
*not my first holiday with the baby, which was to my mum's. The first day of which we found out my dad had died. This holiday passed without mishap.
'Coals to Newcastle' or 'Crocker to Conneticut'
So the great BC backlog continues. Though not for much longer. The cupboard is almost bare:
<Sniff>
As documented earlier, my brother came over from the US in November. In his honour, and partly in recognition of the fact I swiped all the Crocker with no mention to mother or brother, I whipped up the Yellow Cake.
(Yes, Crocker-naive British readers, it really is called Yellow Cake. It's not Victoria Sponge. Its a sweet sponge-type cake which is yellow. There is also White Cake.... Which is also not Victoria Sponge. And Angel Cake, which is probably similar to White Cake, and similar - but different - to the Angel Cake we used to get just occasionally from M&S back when it was still called Marks and Spencer).
The best way with Yellow Cake is always Brown Frosting. (Oh go on then, 'Chocolate' Frosting. But a pitiful 8.5% cocoa powder. I just checked). Oh, gosh, it really is yummy. Anyway, my tins are too small (established previously with the carrot cake) so I made some cupcakes too, and when Flesh and Papanomicron turned up for supper I foisted one upon Pap and presented the whole cake as dessert. Which was lush.
<Sniff>
As documented earlier, my brother came over from the US in November. In his honour, and partly in recognition of the fact I swiped all the Crocker with no mention to mother or brother, I whipped up the Yellow Cake.
(Yes, Crocker-naive British readers, it really is called Yellow Cake. It's not Victoria Sponge. Its a sweet sponge-type cake which is yellow. There is also White Cake.... Which is also not Victoria Sponge. And Angel Cake, which is probably similar to White Cake, and similar - but different - to the Angel Cake we used to get just occasionally from M&S back when it was still called Marks and Spencer).
The best way with Yellow Cake is always Brown Frosting. (Oh go on then, 'Chocolate' Frosting. But a pitiful 8.5% cocoa powder. I just checked). Oh, gosh, it really is yummy. Anyway, my tins are too small (established previously with the carrot cake) so I made some cupcakes too, and when Flesh and Papanomicron turned up for supper I foisted one upon Pap and presented the whole cake as dessert. Which was
Friday, 12 December 2008
Two weeks offline is a long time... but two weeks back on is even longer
Virgin - who wrote with such sensitivity from one department when we informed another of my father's passing - upgraded our broadband service in November. They didn't ask us. They didn't request details of our router and its age/sophistication/capacity for greater speeds. They did write with two days' notice and tell us it was happening. And then, one Monday, they did it. And then, suddenly, we had no internet no more. We waited, and it didn't come back. We switched the box back off, and back on again and it didn't come back. And we waited. And it didn't come back.
My boss had emailed a week earlier to tell me (and a bunch of others) that she'd/we'd been commissioned to write a paper on the project that ended when the baby came, and that she'd appreciate our input. Virgin put paid to my contribution by allowing me no access whatsoever to the internet, though we had a perfectly functioning wireless LAN. Which was nice.
I phoned Virgin a lot, and they kept me on hold a lot, then they made me follow instructions to set up the box with new passwords, and nothing happened. Terry phone them, and stayed on hold a lot, and followed the same instructions, and nothing happened. And they never really told us what the problem was, or how or when it would be fixed. As one week turned into two, I quietly cheered the fact that this majorly got me off the hook with work (because I really, really feared I couldn't make a sensible contribution and would show myself up as a bit useless), but I pined for t'internet. In the middle of week two, I realised this was probably my longest time offline since I started my PhD in 1996. And then I pined some more. They phoned us back a couple of times, but I was out. The messages they left gave the central switchboard number, so we went through the options and went interminably on hold, and whoever took our call treated us like we were starting a fresh enquiry - no continuity.
But then, after two weeks, and following 25 minutes on hold in a call I returned because when they called 4 minutes earlier the baby was almost asleep on my boob, they fixed the fault. Allelujah.
So I checked my email, and skipped over the many, many emails about the paper, to the one that said that hooray, today, after two weeks' hard grind (of which I had no part), it had finally gone. And I felt a bit guilty. But I got over it.
And then I got a text. 'Call for proposals has just come out. Closing date two weeks today. Would really appreciate your help on this.' Damn.
Gosh, damn, it filled me with fear and dread. Paper-writing is bad enough, but bid-writing? Actually coming up with ideas? Yikes. And then having to come up with a reasonable literature review after a year out of the game? Ouch.
Worse, this was the day Terry finished work for three whole weeks, his first holiday since the baby was 3 weeks old; this was the day before my brother arrived from the States to sleep on our floor and commute far to work but then hang out with us in the evenings for a week; the week I'd scheduled to spend 2 days doing homework for my course; and the week before we were due to go on holiday. Rubbish, rubbish timing. 'Oh well,' said the boss, clearly thinking she had it worse, having just had three weeks on the paper. 'Oh well.'
Anyhoo, my brother came, we saw picked him up and saw T5 (I like!), Terry worked Monday to Wednesday despite having 'finished', my brother hung out, the anticipation of work made me very, very grumpy, and then I did my two days promised on the bid. And you know? It was ok. And my boss, whose stinginess with praise and professional brilliance conspire often to make me feel very small and rather dim, was pleased, impressed, complimentary and grateful.
My homework didn't get done, but after 4 days of procrastination we booked the holiday, and then after a few days we went on holiday, and it was lovely.
And then we came back and we turned on the router. And we had a wireless LAN. Which was nice. But no internet....
My boss had emailed a week earlier to tell me (and a bunch of others) that she'd/we'd been commissioned to write a paper on the project that ended when the baby came, and that she'd appreciate our input. Virgin put paid to my contribution by allowing me no access whatsoever to the internet, though we had a perfectly functioning wireless LAN. Which was nice.
I phoned Virgin a lot, and they kept me on hold a lot, then they made me follow instructions to set up the box with new passwords, and nothing happened. Terry phone them, and stayed on hold a lot, and followed the same instructions, and nothing happened. And they never really told us what the problem was, or how or when it would be fixed. As one week turned into two, I quietly cheered the fact that this majorly got me off the hook with work (because I really, really feared I couldn't make a sensible contribution and would show myself up as a bit useless), but I pined for t'internet. In the middle of week two, I realised this was probably my longest time offline since I started my PhD in 1996. And then I pined some more. They phoned us back a couple of times, but I was out. The messages they left gave the central switchboard number, so we went through the options and went interminably on hold, and whoever took our call treated us like we were starting a fresh enquiry - no continuity.
But then, after two weeks, and following 25 minutes on hold in a call I returned because when they called 4 minutes earlier the baby was almost asleep on my boob, they fixed the fault. Allelujah.
So I checked my email, and skipped over the many, many emails about the paper, to the one that said that hooray, today, after two weeks' hard grind (of which I had no part), it had finally gone. And I felt a bit guilty. But I got over it.
And then I got a text. 'Call for proposals has just come out. Closing date two weeks today. Would really appreciate your help on this.' Damn.
Gosh, damn, it filled me with fear and dread. Paper-writing is bad enough, but bid-writing? Actually coming up with ideas? Yikes. And then having to come up with a reasonable literature review after a year out of the game? Ouch.
Worse, this was the day Terry finished work for three whole weeks, his first holiday since the baby was 3 weeks old; this was the day before my brother arrived from the States to sleep on our floor and commute far to work but then hang out with us in the evenings for a week; the week I'd scheduled to spend 2 days doing homework for my course; and the week before we were due to go on holiday. Rubbish, rubbish timing. 'Oh well,' said the boss, clearly thinking she had it worse, having just had three weeks on the paper. 'Oh well.'
Anyhoo, my brother came, we saw picked him up and saw T5 (I like!), Terry worked Monday to Wednesday despite having 'finished', my brother hung out, the anticipation of work made me very, very grumpy, and then I did my two days promised on the bid. And you know? It was ok. And my boss, whose stinginess with praise and professional brilliance conspire often to make me feel very small and rather dim, was pleased, impressed, complimentary and grateful.
My homework didn't get done, but after 4 days of procrastination we booked the holiday, and then after a few days we went on holiday, and it was lovely.
And then we came back and we turned on the router. And we had a wireless LAN. Which was nice. But no internet....
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