Do you know exactly what your friends and family do for a living? I have a vague idea how most of mine spend their day but generally it doesn’t extend much beyond knowing the industry in which they work. My good friend T, for example, I can say with absolute certainty that she is in banking. What sort banking? Well, she works for Deutsche Bank, so that would be German banking! But beyond that, I’m a bit sketchy! And as for K, well she is in Accounting. I think!
It’s not that I’m not interested. It’s just that I haven't managed to keep abreast of their various progressions and promotions. And I’m afraid that this isn’t a new thing for me. I absolutely never got to grips with what my Dad did for a living, which is quite ungrateful when you consider that whatever it was effectively kept me clothed and fed. Still, he’s retired now so that’s a weight off my mind! The thing is that it goes past the point when you can ask for clarification.
It puts me in mind of when I bought my first flat and introduced myself to the chap downstairs. When next I saw him he was munching a bacon sandwich but shouted out what sounded like a cheery “Morning Anna.” And to borrow from the Ting Tings – that’s not my name! But he had been eating a sandwich. Maybe I’d misheard. The next time I saw him he was just rushing off to work but as the door slammed behind him I definitely heard “Hi Anna!” Never mind, I’d correct him next time. Except I didn’t see him until he dropped off Anna’s Christmas card and a bottle of wine to apologise for a noisy party he’d hosted. At which point it seemed a bit churlish to put him right. Plus I might not have got to keep Anna’s wine!
Anyway, I digress. The purpose of this is that I was making this rather long and rambling point to a new friend who pointed out that perhaps my friends and family found my chosen profession – PR – to be an equally closed book. I mean it’s a term we’re all very used to hearing. It’s bandied about in the media all the time. A bit like the phrase ‘offside’ in football. But, as with offside, just because we hear a phrase a lot, it doesn’t necessarily mean we know what it is!
So, for the uninitiated, PR is the management of communications between an organisation and its publics. It can be used to build rapport with customers, potential customers, employees, investors or the general public. And generally speaking, PR uses methods and tools that don’t require direct payment. Such as working with the press, speaking at conferences or employee and customer communications.
It would have been fitting to sum up by juxtaposing the above with a neat definition of the offside rule - but despite consulting numerous sources, I’m still not 100 percent clear!"
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Friday, 7 November 2008
When rodents attack!
So, I’m in Kelsey Park with Suzanne, my personal trainer (get me!) and I’m telling her how, last time we visited, my youngest was trying to encourage squirrels to come to him by pretending he had a peanut. He explained to his Dad how you have to make a particular noise with your mouth to call them and nagged Daddy to have a go.
The husband tried to show willing by half heartedly kissing his lips, only for the fattest squirrel I have ever seen to take this as an invitation to leap the three feet that separated them and land halfway up the husband’s leg. For a brief moment the three of us (four if you count the squirrel) were frozen in a tableau of shock and surprise. The husband recovered first and began, to the huge amusement of the little ‘un and me, to hop around like, well a man with a rodent on his leg! Funny enough in itself! But he accompanied this frenzied activity with what can only be described very girly shrieking!
Anyway, fast forward to today and Suzanne and I had a good laugh about the squirrely incident and then got down to the serious business of my training session. After some preliminary torture, she paced out a (very long) stretch of path and explained how we would be walking the length of it and then sprinting back to our starting point. Joy. I have developed the ability to run for quite a long time at a reasonable-ish pace but I really hate going fast. Particularly with Suzanne, who can spend all day doing training sessions and then still sprint faster than your average mugger with a handag under his arm.
So, we do the walk-sprint thing twice. I thought I was holding up quite well, i.e I didn’t pass out, throw up or fall down. Suzanne hadn’t even broken a sweat so when she suggested we did some stretches before our next sprint I think it was mainly to enable me to recover without losing face! So, side by side, we sank (gratefully in my case) into hamstring stretches. For those of you unfamiliar with exercise (my husband for example!) this involves stretching one leg out in front of you and then bending forward over it to stretch the back of your thigh. Sounds uncomfortable I know but, believe me, it’s bliss in comparison to sprinting next to the bionic woman!
Anyway, we’ve been stretching for mere seconds when Suzanne lets out a blood curdling yell and springs from a bending stretch to a sort of six-feet-off-the-ground star jump in one move. Blimey, I think, preparing to follow suit. Until I spot the rather fat squirrel in the middle of her back! Apparently, it had taken advantage of her stretching manoeuvres to launch an assault from behind – running up her leg and onto her back!
As you would expect from a woman of her suppleness and agility she was soon able to shake off the chubby little interloper and, I might add, with a minimum of shrieking! But we were aghast at his brazen behaviour. I mean, as Suzanne, pointed out “It’s not like I’ve even got any nuts!”
The husband tried to show willing by half heartedly kissing his lips, only for the fattest squirrel I have ever seen to take this as an invitation to leap the three feet that separated them and land halfway up the husband’s leg. For a brief moment the three of us (four if you count the squirrel) were frozen in a tableau of shock and surprise. The husband recovered first and began, to the huge amusement of the little ‘un and me, to hop around like, well a man with a rodent on his leg! Funny enough in itself! But he accompanied this frenzied activity with what can only be described very girly shrieking!
Anyway, fast forward to today and Suzanne and I had a good laugh about the squirrely incident and then got down to the serious business of my training session. After some preliminary torture, she paced out a (very long) stretch of path and explained how we would be walking the length of it and then sprinting back to our starting point. Joy. I have developed the ability to run for quite a long time at a reasonable-ish pace but I really hate going fast. Particularly with Suzanne, who can spend all day doing training sessions and then still sprint faster than your average mugger with a handag under his arm.
So, we do the walk-sprint thing twice. I thought I was holding up quite well, i.e I didn’t pass out, throw up or fall down. Suzanne hadn’t even broken a sweat so when she suggested we did some stretches before our next sprint I think it was mainly to enable me to recover without losing face! So, side by side, we sank (gratefully in my case) into hamstring stretches. For those of you unfamiliar with exercise (my husband for example!) this involves stretching one leg out in front of you and then bending forward over it to stretch the back of your thigh. Sounds uncomfortable I know but, believe me, it’s bliss in comparison to sprinting next to the bionic woman!
Anyway, we’ve been stretching for mere seconds when Suzanne lets out a blood curdling yell and springs from a bending stretch to a sort of six-feet-off-the-ground star jump in one move. Blimey, I think, preparing to follow suit. Until I spot the rather fat squirrel in the middle of her back! Apparently, it had taken advantage of her stretching manoeuvres to launch an assault from behind – running up her leg and onto her back!
As you would expect from a woman of her suppleness and agility she was soon able to shake off the chubby little interloper and, I might add, with a minimum of shrieking! But we were aghast at his brazen behaviour. I mean, as Suzanne, pointed out “It’s not like I’ve even got any nuts!”
Friday, 24 October 2008
Living the dream
My little brother and his wife emigrated to Australia about five years ago. My niece was only 2 at the time and they felt that the quality of life and standard of living would be better over there. They assured us that it’s a fantastic place to bring up kids and, having visited, I can totally see what they meant. They raved about the weather, the fact that they could get a much bigger house, that they’d be close to the beach, lots of surfing, BBQs etc. And five years on, they still love it.
Of course, as the days get colder and the nights draw in here, the exact opposite is happening in Perth so when I spoke to my brother at the weekend I expected to come off the phone green with envy at his laid back, sun filled lifestyle. But no, because apparently he'd spent the day pricing up mulch for the garden!
Of course, as the days get colder and the nights draw in here, the exact opposite is happening in Perth so when I spoke to my brother at the weekend I expected to come off the phone green with envy at his laid back, sun filled lifestyle. But no, because apparently he'd spent the day pricing up mulch for the garden!
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
The bank that likes to say I don't really know!
Having already suffered an identity fraud recently, we thought we were done with our share of financial woes. But we hadn’t reckoned on the unique brand of customer service on offer from NatWest (correct at the time of writing but by now they may be part of a larger, more sinister organisation.)
We’ve been undertaking a variety of home improvements and, to be fair, the initial problem resulted from mis-timing on our part – a couple of builders’ bills came in slightly earlier than we’d expected and one was higher than we’d been led to believe. Essentially, in mid July we found ourselves needing to pay out several £k that we wouldn’t have until the husband’s bonus was paid in September.
The husband immediately phoned our Personal Banker (sounds good but we pay about £200 a year for the privilege!) who was extremely sympathetic (well we have been customers for over 50 years between us). He took her through the details – slightly complicated by the fact that we were on holiday in Mexico and trying to manage a 6 hour time difference! Now we’ve both worked in a bank and didn’t think that a request to increase an overdraft facility for eight weeks was a particularly difficult conundrum. And to be fair, there never seemed to be an issue with actually agreeing to lend the money.
The first stumbling block was that our bank (where we'd both also worked for many years) now apparently needed to confirm our identity! Basically, the process could not move forward until our Personal Manager had seen our passports, which were with us, in Mexico! We expressed our frustration and, once again, she was sympathetic (£200 a year buys quite a lot of sympathy we’ve discovered!) but it was ‘out of her hands’. We debated whether to continue with the process or whether to source the money elsewhere (otherwise known as grovelling to one or other set of parents!!) We phoned the builder from Mexico to explain and he was very relaxed so we decided to stick with the increase in overdraft plan.
Back in England, we dutifully presented our passports, only to be informed that NatWest also needed confirmation of our new address. Where we’d been living for over six months and where they’d been sending our bank statements! I took in a heap of utility bills and let the bank employee decide what to photocopy. Which was a mistake, because when the photocopies eventually reached our Personal Banker (which took over a week!), there was a further problem because none of the utilities are in joint names and she didn’t feel, therefore, that she had proper confirmation that we BOTH lived at the new address. Jesus Christ. So then she suggests that we make another trip to the branch, this time with a NatWest joint account statement! Yes, that’s right, one of the statements that they sent us in the first place. Apparently this would be sufficient confirmation. Hey, £200 a year might buy sympathy but it doesn’t get you an appreciation of irony! Anyway, it was now a month since we’d first asked for the money so we did as we were told. But I did ask her if this would be the final hurdle - I like to be prepared if I’m going to need to jump through a burning hoop at short notice! Yes, she assured me, it’s all agreed (her exact words) we just need this last bit of identification for the paperwork. So, the husband took the statement in the next day and the day after that I issued the cheque to the builder. Phew! It had taken far longer than it should have but we’d got there.
Or so we thought. But no. A week or so later, my card was refused in a shop. I phoned the bank and was told it was because we’d issued a big cheque that had taken us over our overdraft limit. I tried not to lose patience – honest! I explained about the new overdraft limit. No, that wasn’t ‘on the system’. I phoned the Personal Banker and was told that the limit had yet to be applied to our account. Apparently our paperwork had now been posted to Edinburgh to be processed. I explained that without the limit going on the computer we couldn't take cash out of our account oor use our debit cards. More sympathetic noises. But 'Edinburgh' couldn't be hurried. To cut a very long story slightly shorter we carried on in this position for over two weeks. They paid all our standing orders and direct debits but, apart from that, we couldn’t use the account. We reminded our Personal Banker that she had effectively told us the overdraft had been agreed and this time we got sympathy and an apology. And told that ‘I thought you’d know the process since you both used to work for NatWest’ - Yes, back in the day when a customer requested an overdraft, a Personal Banker reviewed their account, told them yes or no and then made the money available within a couple of days at the most!
We pointed out that in addition to having to find an alternative way to fund our living expenses; we were also now incurring interest at an unauthorised borrowing rate, which, in all the circumstances, seemed unfair. Our Personal Banker assured us that she would take care of this. And then she went on maternity leave.
Is anyone surprised to learn that the bank subsequently applied interest at an unauthorised borrowing rate? And also a maintenance charge for having to ‘manage’ our account while it was operated outside the overdraft limit? Obviously we complained. And the replacement Personal Banker went on holiday and left it to her Assistant. And then last week we received a letter from the replacement Personal Banker telling us that the bank has decided not to refund our charges. But that if we’re not happy with this decision we should phone her!!!!!!!
We’ve been undertaking a variety of home improvements and, to be fair, the initial problem resulted from mis-timing on our part – a couple of builders’ bills came in slightly earlier than we’d expected and one was higher than we’d been led to believe. Essentially, in mid July we found ourselves needing to pay out several £k that we wouldn’t have until the husband’s bonus was paid in September.
The husband immediately phoned our Personal Banker (sounds good but we pay about £200 a year for the privilege!) who was extremely sympathetic (well we have been customers for over 50 years between us). He took her through the details – slightly complicated by the fact that we were on holiday in Mexico and trying to manage a 6 hour time difference! Now we’ve both worked in a bank and didn’t think that a request to increase an overdraft facility for eight weeks was a particularly difficult conundrum. And to be fair, there never seemed to be an issue with actually agreeing to lend the money.
The first stumbling block was that our bank (where we'd both also worked for many years) now apparently needed to confirm our identity! Basically, the process could not move forward until our Personal Manager had seen our passports, which were with us, in Mexico! We expressed our frustration and, once again, she was sympathetic (£200 a year buys quite a lot of sympathy we’ve discovered!) but it was ‘out of her hands’. We debated whether to continue with the process or whether to source the money elsewhere (otherwise known as grovelling to one or other set of parents!!) We phoned the builder from Mexico to explain and he was very relaxed so we decided to stick with the increase in overdraft plan.
Back in England, we dutifully presented our passports, only to be informed that NatWest also needed confirmation of our new address. Where we’d been living for over six months and where they’d been sending our bank statements! I took in a heap of utility bills and let the bank employee decide what to photocopy. Which was a mistake, because when the photocopies eventually reached our Personal Banker (which took over a week!), there was a further problem because none of the utilities are in joint names and she didn’t feel, therefore, that she had proper confirmation that we BOTH lived at the new address. Jesus Christ. So then she suggests that we make another trip to the branch, this time with a NatWest joint account statement! Yes, that’s right, one of the statements that they sent us in the first place. Apparently this would be sufficient confirmation. Hey, £200 a year might buy sympathy but it doesn’t get you an appreciation of irony! Anyway, it was now a month since we’d first asked for the money so we did as we were told. But I did ask her if this would be the final hurdle - I like to be prepared if I’m going to need to jump through a burning hoop at short notice! Yes, she assured me, it’s all agreed (her exact words) we just need this last bit of identification for the paperwork. So, the husband took the statement in the next day and the day after that I issued the cheque to the builder. Phew! It had taken far longer than it should have but we’d got there.
Or so we thought. But no. A week or so later, my card was refused in a shop. I phoned the bank and was told it was because we’d issued a big cheque that had taken us over our overdraft limit. I tried not to lose patience – honest! I explained about the new overdraft limit. No, that wasn’t ‘on the system’. I phoned the Personal Banker and was told that the limit had yet to be applied to our account. Apparently our paperwork had now been posted to Edinburgh to be processed. I explained that without the limit going on the computer we couldn't take cash out of our account oor use our debit cards. More sympathetic noises. But 'Edinburgh' couldn't be hurried. To cut a very long story slightly shorter we carried on in this position for over two weeks. They paid all our standing orders and direct debits but, apart from that, we couldn’t use the account. We reminded our Personal Banker that she had effectively told us the overdraft had been agreed and this time we got sympathy and an apology. And told that ‘I thought you’d know the process since you both used to work for NatWest’ - Yes, back in the day when a customer requested an overdraft, a Personal Banker reviewed their account, told them yes or no and then made the money available within a couple of days at the most!
We pointed out that in addition to having to find an alternative way to fund our living expenses; we were also now incurring interest at an unauthorised borrowing rate, which, in all the circumstances, seemed unfair. Our Personal Banker assured us that she would take care of this. And then she went on maternity leave.
Is anyone surprised to learn that the bank subsequently applied interest at an unauthorised borrowing rate? And also a maintenance charge for having to ‘manage’ our account while it was operated outside the overdraft limit? Obviously we complained. And the replacement Personal Banker went on holiday and left it to her Assistant. And then last week we received a letter from the replacement Personal Banker telling us that the bank has decided not to refund our charges. But that if we’re not happy with this decision we should phone her!!!!!!!
Friday, 10 October 2008
Forgive me, it's been months since my last blog!
But now my husband has started a blog of his own (http://www.worldshutyourmouth.com/) and put mine as a link. So, I better get back to it! The issue of the day for me is…Cheerleading. Not quite up there with the World Economic Collapse I know, but still.
My daughter has just started at Secondary School and has joined ‘Cheerleading Club’. Last week they were put into ‘squads’ and she was delighted to be in ‘Yellow’. Excellent. But when we asked what sort of sports they would be cheerleading at she told us that apparently it isn’t ‘that sort of cheerleading’. They don’t stand at the side when the school team is playing a game and shout and jump about as encouragement to the team and to rouse the other supporters (or lead the cheer as one might say). Oh no. Apparently, they dream up complicated routines and then compete against other schools.
Is it just me, or is this a faintly ridiculous idea? Making cheerleading the 'main event' is on a par (forgive the pun) with the golf world introducing competitive caddying! Mind you, maybe I should reserve judgement until I’ve been along to one of these events. It would be an amusing irony to find the school hockey team standing on the sidelines brandishing their sticks and chanting the cheerleaders to victory through their gumshields!
My daughter has just started at Secondary School and has joined ‘Cheerleading Club’. Last week they were put into ‘squads’ and she was delighted to be in ‘Yellow’. Excellent. But when we asked what sort of sports they would be cheerleading at she told us that apparently it isn’t ‘that sort of cheerleading’. They don’t stand at the side when the school team is playing a game and shout and jump about as encouragement to the team and to rouse the other supporters (or lead the cheer as one might say). Oh no. Apparently, they dream up complicated routines and then compete against other schools.
Is it just me, or is this a faintly ridiculous idea? Making cheerleading the 'main event' is on a par (forgive the pun) with the golf world introducing competitive caddying! Mind you, maybe I should reserve judgement until I’ve been along to one of these events. It would be an amusing irony to find the school hockey team standing on the sidelines brandishing their sticks and chanting the cheerleaders to victory through their gumshields!
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
I'm right behind you darling!
The husband seems to be one of the few men left in London who still wears a suit to work most days. To be honest, he prefers it that way as there’s less scope for sartorial disaster if all you’ve got to do each morning is make sure that your tie doesn’t clash with your shirt. That being said, it does make for a large and colourful pile of Thomas Pink/Austin Reed/TM Lewin heavy cotton, double cuff, pain in the neck to iron work shirts at the end of each week. And so, for as many years as I can remember, he has been having his shirts laundered at the dry cleaners each week. Since our house move, he’s swapped to a new place and never tires of telling us what a good service they offer and how impressive and convenient it is that they can turn around his laundry on the same day.
Good for them, I think to myself. And good for the husband. But that’s about as much thought as I’ve ever given to his laundry arrangements. Until very recently, when I found myself sitting in traffic outside the aforementioned Dry Cleaners and saw the huge poster in their window advertising the shirt service. It features a large image of a horrified looking woman with a caption that asks “Too busy to wash and iron your husband’s shirts?”
Far be it from me to get all feminist, but what is this - the 1950s? Why isn’t the picture of a man who is too busy to wash and iron his own shirts? Or why isn’t the woman looking horrified because she’s been too busy to wash her own shirts (women can wear shirt to work too!) Or perhaps a picture of a horrified man who’s been too busy to launder the shirts of his civil partner!? You get my point.
I ranted to my husband about this for quite a while. He nodded in all the right places and made noises of agreement with my outrage. And so, emboldened by his supportive condemnation of this sexist travesty, I declared that I planned to phone the Dry Cleaners and complain. “Good idea,” he said. “But would you mind not using your married name because I really do like the way they do my shirts and I don’t want to be barred!”
Good for them, I think to myself. And good for the husband. But that’s about as much thought as I’ve ever given to his laundry arrangements. Until very recently, when I found myself sitting in traffic outside the aforementioned Dry Cleaners and saw the huge poster in their window advertising the shirt service. It features a large image of a horrified looking woman with a caption that asks “Too busy to wash and iron your husband’s shirts?”
Far be it from me to get all feminist, but what is this - the 1950s? Why isn’t the picture of a man who is too busy to wash and iron his own shirts? Or why isn’t the woman looking horrified because she’s been too busy to wash her own shirts (women can wear shirt to work too!) Or perhaps a picture of a horrified man who’s been too busy to launder the shirts of his civil partner!? You get my point.
I ranted to my husband about this for quite a while. He nodded in all the right places and made noises of agreement with my outrage. And so, emboldened by his supportive condemnation of this sexist travesty, I declared that I planned to phone the Dry Cleaners and complain. “Good idea,” he said. “But would you mind not using your married name because I really do like the way they do my shirts and I don’t want to be barred!”
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
No need to ask if my bum look big in this!!
We’re having a new downstairs bathroom fitted and are now the proud owners of a shiny chrome heated towel rail. Having reached my late thirties I thought I knew all my foibles and habits but I now discover that, having used the loo, apparently I turn slightly to the side before pulling up my undies. I know this because I have now burnt my bum on the heated towel rail at least half a dozen times!!
In order to keep our new shower cubicle shiny and clean, Mum and Dad bought us a rubber scraper (like a window cleaner would use). The idea is that you spend a few moments before you leave the cubicle scraping the water off the tiles and the shower screen to leave the whole thing water mark free. An excellent idea. So, after a lovely warm shower, I turned the water off, scraped the shower screen to perfection and worked my way round the tiles. Then I turned around to leave the shower – only to discover imprints of my bum all over the glass from where I’d bent down to do the tiles. Mmm, I sense a theme developing here!
In order to keep our new shower cubicle shiny and clean, Mum and Dad bought us a rubber scraper (like a window cleaner would use). The idea is that you spend a few moments before you leave the cubicle scraping the water off the tiles and the shower screen to leave the whole thing water mark free. An excellent idea. So, after a lovely warm shower, I turned the water off, scraped the shower screen to perfection and worked my way round the tiles. Then I turned around to leave the shower – only to discover imprints of my bum all over the glass from where I’d bent down to do the tiles. Mmm, I sense a theme developing here!
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
Wear your hoodie - I want to get my money's worth!
My daughter recently declared that she would like an Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie. I’m sure the concept will soon wear thin but, since this is the first time she’s really shown an interest in clothes, I was quite excited. After a quick Google search I established there’s a shop on Savile Row and offered to take her and her friend up to town for a mooch.
Operation Abercrombie comprised my husband, our three year old in a buggy, the two girls and me. It was quite a cold morning so we set a brisk pace from Charing Cross and were glad to finally turn into Savile Row. The girls got increasingly excited as we passed a procession of glamorous looking teenagers with their distinctive A&F (I can’t be bothered to type it any more!) carrier bags and we hurried along counting the door numbers of the shops. We traipsed down one side and back up the other (OK – I know Savile Row isn’t that long but it was cold and we were pushing a buggy!). No sign of A&F. We retraced our steps. No, definitely nothing resembling a trendy fashion emporium. After much aimless wandering we ground to a halt and I risked total social embarrassment (the girls’words) by asking an A&F bag carrier to tell us where the bloody shop was.
Actually we were practically standing outside it. Although, in fairness to mere mortals, we couldn’t have known since there’s no signage. But there were bouncers on the door. And a topless male model who you could pose next to for a photo. We ventured in. Interestingly for a shop, it was almost completely dark. But the powers-that-be at A&F had obviously taken this sensory depravation into account because what they took from our eyes they more than gave back to our ears – in the form of indescribably loud music. We spent our entire trip communicating in a combination of hand signals, exaggerated facial expressions and amateur lip reading.
Eventually we stumbled across the hoodies, only to discover that this lightweight zip-up cardigan was going to cost me £60! My horror obviously showed on my face. My daughter’s friend tried to cheer me up by telling me that if I’d have bought it in America it would have been $60 and therefore much cheaper. This would have been useful information before we had left the house and risked life and eardrums, particularly since my husband travels to America quite often.
Operation Abercrombie comprised my husband, our three year old in a buggy, the two girls and me. It was quite a cold morning so we set a brisk pace from Charing Cross and were glad to finally turn into Savile Row. The girls got increasingly excited as we passed a procession of glamorous looking teenagers with their distinctive A&F (I can’t be bothered to type it any more!) carrier bags and we hurried along counting the door numbers of the shops. We traipsed down one side and back up the other (OK – I know Savile Row isn’t that long but it was cold and we were pushing a buggy!). No sign of A&F. We retraced our steps. No, definitely nothing resembling a trendy fashion emporium. After much aimless wandering we ground to a halt and I risked total social embarrassment (the girls’words) by asking an A&F bag carrier to tell us where the bloody shop was.
Actually we were practically standing outside it. Although, in fairness to mere mortals, we couldn’t have known since there’s no signage. But there were bouncers on the door. And a topless male model who you could pose next to for a photo. We ventured in. Interestingly for a shop, it was almost completely dark. But the powers-that-be at A&F had obviously taken this sensory depravation into account because what they took from our eyes they more than gave back to our ears – in the form of indescribably loud music. We spent our entire trip communicating in a combination of hand signals, exaggerated facial expressions and amateur lip reading.
Eventually we stumbled across the hoodies, only to discover that this lightweight zip-up cardigan was going to cost me £60! My horror obviously showed on my face. My daughter’s friend tried to cheer me up by telling me that if I’d have bought it in America it would have been $60 and therefore much cheaper. This would have been useful information before we had left the house and risked life and eardrums, particularly since my husband travels to America quite often.
Monday, 17 March 2008
Are you planning to wear that medal to bed?
Yesterday I completed my first 10k run. Conditions were far from ideal. It was cold, rainy, windy, a predominantly uphill course (!) and, since much of it was on grass, a complete mud bath.
As mentioned previously, I ran it with my step son who, as promised, had done absolutely no training but was confident that he could complete the course in less than an hour; whearas I was aiming for a sedate 1hour 5 mins.
Step son set off like a rat out of a trap. I wish I could say that he paid the price for his early speed by not being able to maintain it and that my steady tortoise-like approach won through, enabling me to beat him and teach him a valuable lesson about how slow and steady wins the race. But actually the next time I saw him he was waiting for me at the finish line!!
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first part of the race was uphill which was hard, but not as hard as the next part which was slighly more uphill. By the time I got to the 2k marker I was ready to give up. In fact, it was only the slight glimmer of hope that if I kept running I might pass Step son panting on the verge that kept my leaden legs moving.
Despite being surrounded by the beautiful Kent countryside, I spend most of the time looking at my feet, trying to avoid the numerous puddles or getting caught in the increasingly slippery mud. My fellow runners all seemed very professional, although I was passed at one point by a very tall man dressed in womens clothes. Bizarre!
Thankfully, my second wind kicked in around the halfway point and I started to enjoy it - in a twisted sort of way. Unfortunately, since the course was twice round a 5k loop, I had to negotiate the hilly bit again. By this point it was so muddy and slippery that it had taken on bushtucker trial-like proportions and it was only possible to pick my way up it gingerly for fear of falling on my face. But never mind because once I got to the top it was only 3k to home!
Everyone seemed to pick up the pace for the last bit of the race. There was one last downward slope to negotiate and then it was about a 200 metre straight run (could have been more or less - I'm rubbish at distance!) to the finish. I heard my daughter shouting me on before I saw her and it was a real boost to have her and my Mum and Dad at the finish line (which I eventually crossed in 1 hour, 1 minute and 50 seconds).
Step son was extremely gracious in victory (he did it in 55 minutes and 7 seconds) and we enjoyed comparing notes on the way back to meet up with my husband, who had been designated driver and babysitter for the morning. I'm sure he must have been delighted to have such damp, muddy and, in some cases, sweaty passengers in his car but he gamely listened to my blow by blow account of the race all the way home. I couldn't help but notice that the 3 year old was asleep before we left the car park though!
As mentioned previously, I ran it with my step son who, as promised, had done absolutely no training but was confident that he could complete the course in less than an hour; whearas I was aiming for a sedate 1hour 5 mins.
Step son set off like a rat out of a trap. I wish I could say that he paid the price for his early speed by not being able to maintain it and that my steady tortoise-like approach won through, enabling me to beat him and teach him a valuable lesson about how slow and steady wins the race. But actually the next time I saw him he was waiting for me at the finish line!!
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first part of the race was uphill which was hard, but not as hard as the next part which was slighly more uphill. By the time I got to the 2k marker I was ready to give up. In fact, it was only the slight glimmer of hope that if I kept running I might pass Step son panting on the verge that kept my leaden legs moving.
Despite being surrounded by the beautiful Kent countryside, I spend most of the time looking at my feet, trying to avoid the numerous puddles or getting caught in the increasingly slippery mud. My fellow runners all seemed very professional, although I was passed at one point by a very tall man dressed in womens clothes. Bizarre!
Thankfully, my second wind kicked in around the halfway point and I started to enjoy it - in a twisted sort of way. Unfortunately, since the course was twice round a 5k loop, I had to negotiate the hilly bit again. By this point it was so muddy and slippery that it had taken on bushtucker trial-like proportions and it was only possible to pick my way up it gingerly for fear of falling on my face. But never mind because once I got to the top it was only 3k to home!
Everyone seemed to pick up the pace for the last bit of the race. There was one last downward slope to negotiate and then it was about a 200 metre straight run (could have been more or less - I'm rubbish at distance!) to the finish. I heard my daughter shouting me on before I saw her and it was a real boost to have her and my Mum and Dad at the finish line (which I eventually crossed in 1 hour, 1 minute and 50 seconds).
Step son was extremely gracious in victory (he did it in 55 minutes and 7 seconds) and we enjoyed comparing notes on the way back to meet up with my husband, who had been designated driver and babysitter for the morning. I'm sure he must have been delighted to have such damp, muddy and, in some cases, sweaty passengers in his car but he gamely listened to my blow by blow account of the race all the way home. I couldn't help but notice that the 3 year old was asleep before we left the car park though!
Friday, 7 March 2008
You paid how much, for a what?
My husband is concerned that, in blogging terms, I sound like a single parent. In other words, there’s not enough about him in it! So this is for you, LL:
Late last year we were the subject of an identity fraud – a situation I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It’s annoying, time consuming and invasive. The only positive thing to come out of it is that we are now slightly more careful about checking our bank and credit card statements. So when, just before Christmas, I spotted an entry for £90 to a pen shop in London, I was straight on the phone to my husband. “Oh no, it’s fine,” he told me. “That’s for my propelling pencil!”
£90. For a pencil. Not just a pencil, I was told indignantly, a propelling one. Sensing that the ‘propelling’ angle wasn’t really working in terms of presenting this as a value for money purchase, he brought out the big guns: “And it matches my existing fountain pen.” Oh, well that makes all the difference. Money well spent then.
I’m afraid I struggled to contain my amazement at this purchase and over the next few months canvassed opinion from anyone who would listen about whether they too thought this was exorbitant (women did, men professed to find it reasonable.). As a result, his pencil became quite the celebrity among our friends and family.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when last week he announced that his £90 ‘pencil for life’ had broken and he’d needed to take it in for repair!!!! Apparently it had stopped propelling! He returned it to the pen shop and was impressed when it was whisked straight into the back room and repaired immediately. I resisted the temptation to suggest that the back room was probably empty save for a wizened old man operating one of those mechanical pencil sharpeners that Primary School teachers used to have attached to their desks.
Anyway, suffice to say that the lead in my husband’s pencil is now in full working order once again!
Late last year we were the subject of an identity fraud – a situation I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It’s annoying, time consuming and invasive. The only positive thing to come out of it is that we are now slightly more careful about checking our bank and credit card statements. So when, just before Christmas, I spotted an entry for £90 to a pen shop in London, I was straight on the phone to my husband. “Oh no, it’s fine,” he told me. “That’s for my propelling pencil!”
£90. For a pencil. Not just a pencil, I was told indignantly, a propelling one. Sensing that the ‘propelling’ angle wasn’t really working in terms of presenting this as a value for money purchase, he brought out the big guns: “And it matches my existing fountain pen.” Oh, well that makes all the difference. Money well spent then.
I’m afraid I struggled to contain my amazement at this purchase and over the next few months canvassed opinion from anyone who would listen about whether they too thought this was exorbitant (women did, men professed to find it reasonable.). As a result, his pencil became quite the celebrity among our friends and family.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when last week he announced that his £90 ‘pencil for life’ had broken and he’d needed to take it in for repair!!!! Apparently it had stopped propelling! He returned it to the pen shop and was impressed when it was whisked straight into the back room and repaired immediately. I resisted the temptation to suggest that the back room was probably empty save for a wizened old man operating one of those mechanical pencil sharpeners that Primary School teachers used to have attached to their desks.
Anyway, suffice to say that the lead in my husband’s pencil is now in full working order once again!
Thursday, 6 March 2008
Is this seat taken?
Met Mum in the High Street today and decided to go for coffee. Opted for Café Nero (known as Café Nerd in our house ever since I misread the signage!) and witnessed, not for the first time, a phenomenon that is the modern equivalent of towels on sunloungers.
A large area in the middle of the café was totally taken up by half a dozen women each with a small baby, a large pushchair and a variety of baby paraphernalia. Despite spreading themselves across four tables they didn’t seem to be drinking an awful lot of coffee because they were too busy using their extremely loud voices to discuss the daily routines of their babies in minute detail.
They were totally oblivious to the increasing irritation of both customers who, having actually bought coffee, had nowhere to sit and of those with seats but who didn’t find the problem of leaking breasts a suitable accompaniment to their hot beverage.
But maybe this small rant is actually prompted by jealousy. Because, contrary to my own experience of taking a small baby to a public place, not one of those babies fussed, screamed or projectile vomited over their coffee drinking mother!
A large area in the middle of the café was totally taken up by half a dozen women each with a small baby, a large pushchair and a variety of baby paraphernalia. Despite spreading themselves across four tables they didn’t seem to be drinking an awful lot of coffee because they were too busy using their extremely loud voices to discuss the daily routines of their babies in minute detail.
They were totally oblivious to the increasing irritation of both customers who, having actually bought coffee, had nowhere to sit and of those with seats but who didn’t find the problem of leaking breasts a suitable accompaniment to their hot beverage.
But maybe this small rant is actually prompted by jealousy. Because, contrary to my own experience of taking a small baby to a public place, not one of those babies fussed, screamed or projectile vomited over their coffee drinking mother!
Monday, 3 March 2008
Whatever happened to jelly and ice cream?
My 10 year old daughter was invited to a classmate’s birthday party at the Royal Opera House this weekend. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is a fantastic opportunity to experience something completely different, and I hate to sound middle aged – but what on earth is going on with children’s birthday parties?
To be honest, the first couple of years are great. It’s generally a group of Mummy and Daddy’s friend, who may (or may not) have similar aged kids, hanging out and drinking wine. It all culminates with the little one slobbering out the candles while assorted relatives crowd round like seasoned paparazzi trying to capture the moment on film.
By the age of about three or four you have to lay on some entertainment for the kids - usually in the form of a bouncy castle or soft play arrangement. You also have to feed them and it generally occurs to even the most inexperienced parents to a) limit the party to a maximum of 2 hours and b) hold it in a venue other than their own home. By this age, the child is probably at pre-school or nursery. This means they will want to invite their own friends, who will be delivered by parents keen to scurry off and make the most of a couple of hours free time. Of course, your own relatives and die hard friends will probably still stay for the duration but apparently it’s less socially acceptable to serve them wine now that they are effectively helping to supervise other people’s children.
And then they start school. This is where the real fun begins. Obviously the guest list for an event where potential invitees fall in and out of friendships several times a week is fraught. And that’s before you’ve even decided what sort of party you might have. Clearly, there are the basics – entertainer, Pizza Express, swimming, football, cinema, and bowling. Then the slightly more adventurous - laser shooting, discos, make-over, sleep-over, paint balling and limousine. And finally, not for the faint hearted – baking, soap making and even reptile experience (I’ve seen this one in action). It’s now definitely not OK to serve alcohol to attending adults (the more sober people available to round up the spiders, the better!) but they won’t be at a loose end because there are the party bags to organise. In my experience, you can get away with cheap tat until about Year 1 (possibly Year 2 or 3 for boys) but after that these seem to take on a life and significance of their own in terms of determining the success of the party. Even the bags (or if you are very posh, boxes) that the stuff goes home in is important. So, when you budget – take the cost of the party and allow the same again for bags. Still, at least you’ll be saving on wine!!!
The final phase hits when they decide they want to be involved in organising their own parties. I think it’s a good idea to reintroduce the wine at this point! My experience is that boys are much easier to steer than girls: “Mmm, rifle shooting at night followed by camping out sounds fun. Or, we could have a couple of your friends round for pizza and you can watch a slightly inappropriate film?” But girls live for their birthdays. Kate Moss-like endurance seems to be a common requirement. My daughter will suggest starting first thing on Saturday morning with a trip to a theme park, then back home for tea, a film and a sleepover, before taking everyone out to breakfast on Sunday morning. No thank you. Themes are also big. Earlier this year she was invited to a ‘celebrity’ party. They were all assigned identities and had to come dressed appropriately. I believe Lily Allen attended, as did Katie Price, Paris Hilton and many more. My daughter was asked to come as Amy Winehouse. And she was quite particular about her outfit. I had to buy two wigs to get the right volume to the beehive and gallons of liquid eye liner. For a laugh, her Dad suggested that she take an empty wine bottle as a prop. “Or a crack pipe,” she quipped. Bloody Hell, I must start hiding those celebrity magazines.
If it’s any consolation to parents of small children, my 15 year old step son has been totally independent in terms of birthday celebrations for a couple of years. He generally requests his favourite meal, which we eat in the company of close family and friends, and then he opens his pressies, blows out his candles and disappears off with his mates. Leaving us to finish the wine. Funny how things come full circle!
To be honest, the first couple of years are great. It’s generally a group of Mummy and Daddy’s friend, who may (or may not) have similar aged kids, hanging out and drinking wine. It all culminates with the little one slobbering out the candles while assorted relatives crowd round like seasoned paparazzi trying to capture the moment on film.
By the age of about three or four you have to lay on some entertainment for the kids - usually in the form of a bouncy castle or soft play arrangement. You also have to feed them and it generally occurs to even the most inexperienced parents to a) limit the party to a maximum of 2 hours and b) hold it in a venue other than their own home. By this age, the child is probably at pre-school or nursery. This means they will want to invite their own friends, who will be delivered by parents keen to scurry off and make the most of a couple of hours free time. Of course, your own relatives and die hard friends will probably still stay for the duration but apparently it’s less socially acceptable to serve them wine now that they are effectively helping to supervise other people’s children.
And then they start school. This is where the real fun begins. Obviously the guest list for an event where potential invitees fall in and out of friendships several times a week is fraught. And that’s before you’ve even decided what sort of party you might have. Clearly, there are the basics – entertainer, Pizza Express, swimming, football, cinema, and bowling. Then the slightly more adventurous - laser shooting, discos, make-over, sleep-over, paint balling and limousine. And finally, not for the faint hearted – baking, soap making and even reptile experience (I’ve seen this one in action). It’s now definitely not OK to serve alcohol to attending adults (the more sober people available to round up the spiders, the better!) but they won’t be at a loose end because there are the party bags to organise. In my experience, you can get away with cheap tat until about Year 1 (possibly Year 2 or 3 for boys) but after that these seem to take on a life and significance of their own in terms of determining the success of the party. Even the bags (or if you are very posh, boxes) that the stuff goes home in is important. So, when you budget – take the cost of the party and allow the same again for bags. Still, at least you’ll be saving on wine!!!
The final phase hits when they decide they want to be involved in organising their own parties. I think it’s a good idea to reintroduce the wine at this point! My experience is that boys are much easier to steer than girls: “Mmm, rifle shooting at night followed by camping out sounds fun. Or, we could have a couple of your friends round for pizza and you can watch a slightly inappropriate film?” But girls live for their birthdays. Kate Moss-like endurance seems to be a common requirement. My daughter will suggest starting first thing on Saturday morning with a trip to a theme park, then back home for tea, a film and a sleepover, before taking everyone out to breakfast on Sunday morning. No thank you. Themes are also big. Earlier this year she was invited to a ‘celebrity’ party. They were all assigned identities and had to come dressed appropriately. I believe Lily Allen attended, as did Katie Price, Paris Hilton and many more. My daughter was asked to come as Amy Winehouse. And she was quite particular about her outfit. I had to buy two wigs to get the right volume to the beehive and gallons of liquid eye liner. For a laugh, her Dad suggested that she take an empty wine bottle as a prop. “Or a crack pipe,” she quipped. Bloody Hell, I must start hiding those celebrity magazines.
If it’s any consolation to parents of small children, my 15 year old step son has been totally independent in terms of birthday celebrations for a couple of years. He generally requests his favourite meal, which we eat in the company of close family and friends, and then he opens his pressies, blows out his candles and disappears off with his mates. Leaving us to finish the wine. Funny how things come full circle!
Thursday, 28 February 2008
Now where's that pink carpet?
When we moved into our house about three months ago, one of the first things I did was pull up the pink carpet in our upstairs bathroom. Personally, I don't think there's a place for carpet in bathrooms at the best of times but this one was pink (the bathroom is blue!?!) and definitely harboured a peculiar smell.
My husband, who is against any unnecessary ripping out of fixtures and fittings - he knows it's often a precursor to DIY! - insisted that he couldn't detect any smell but I enlisted the support of our daughter and he soon caved in under her continual gasping and gagging each time she used the bathroom.
Anyway, the carpet went and so did the smell (told him so!) and we've ploughed on happily with bare boards ever since. Until today. Work has now started on our downstairs shower room, which needs a complete refit. A very nice chap started ripping everthing out yesterday and came back this morning to remove the plasterboard ceiling. By the time I got back from the school run he was already working and I thought I'd use the 20 minutes or so before taking the 3 year old to pre school to do a few quick chores.
I managed to make two beds, do some tidying and hang up some clothes in my daughter's room. As I returned a stray towel to the bathroom, I thought I'd make the most of being in there and have a quick wee. So, I'm sitting on the loo, shouting to the 3 year old to get his shoes and wiping the fingerprints off the side of the bath (let's hear it for multi-tasking!) when I glance down between my knees only to make eye contact with a rather bemused looking workman standing on a ladder in the showeroom below separated from me by only the aforementioned bare boards!
My husband, who is against any unnecessary ripping out of fixtures and fittings - he knows it's often a precursor to DIY! - insisted that he couldn't detect any smell but I enlisted the support of our daughter and he soon caved in under her continual gasping and gagging each time she used the bathroom.
Anyway, the carpet went and so did the smell (told him so!) and we've ploughed on happily with bare boards ever since. Until today. Work has now started on our downstairs shower room, which needs a complete refit. A very nice chap started ripping everthing out yesterday and came back this morning to remove the plasterboard ceiling. By the time I got back from the school run he was already working and I thought I'd use the 20 minutes or so before taking the 3 year old to pre school to do a few quick chores.
I managed to make two beds, do some tidying and hang up some clothes in my daughter's room. As I returned a stray towel to the bathroom, I thought I'd make the most of being in there and have a quick wee. So, I'm sitting on the loo, shouting to the 3 year old to get his shoes and wiping the fingerprints off the side of the bath (let's hear it for multi-tasking!) when I glance down between my knees only to make eye contact with a rather bemused looking workman standing on a ladder in the showeroom below separated from me by only the aforementioned bare boards!
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
Fit? I'll give you fit!
After much deliberation, I’ve signed up to do a 10k run next month (www.sevenoaksrotary10k.co.uk). I try to get out and ‘pound the pavement’ at least once a week but wouldn’t describe myself as a natural athlete so this will be a challenge.
Slightly nervous about finding myself lost in a sea of professional runners or puffing over the finish line in last place, I was in need of some moral support and asked my step son if he would run with me. And was delighted when he was almost enthusiastic about it (well he is 15 and it wouldn’t do to be too animated!). Envisaging lots of opportunities for quality time together, I started talking about training runs. Only to be informed that he ‘probably won’t bother as it only about an hour of running!’
Slightly nervous about finding myself lost in a sea of professional runners or puffing over the finish line in last place, I was in need of some moral support and asked my step son if he would run with me. And was delighted when he was almost enthusiastic about it (well he is 15 and it wouldn’t do to be too animated!). Envisaging lots of opportunities for quality time together, I started talking about training runs. Only to be informed that he ‘probably won’t bother as it only about an hour of running!’
Where on earth did they get those from?
Discovered at eight o'clock last night that my three year old has head lice! Yuck! Too late and too difficult to get any potions or lotions so put him to bed scratching. Felt bad but perhaps an itchy head will take his mind of the persistent cough he seems to develop every time he lays flat!
Teenage step son now paranoid in case he gets them. Apparantly this would be particularly distressing at this time in his life 'cos he's just started with his first girlfriend and would never live it down on MSN if he passed them on to her. Can see his point. Maybe this will persuade him to rethink 'flock of seagulls' haircut. Checked this morning and found livestock in 10 year old daughter's hair too. Pretended I didn't as couldn't face the hissy fit first thing.
Did school and preschool run and then to a meeting with web designer. Difficult to concentrate as I kept wanting to scratch my head. Straight from meeting to Chemist. Apparantly all Head Lice potions need to be left on overnight and showered off in the morning. Who thought that up? Not someone who has to get three kids up, washed, dressed, fed and out and then get to work. Plus three year old hates getting his hair washed and we are currently having the bathroon redone and so don't have a shower.
Phoned Mum for some moral support. As always when the kids pick up some ailment her initial response was "Where on earth did they get that from?" Not sure what she feels would be achieved by hunting down the source of the latest cough/cold/contagious disease, but it's always her starting point. Usually followed by suggesting it can be treated with a honey and vinegar concoction!
Teenage step son now paranoid in case he gets them. Apparantly this would be particularly distressing at this time in his life 'cos he's just started with his first girlfriend and would never live it down on MSN if he passed them on to her. Can see his point. Maybe this will persuade him to rethink 'flock of seagulls' haircut. Checked this morning and found livestock in 10 year old daughter's hair too. Pretended I didn't as couldn't face the hissy fit first thing.
Did school and preschool run and then to a meeting with web designer. Difficult to concentrate as I kept wanting to scratch my head. Straight from meeting to Chemist. Apparantly all Head Lice potions need to be left on overnight and showered off in the morning. Who thought that up? Not someone who has to get three kids up, washed, dressed, fed and out and then get to work. Plus three year old hates getting his hair washed and we are currently having the bathroon redone and so don't have a shower.
Phoned Mum for some moral support. As always when the kids pick up some ailment her initial response was "Where on earth did they get that from?" Not sure what she feels would be achieved by hunting down the source of the latest cough/cold/contagious disease, but it's always her starting point. Usually followed by suggesting it can be treated with a honey and vinegar concoction!
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