Daisy Pulls It Off

Education, education, education?

2008-03-22T09:26:00.002+00:00

So the great pendulum of ‘who-to-blame-for-unruly-children’ has swung back in the direction of parents this morning. Eminent academics at Cambridge have discovered that parents are spoiling their children and as a result, said children are running riot in classrooms across the country, with poor teachers unable to control their charges.

The story is an old one, and so is the process of blame-laying. Time and time again these sorts of stories hit the headlines. One week we can blame the teachers for not having sufficient backbone to deal with the children they face across their desks (we could blame the teachers’ parents for this one, I guess, for giving them too easier a ride whilst they were growing up). Next it will be the turn of diet to take the swing of the pendulum-of-blame. It may be the diet we feed them at home (too many chocolaty breakfast cereals and not enough fruit), or the slop apparently lazy dinner ladies serve up, accompanied by turkey twizzlers and about as much nutritional content as a piece of cardboard (though that may admittedly contain more fibre than the average toddler’s diet).

Or, like today, it will be the turn of parents to take the brunt of the criticism for a nation of hyperactive, over-indulged youngsters hell-bent on destroying the education system with their selfishness.

So is it not time we found another story? One which encompasses all of the culprits, but puts them on the stage, under the spotlight, illuminated by their contextual circumstances? We have teachers, rushed through a training system following graduation from a university degree where they were awarded proportionately higher grades for a lower standard of work than their predecessors ten years ago, because the university system is under pressure to pump out ever more 1st Class degree results because students are after all paying for the privilege these days (or rather, their over-indulgent parents are paying for the privilege).

Or how about a food industry controlled by supermarket giants pushing the boundaries of mass production to ever greater extremes, in order to put the cheapest produce on their shelves as the highest possible price for the sole purpose of driving up their profit margins?

And what about one of the poor farmers who might be locked in a vicious circle, producing perfectly round apples, with no blemishes or irregularities, discarding copious amounts of perfectly acceptable fruit each week, because the supermarket will refuse to take them. Hey, next week they may even refuse to take the farmer’s produce at all if there are too many slightly too elliptical apples in the crates, and where does that leave the farmer?

A farmer who may be a parent, working ever more crazy hours to try and bring in a decent enough living to support the family. A farmer who probably has to do a weekly shop in an out-of-town supermarket giant, because all the local shops have closed down under the monopoly that is food retailing these days in Britain. A supermarket which is pumped full of sweets, processed ‘foods’ aimed at kids, toys and plastic-fantastic distractions of all descriptions to tempt their children (who they have to drag round the shop with them because they can’t shop during school hours because they are working and they can’t afford childcare after school because their income is barely keeping apace with the cost of living).

And talking of keeping a pace – what about that poor dinner lady, struggling to put nutritious meals on the table for several hundred children each day, for less cash-per-head than the average prisoner is allocated for their meals. It took Jamie Oliver to shout at the government to make a change in that system. But why should it have needed a celebrity to make them sit up and listen – why couldn’t they have taken notice of parents who had been complaining about the state of school meals for years? Or to the head teachers and dinner ladies who tried repeatedly to get across the ludicrous situation they found themselves in, only for it to fall on deaf ears? Government don’t listen to us ordinary mortals.

Let’s return to the poor teacher or even the university lecturer, struggling to make ends meet on a salary which reflects an out-dated notion of teaching being a vocation, reward enough in itself, not requiring adequate financial recompense. Struggling with ever more paper work and marking which eats into the evenings and weekends, taking them away from valuable time they could be spending with their children.

Children who pester, and pester, and pester.
Because that is what children do.
And the parent gives in and buys them a treat for being so good and letting the parent get on with their work.
And so the child is being spoilt.

Ok, so the report is highlighting super-spoiling, as in the case of a child who having broken a game-station in a fit of rage, was then bought a replacement by the parent. But what do headlines like today’s do to those of us who do occasionally give in to pester-power, because that is the only way to cope in a society where value is measured only by price-tags, and progress is assessed only in terms of profit-margins, and children are not stupid – they hear the message pumped at them constantly through the television, they see the message hidden in the glossy images seen all around them in magazines, comics, billboards and on the back of cereal packets (even the ones that don’t contain chocolate).

Consumption, consumption, consumption.

If that is the message the world is giving them, how can we blame the parents for giving in?

I blame the government, for giving in. For rolling over in submission to the supermarket giants, the advertising industry, the global brands. If the government gives in so easily to the pester power of these corporate giants, what message does that give to parents?

And they tell our children that they shouldn’t be swayed by their celebrity idols, they should listen to their teachers instead for guidance and education. What, like they listened to the teachers about school dinners? They surely didn’t listen to a celebrity instead, did they..?

Education, education, education?
Yea, whatever….

What in heaven's name...?

2008-03-13T14:31:00.003+00:00

I walked in to the living room this morning to find my kids at each other’s throats as usual. Not an uncommon start to the day, but there did seem to be a heightened sense of tension on this occasion. As I arrived on the scene legs and arms were disentangled, small fists full of hair were released, and a whirlwind of small bodied appeared at my feet desperate to get their version of the story out first. A lot was clearly at stake.

Poppy it seems had gone to the window and staring out at the bleak rain-drenched scene requested that God intervene to stop the downpour so we could all get to school without the need for umbrellas (her Tweenie one is broken, so she had a vested interest in God turning in a positive result).

Sadly, as is so often the case, God’s intervention did not appear instantaneously and Poppy therefore turned her back on the window, stomped back to the settee and promptly declared God does not exist. Now her theory is of course nothing new, indeed very eminent social theorists have staked their reputations on making precisely the same pronouncement – I’m thinking here particularly of Steve Bruce’s scholarly best seller ‘God Is Dead’. But he didn’t have 7 year old Lily to contend with.

So I had walked into a scene which has been repeated in different guises for centuries past, and will no doubt continue to be so repeated for many centuries to come. Lily tearfully defending her right to believe in God, Poppy declaring God was defunct. In our case it ended in the youngest administering a kick to the eldest and all hell breaking out…

…and so began many of the wars we currently see raging across the world I guess...

Growing old with Gere..?

2008-02-23T18:39:00.005+00:00

We had rather a late night last night. One of those rare occasions when the kids are packed off to my mother-in-law’s for a sleepover. A few years ago an evening to ourselves might have been spent down the pub, a few games of pool, many pints of beer, followed by a night of passion and a late lie-in with bacon butties and copious amounts of tea.

But age is catching up with us. We went for a sedate meal, drank a couple of bottles of wine and were in bed fast asleep before midnight – desperate really to make the most of a night of uninterrupted sleep.

For poor Bill however it was not to be an uninterrupted night of sleep. Eating rich food and drinking too much sauvignon blanc so close to bedtime left him tossing and turning and resorting to sitting in front of the cricket at four in the morning, lamenting the slow rate at which his aging body now digests food and drink which his younger body could have brushed off without so much as a belch.

So this is what the future holds – even those nights when we are footloose and kiddie-free we will have to indulge in measured moderation for fear of the repercussions on our aging bodies.

This morning I dragged my own aging body, creaking at the knees and woozy in the head to the kitchen to make that life-restoring first brew of the day. Bending down to get the milk from the fridge I had to do a double take. For on the bottom shelf of the fridge, sandwiched between a wooden board and some cling-film was Bill’s Silver Spoon. Now I’m not talking teaspoons here, this wasn’t some absent minded placing of the spoon in the fridge with the milk. But The Silver Spoon – ‘the most influential and successful cook book in Italy’ according to Amazon (my Italian ex-brother-in-law apparently disputes this claim, but my good friend from Naples, a keen chef, would side with Amazon).

Anyway, we are digressing from the point (another sign of an aging and rambling mind?). There it was on the bottom shelf, chilling nicely next to the cheese and crème fraiche, and I decided that this must definitely be the first sign of dementia. Putting your cookbooks in the fridge is surely up there with using denture glue to clean your teeth? (Which is what I saw my Grandmother do once during the onset of her Alzheimer’s).

Of course not all signs of aging are necessarily problematic. Bill visited the hairdressers this week and was told by the hairdresser that he had a lovely thick head of hair and it was unlikely he was ever going to go bald.
‘That’s as maybe,’ he replied, ‘but my wife’s waiting for me to go grey’.
(There’s something about grey hair, don’t you think?)
‘Ah!’ replied the knowledgeable hairdresser, ‘the Richard Gere look. Yes, a lot of women want their men to go grey like Richard Gere.’
‘I guess so,’ he replied.

There was a pause.

She snipped around the nape of his neck then progressed the conversation with another observation: ‘Only not many of them actually do, do they?’
‘What?’
‘End up looking like Richard Gere?’ she said.
‘I guess not.’

Very wise that hairdresser, clearly not losing her marbles yet. Unlike me and my sweet William.

The cookbook by the way was to flatten some pork belly. Gordon Ramsay’s idea apparently. Now there’s a man bordering on madness, and those wrinkles…

Scarred for life?

2007-12-07T13:12:00.000+00:00

I think I've mentioned that we are a little bit Potter-tastic in our house right now. Bill is still Professor Snape and the girls roam around in homemade Hermione Granger outfits, spooking ghosts out of cupboards, casting spells on unsuspecting shoes, playing quidditch in the garden on fishing nets and turning every mealtime into a feast in the great hall. And when they aren't doing this, the Potter video is on. Now I've heard of too much TV being bad for the kids. Children, we are told, see incredible acts of violence and stupidity acted out on their screens and mindlessly recreate them at home without a thought for the consequences or an ounce of understanding about the difference between fantasy and reality. Alternatively, the argument goes, sitting in front of a screen all day weakens their capacity for imaginative play and stints their social skills. Well this is how it works in the May household...

I was engaged in a rare moment of domesticity the other afternoon, doing something dreadfully dull like washing up, or emptying the laundry basket, or something equally mind-numbing, when I heard a little squeal from the living room, where the wonderful babysitter had been keeping a watchful eye over the kids for me for half an hour. (We call the babysitter 'TV'. And I know that is evil, neglectful parenting, and I should be ashamed of myself, but that's life).

A moment later Lily appeared, dressed from head to toe like a mini Hermione Granger, and sporting a brand new pink scar to the left of her nose.

'How on earth did you do that?' I asked.

'The TV did it,' came the reply.

Now I don't know about you, but as a general rule I'm somewhat suspicious when children try to blame someone or something else for their own mishaps and misdemeanours. Especially when that something else is tucked away in a corner and really quite difficult to get your face within range of, especially if you want to come out of it with a physical lesion.

Bill's immediate reaction was of course to laugh.

'What were you trying to do?' he roared, 'kiss Harry Potter?' (needless to say The Philosopher's Stone video had been on at the time of the unfortunate event. Babysitter-TV seems to have a limited range of interests at the moment - Harry Potter and the Night Garden. We're happy with both in our neglectful-parent kind of way).

'No, she was trying to get onto platform nine and three-quarters' pipped up Poppy (quite funny for a four year old I thought!).

'Perhaps one of Harry's spells backfired and hit you from out of the television?' Bill queried.

'Lily's been marked with the curse of Voldemort!' I couldn't resist throwing my bit in by this stage as Lily's face had turned the same beautiful shade of pink as the now throbbing scar on her nose. She skulked from the room and went back to decorating a set of Harry Potter snap cards she is making.

So what was it, do you think? A stray spell rebounding round our front room? A poorly engineered attempt to join Harry on Platform 9 and three-quarters? Or is the Dark Lord really back and amongst us?

One thing I am sure of though, when Lily came to me later that evening and admitted in a very small voice that she had indeed been trying to get to Hogwarts, even though she knew it wasn't really the best way to go about it, I was proud that her vivid imagination could carry her far enough to even attempt the impossible.

Lily is having tea at a friend's house tonight and has taken her Harry Potter wand with her to show him, and I have every confidence she will have turned their house into Hogwarts by the time I get there to collect her, just like she has at home. I just hope he has the imagination to keep up with her... and their television doesn't have any sharp corners.

So despite Lily's latest escapade, I will continue to let my kids watch TV. As long as they continue to show me that their imagination can build it into (usually harmless) imaginative play.

Where's a gay husband when you need one...?

2007-11-26T11:21:00.000+00:00

Stuck for anything to watch last night on TV, and too apathetic to do anything more constructive, Bill and I half-heartedly watched half of Kylie Minogue's White Diamond.

Kylie, beautiful and petite as ever, was revealed in all her, for want of a better word, 'niceness' - no star-studded tantrums, no footage of her making unreasonable demands of her gigantic hard working crew. In fact no 'warts' at all. Just sequins.

Perhaps this reflects the fact that the film was made by Kylie's very own 'gay husband', close friend and companion, who would understandably want to portray his close buddy in the best possible light as she makes her comeback after a difficult interruption by cancer. Perhaps it simply reflects that she is just a thoroughly nice girl.

But having said that, I should imagine it is much easier being a thoroughly nice girl when you have an entourage of assistants and a sprinkling of gay husbands to help you out. Exhausted after the first night of her comeback, Kylie flops, face down, onto a luxurious fluffy sheepskin. Her voice over says she was too exhausted to do anything, couldn't even open her eyes or make conversation. He darling gay husband is on hand to witness the moment for us all from behind the camera. And nobody disturbs her. It is a truly serene moment.

What joy it must be to have such undisturbed moments of peace. Ok, so she lives her life in the peculiar bubble-world that is showbiz - unable to do her own shopping or order a round at the local pub for fear of being spotted and crushed in a clammer of well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning people eager to get close. And she is recovering from a serious, horrific and life-threatening illness. But to be able to literally stop the world by just closing you eyes and lying face down in a rug commands a control over the everyday that is beyond the reach of most ordinary mortals whatever our circumstances.

So I've decided the solution to all my problems would be a gay husband - or perhaps a small collection of them. I will have a gay husband in the kitchen to prepare fantastically exciting meals for me and do the washing up afterwards (ok, so I have a straight husband who does this, but he does tend to expect me to do it occassionally). I will have a gay husband in the bedroom who will be on hand to bring me my morning cuppa and always respect my unquestionable need to wrap myself in the duvet like a swiss roll (he will bring his own duvet). I will have a general gay man-about-the-house husband, who will keep the place looking lovely and give me encouraging smiles and hugs whenever we meet. I will have a gay husband at work to keep all those troublesome problems at bay without me ever having to know about them.

And most importantly I will have a bubble-gay-husband. It will be the important job of my bubble-gay-husband to allow me to collapse at the end of a busy day, face down into my not so fluffy rug and ignore the world completely. He will act as a barrier between me and the kids, between me and my real husband, and between me and my other gay husbands who may be flocking around trying to do helpful things for me. He will siphon off unwanted interruptions from telephones, email, door-to-door canvassers and work. And he will do all this whilst gazing adoringly at me from a safe distance.

Yes, I think with the help of my band of gay husbands, the world might look a much more manageable place.

And Bill, well he agrees too and can't wait for them to start work. Says they'll make his life a lot easier too.

I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky...

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Precious parcels

2007-11-21T09:41:00.000+00:00

So they've managed to lose the details of 25 million child benefit claims in the postal system. The big questions now seem to be should we change our bank accounts, or just the passwords? Should Alistair Darling go or is the resignation of Paul Gray sufficient?

But the big question in my mind is what about our children? Somewhere out there are all of their details - their names, their dates of birth, addresses and National Insurance numbers. My children are far more precious to me than the non-existent contents of my bank account, and the thought of anybody other than doctors, their school and my family having those details feels more invasive than the possible threat of bank account details being at large.

But talking of precious packages, I must tell you the priceless thing one of my precious little parcels came out with the other day. Bill was driving them back from ballet one morning. Lily had won the Ballet Bear for trying extra hard at the box splits, and he was squashed in between her and Poppy on the back seat.

Stuck in the perpetual roadworks that seem to be dotted around our town at the moment, Lily stared vacantly out of the window and fiddled with Ballet Bear's paw:
'Daddy?' she started...
'Yes?'
'What's a fraggle?'
'A fraggle?' Bill's mind working overtime as he tried to make sense of this latest in a never ending list of bizarre questions that emanate from our two.
'Yes. A fraggle.'
'Well, it's sort of like a muppet.'
'A muppet? What's a muppet?'
'Well a kind of puppet.'
'So a fraggle is like a muppet which is a sort of puppet?'
'That's right.'

Pause.

Why's it called a fraggle?'
'Well, it was a TV show in the 'eighties. It was based on the muppets and they were called fraggles.'
'Oh.'

Silence for a little while as Bill inched his way forwards in the traffic and remembered fondly the days of Fraggle Rock when children's popular culture seemed somehow more innocent.

'Why do you ask?'
'Well, whatever they are, there's one on the side of that lorry. Look - F-R-A-G-I-L-E. Fraggle.'

Even Ballet Bear looked confused...

Perhaps the muppets at HM Revenue and Customs could do with going back to basics and asking someone what 'data protection' means, and why it is an important part of our contemporary information-driven culture. It's just a thought...

Master of the Dark oops...!

2007-11-18T16:47:00.000+00:00

As the rain and wind have been battering the windows all day, Bill, Lily, Poppy and I have hidden ourselves away in the front room with the fire on and the curtains drawn. The real world safely hidden away, we have entered our own little magical wonderland. Our well-worn copy of The Philosopher's Stone has been on the video about six times in a row, and the afternoon has been spent re-enacting various aspects of life at Hogwarts.

Lily usually takes charge as Hermione, Poppy variously bringing up the rear as Harry, Ron, or some imaginary character they have added. I am usually Professor McGonagall - unless my mother is with us - when she takes this part and I am relegated to Madam Hooch (I personally find her much more fun anyway; I've always had a penchant for broomstick flying). Bill invariably ends up as Professor Snape. He likes nothing more than striding round the house shouting instructions at the children in a booming dramatic voice, so the part suits him down to the ground.

Introducing a new plot to the game, in a cunning attempt to get Lily to close the dining room curtains for me, I said: 'Quick! Miss Granger, close those curtains before the Master of the Dark Arts catches us!' Lily dutifully sped over to the curtains and used her plastic 'Hermione wand' to drag the curtains together.

Then she looked at Poppy - at this moment playing Ron;

she looked at me - busy in the part of Professor McGonagall;

she looked towards the kitchen where she could hear Professor Snape conjuring up some magic potions for tea....

'Mummy,' she asked, her mind trying to work our where the extra actor was coming from 'who is the Master of the Dark Arse?'

I think I'll have to check with JK Rowling about that one...

Have yourself a decadent Christmas...

2007-11-15T10:33:00.000+00:00

Prompted by the umpteenth advert for half price sofas in the run-up to Christmas, my dear Sweet William and I were discussing present wish-lists last night.

Lily has already co-ordinated the production of lists for her and Poppy. Poppy managed to write some of her own ideas down - Igglepiggle from the Night Garden being in the number 1 spot. But Lily in her usual bossy style managed to commandeer both lists in the end and added a few 'extras' to Poppy's which she hadn't managed to squeeze onto her own. The DVD of The Goblet of Fire for a start, which looked rather incongruous in amongst the baby dolls and Night Garden characters Poppy was actually interested in.

Personally I never write a list. I just enjoy anything that comes my way and love the element of surprise, besides, Bill is usually very good at choosing something suitable. I think the girls will be experiencing the element of surprise a bit this year too, because Lily is most definitely NOT having wheelies...

Mind you, they may end up with nothing from their lists. The problem remains how to get them to Santa. Lily knows you are meant to burn them and let your wishes drift up the chimney to Santa in the smoke. But I'm not sure the communication channel is open if you use a living-flame gas fire... Any solutions gladly received...

So what did I ask for from Bill? Well, I suggested something decadent I wouldn't buy for myself that I would only use very rarely on special occassions. So what was his response?: 'A pair of fluffy pink girlie washing-up gloves!'

Hmph...and those half price sofas? Anybody seen Armstrong and Miller's half-price pots? Well you do know that's the real price, don't you...? (Ok, so I couldn't find a link to the pots, but the RAF sketch is even better!!)

The main man...!

2007-11-12T16:03:00.000+00:00

He's back again - and me too. Like a phoenix from the flames, we both rise again from our apparent demises. Patrick, only last week, with another airing of Ghost, and me after two years of silence - I'M BACK! (Although as my last posting showed, unlike me, I guess Patrick never really went away).

No longer officially certified mad by my doctor, I am back at work and fully hurled back into the rat race, though this time perhaps with a slightly greater sense of self-preservation than before my meltdown. But the prescription for Prozac remains open, and it took two sittings (a week apart) to feel strong enough to sit through Ghost without bursting into tears every five minutes. And I still cry whenever I hear Dolly Parton sing Jolene - Bill finds this highly amuzing and likes to share it with his friends for entertainment value. I guess it is kind of strange...

So clearly official certification isn't a necessary part of being on the edge... And perhaps finding myself back here once more is an indication of a much needed safety valve to let my madness out somewhere safely... ;)

It's good to be back! Daisy x

Patrick Swayze rises again

2005-10-12T21:43:00.000+01:00

Whatever happened to Patrick Swayze? Once upon a time in the ‘80s you couldn’t move for Patrick Swayzes coming out at you from Athena posters and film trailers. But now he’s all but disappeared. Except for good old Channel 5. They appear to have resurrected him from the dead – just like in Ghost.

But Bill and I can’t work out whether it’s a Patrick Swayze season or an ‘80s season that is currently gripping Channel 5. It's so hard to tell - there were few films that came out in that period that didn't feature Patrick Swayze strutting his stuff, so the two roll into one. Except for Desperately Seeking Susan - now that was quality and he didn't get anywhere near that.

Ho hum – whichever it is, I guess Patrick must be happy, because life seems to have been a bit quiet for him these past few years, and Channel 5 must be bringing in the royalties for him again.

...And I hate to admit it, but I was secretly pleased when I saw the Dirty Dancing soundtrack being advertised again - I missed it first time round, and before now have always been too worried about looking uncool if I bought it. But now I'm old and untrendy I don't care, so I've been dropping heavy hints to Bill that he can disturb the moths and get that one for me. I know there was a lot of rubbish on the film (not least of all Mr Swayze's acting), but there were some good old originals too.

...How would you call your baby home?

Still doesn't explain what happened to Patrick. Any ideas..?

OK, Here's a clue...

Bloat and bureaucracy

2005-09-27T09:39:00.000+01:00

I’m finding myself hugging the communal printer this morning in a bid to get warm. It is a big mammoth of a machine, spews out pages at the speed of light in full glorious technicolour. It also generates enough heat to, well possibly not fry eggs exactly, but certainly to bring chocolate to a rapid melt. Problem is it’s a bit chunky. I prefer slightly softer things to cuddle as a rule, something not quite so square.

So that’s summer gone then, I guess, judging by the plummet in temperature. It seems to have passed me by in a blur this year – dominated by my encounter with that great institution the NHS. I never did get round to telling you about that, did I? Well let me start at the very beginning…(no I’m not about to launch into another Julie Andrews moment):

It probably passed you by unnoticed. Perhaps a little extra flatulence after an impromptu barbeque, a hiccup or two after an ice-cold beer enjoyed in a rare ray of sunshine. But for the majority, ‘National Gut Week’ this summer passed uneventfully like a mild spell of indigestion under attack from Andrew’s Salts, with not so much as a ‘pass the Rennie, please’.

My gut, however, had an entirely different plan. Having spent fifteen years researching health and health care cerebrally, the rest of my body obviously decided National Gut Week provided an ideal opportunity to get in a spot of undercover investigation, to immerse the researcher in her subject fully. So this week of gastric celebration saw me doubled up in agonising abdominal pain, able to keep neither food nor fluid down any longer than it took to rush to the nearest loo. I was rushed to the local A&E department by my GP.

As a health researcher, I’ve always harboured a healthy suspicion of the medicalisation of society. From cradle to grave, all aspects of our lives have become subject to the medical gaze. Celebrity Doctors tell us how to live our lives healthily during our morning dose of television, and supermarkets coach us on calories, fat and sodium intake. But on this occasion, presented with a clear dis-ease of the body, I, like most people, was happy to lie back and leave it to the experts in white coats. Only I found those experts are more likely to wear pinstripe than white, and while my number one priority may have been to move through the system as quickly as possible, the biomedical paradigm and bloated bureaucracy conspired against me.

My GP, bless her, is one of those rare breeds of medics who has not lost sight of the person surrounding the symptoms. She knows I don’t like taking unnecessary medication or submitting to invasive procedures just to fill an empty slot in my diary. She knows I’ve given birth to two large babies with nothing more than a puff of gas and air. In short, she knows me as an intelligent, capable adult, who faced with most experiences of illness or pain can reel with the punch and get on with life. Put me in a busy hospital however, I am seen simply as a 35 year old woman (oh not one of those!) presenting with non-specific symptoms (i.e. they can’t see it on an x-ray), and they have me down as a hypochondriac with an extremely low pain threshold.

The first diagnosis was consumption of suspect barbeque fodder, despite my assurances that I was a vegetarian who hadn’t managed to eat anything, least of all raw chicken, for the best part of a week. However, this barbeque casualty lasted unexpectedly long, and for the duration of National Gut Week, and the following week, I was marooned in a hospital ward, not able to move further than the buzzer to call the nurse for a bedpan. But once the morphine took hold, and the pain subsided, I had ample time to reflect and marvel at the intricate workings of the beast that is the NHS in this new age of ‘efficiency’, reduced waiting times, MRSA and celebrity chef’s meal choices on the hospital menu.

I quickly discovered that to be admitted to a surgical ward - even if they have yet to identify anything that actually requires surgical intervention - gives staff carte blanche to dress the patient in surgical gown, squeeze her legs into thigh-high anti-DVT stockings, inject with anti-coagulant and hang a ‘Nil by mouth’ sign over the bed. All of which will be completed with the utmost efficiency, but sadly no explanation. My first few attempts at seeking clarification demonstrated my naivety and confirmed my status as hospital virgin:
‘Oh you’ll have to ask the doctors when they come round’, replied the nurse. I was happy with this, so ventured to ask when that might be. And I think this is the moment I received the most confusing, yet also the most unintentionally honest piece of information in my entire stay:
‘It may be before 2 o’clock’. Pause. ‘Or it may be after 2 o’clock’.
Numbed by the pain of trying to make head or tail of this latest example of the laboriously incomprehensible workings of a hospital, I lay back defeated, and awaited the next round of morphine.

I’m not saying the individual professions that comprise the hospital system are not good at what they do, they just don’t seem able to collaborate. The ward sisters and nursing staff are heavenly angels of mercy, divinely administering medication and commodes, and checking their charges are within acceptable limits for blood pressure, pulse, oxygen, temperature and fluid balance. All this with a constant smile, poor pay, low status and exceptionally long hours. Then along come the consultants, who seem to operate with the belief that they have no duty to explain themselves or their treatments to either patients or nurses. So the nursing and auxiliary staff flock around the ward like a giant holding bay, trying to calm and placate patients, with nobody knowing what the hell is going on.

As the government announces the scrapping of the hospital star rating in favour of yet another concoction of targets based on managerial and bureaucratic rather than clinical need, I ponder the question of whether implementing a more holistic approach to health care might be a better way forward. I ‘breeched’ by spending longer than four hours in casualty before admission. This may have cost my hospital a third star, but quite frankly, I would have been happy to spend four days in casualty, if only the system could operate effectively in terms of health care rather than management protocols. If only I had been treated like a capable human being, who can play a part in my own health management, rather than being forced to lie passively in my unattractive stockings, starved of nutrients and dignity - reduced to little more than a receptacle for needles and pills. Add to this the simmering hospital heat and pent up frustration, apprehension and sometimes sheer terror of patients, and the modern efficiency of the NHS looks more like a backstreet B&B than an establishment worthy of one star, let alone three.

Initial conclusions from my bed-bound research would suggest not all consultants are the same. But the majority are. The arrival of the consultant is heralded by a fanfare of footsteps approaching at breakneck speed. With a spectacular visual display of blurred pinstripe and stethoscopes, the charge halts abruptly at the foot of the bed. As the dust settles it becomes apparent that this wasn’t a herd of elephants being chased by a pack of well-dressed hunters, but merely a flustered Senior House Officer, a slightly distant and seemingly side-lined Registrar, and God himself…oops, sorry, the Consultant. He (usually is!) bustles in with all the importance of a foreign dignitary, addresses the ‘Nil by mouth’ sign above the patient’s head, delegates menial tasks to the SHO and then, with a click of the heels, is gone. There is the odd consultant who manages to blend biomedical expertise and clinical excellence with a more holistic understanding of the patient as a person, rather than a disembodied case of symptom presentation. But it would on average seem the higher up the chain of command, the less willing or able they seem to indulge in the very human pastime of talking to the patient. To such a degree that when I first attempted to ask my consultant a few questions, he immediately became defensive, claimed there had been ‘a breakdown in the doctor-patient relationship’, and promptly passed my case over to a colleague. Perhaps I just upset his natural stampede rhythm.

It wasn’t until day 10 of my ordeal that I was informed negative test results are not routinely reported back to patients. For the medical team, a negative result is merely the cue for putting in place the next test in a process of elimination. Never mind the poor patient, languishing in a hospital bed waiting to be told whether or not the scan showed up any unusual growths knocking about inside.

Thus the hospital experience for someone presenting with unusual symptomology, becomes a laboriously slow and drawn out process, and the discovery of a fully functioning television in my third ward provided a welcome distraction. There on Channel 5’s ‘Doctor, Doctor’, I thought my prayers were finally being answered, not dressed in pinstripe but in the guise of the celebrity expert. Viewers with stomach problems were invited to ring in for a live on-air consultation. Dr Mark Porter beamed down at me, oozing bedside manner, charm and confidence, and I was momentarily star struck, convinced he held the key to unlock my suffering. Even the nurses were egging me on to make that call. There’s a celebrity, surely he could get me out of there? Pass the telephone trolley, nurse…

Domestic goddess moment turns gooey

2005-09-21T09:25:00.000+01:00

I had one of my domestic goddess moments today. Thankfully they’re few and far between, but sadly they usually strike at the most inconvenient moments.

This one was triggered by the sight of two rather over-ripe bananas lurking in the fruit bowl. The timing of this observation was unfortunate as it was just as I arrived home with Lily from school, and we had precisely half an hour to do an about turn and get back out for her Tae Kwon Do lesson. As we had to ensure she had managed to have a snack, a drink, do her homework and squeeze a promised moment of Nick Junior into that half hour – time was already looking stretched.

‘Would you like to help me make a cake?’ I asked brightly. Lily’s face lit up – I could see she had visions of chocolate crispies again.
‘I’m going to make a banana cake in the bread-machine. Do you want to help?’
Lily’s face sunk, ‘I don't like banana cake,' she sulked, 'Can I watch Nick Junior instead?’

To be honest I was relieved. Making cakes with the help of little hands always takes much longer than anticipated, and I was confident that with her safely glued to the telly with an apple and a glass of water I could whip this cake up in no time, leaving the very capable bread-making machine to cope with the cooking bit while we were out.

In an attempt to speed things up, I put the flour in the tin, clicked it into place, and set the programme on its way, so the kneader was working as I was ladling in the rest of the ingredients.

I should have realised straight away something was wrong. As well as the kneader springing into action, I noticed the filament around the tin was glowing hotter and hotter with each beat of the motor. But I was in such a rush to measure the rest of the ingredients and get them into the tin before the kneading was over and the cooking cycle began – so I didn’t notice.

It was only as I added the final slurp of milk that it dawned on me that perhaps I had set the wrong programme going. By now the flour, eggs, honey and bananas were fairly congealed and some of the mixture at the edge was well on the way to burning.

With five minutes to go I rushed Lily into her Tae Kwon Do outfit, whilst blowing madly on the filament in the bread-maker - it stubbornly refusing to start on the proper cycle until the heat from the first one had died down. Fair enough I guess – the rapid bake loaf cycle was clearly a little extreme for my banana cake to handle. I also set about trying to remix the already solidified goo that was now a half-baked cake – one baked at far too high a temperature, before half the ingredients had been added.

With a bit of gentle oral persuasion (with Lily well out of earshot) I eventually persuaded the bread-machine to get going on the cake cycle, just in time to whisk Lily away from Dora and get her out the door.

I must admit I was a little worried all the way through Tae Kwon Do – not about the cake, I realised as soon as I shut the door on it that it was going to be a write-off – but worried that there was actually something wrong with the bread-machine and the house would be burnt down by the time we got home. But luckily when we returned nothing more than the banana cake had got a second baking, and the house honestly smelt delicious. Just as good as Nigella Lawson’s does, I’m sure.

Unfortunately the cake didn’t look as good as it smelt. I opened the lid of the bread-maker to find a pale congealed mass that looked more like melted toffee ice-cream than banana cake. For a second a flash of inspiration struck me – I’d scoop out little chunks with a spoon and mix it with vanilla ice-cream and chocolate sauce and the kids would have their very own sticky-toffee-sundaes for pudding. Magic!...

...My enthusiasm didn’t last long. Just long enough for Bill to pop his head over my shoulder and shudder in horror – ‘you’re not thinking of feeding that to the kids, are you?!’

...Besides, we’ve no chocolate sauce, so I’d have to start from scratch…and today is clearly not a cooking day for me…

I bet Nigella doesn’t have days like these…

-

Conquering my fears!

2005-09-13T10:05:00.000+01:00

As I was driving to work yesterday I felt a clunk on the roof and then watched as a bright green conker pod bounced off the car and into the road next to me. Unfortunately also into the path of an oncoming car, so that was the last I saw of that particular conker.

But it got me thinking about this time last year. Lily had just started school and was keen to contribute to the autumn display table in her classroom. Not content with the pitiful collection of crumpled brown leaves we managed to salvage from our back garden, I agreed to try and find a conker tree for her.

If you’re new to an area and didn’t grow up there – you’re unlikely to know off hand where the nearest conker tree is. Add to this the fact that I was newly emerging from my complete meltdown from postnatal depression, and you can imagine I was not in the mood for setting off on jolly jaunts around the town looking for trees laden down with conkers. So I half-heartedly hid in the security zone of the car and drove up and down our local streets looking for clusters of small boys picking things up off the ground (much easier to spot them than looking for the conkers themselves).

It didn’t take me long. I located a suitable spot half way between our house and the school gates. Perfect if we were walking to school. Only it was a little over a mile to walk and I was practically living like a hermit at the time, managing to drag myself into the car to get Lily to school each day, but not daring to actually face the world without that metal security blanket of car to protect me. But my CPN was working hard at convincing me to try out new things, and she thought walking to school would be perfect. It would get me out of the house, into the fresh air, give me some exercise and force me to face being in amongst people again.

Those school walks this time last year were a nightmare. I still remember the pain I used to get in my neck and the headache I’d nurse for hours afterwards, because I had been so tense for the whole journey. It is a busy road most of the way, and Lily being a chatterbox and only half my height, would try and shout at me all the way along to be heard above the traffic. The traffic would scare me, I had to lean over to hear Lily, I worried I couldn’t hear her, I worried she'd hurt herself on the prickly conker pods, I worried we were going to be late…I worried about everything!

Then the CPN gave me some little tricks to help avoid my panic attacks. She suggested we count cars or puddles or flowers. So this gave me a distraction and I’d cling onto it like a dog with a bone, and I’d still be counting red cars way after Lily had grown bored of the game, and still be making a mental note of puddles on the way home. But it got me through.

So this morning it was my turn to do the school run, and I decided it was time to lay old ghosts to rest and see if I could actually enjoy the school walk this year. So out came the buggy (to drop Poppy at nursery) and the car stayed on the drive. The sun was in the sky, there was birdsong on the air and I had a spring in my step as Lily skipped along beside me, excited at the prospect of finding this year’s first conkers.

And do you know what? This time they both shouted at me to be heard above the traffic all the way there, I couldn’t hear a word of what either of them were saying, and by the time we finished scrabbling around looking for the early autumnal offerings, we were most definitely going to be late for school. I didn’t count one car, have no idea how many puddles we passed, and I was still smiling after the bell had rung, Lily was settled in her seat and I was on my way back home...

Isn’t life on Prozac great..!!

Daisy x :)

The hills are alive....with the sound of music...

2005-09-05T18:36:00.000+01:00

I’ve just had the most delicious Sound of Music moment with Poppy and Lily! The usual war-zone was in active session in the kitchen at teatime, so I dug out from a dusty corner on the shelves a CD that I bought ages and ages ago from M&S.

I had bought it during one of those deluded moments of motherhood when I envisaged that I could curl up on the sofa with my kids, just like the lady on the front cover, wrapped up in a luxurious hug of peace and restfulness...It was also in the sale, which helped nurture the day dream…

As you can imagine, that moment never quite materialised, as I awoke to reality and realised that Lily and Poppy are more into active combat than peace and love. So it had been relegated to the ‘never played’ section of the CD collection for months.

But a flash of inspiration made me recover it this evening, commando-crawl across the horror that was the kitchen floor, and slip it unseen into the CD player - and boy did it work! I wasn’t really expecting results, but within minutes the two little combatants had settled into a rhythmic shovelling motion, their eyes glazing over and the noodles going down smoothly.

And then before I knew it I was singing along and the two of them were inching adoringly closer to me, their little faces gazing up with wonder and love. I swear it was a real Julie Andrews moment. I could’ve sworn Lily was on her knees, just like little Lisel in the film. And there they were, to the closing bars of ‘You are my sunshine’ (ok, I know that one isn't in the film), hugging my legs and drifting off to a land much better than the one of noodles, sausages and sweetcorn strewn on the floor around us…

I half expected Bill to come marching in blowing a whistle just like the Captain…!

Stuck on a Bank Holiday?

2005-08-29T18:00:00.000+01:00

Stuck for ideas this Bank Holiday? Not me, I was bursting with ideas of how to entertain Lily and Poppy while Bill went to watch the annual August Bank Holiday football game of our local team. Don’t get me wrong, he goes every week, it’s just that the Bank Holiday game can never be missed, and I know from bitter experience that unprepared, the Bank Holiday football afternoon with the kids alone can be a hellish battle right out of the Peterloo Massacre, far worse than anything two third division football teams can muster between them on the pitch.

So while Poppy was taking her afternoon nap Lily and I nipped out to stock up on supplies of Rice Crispies and cocoa, syrup and butter. When Poppy woke an hour later, ready to embark on one of her post-nap full on tantrums, hurling milk beakers and books around the front room for half an hour, I jumped in quickly before she could even summon up the energy to put on a performance, with the magic phrase: ‘Shall we make some crispie cakes?’

The next hour was spent blissfully bashing bowls full of innocent puffed rice with wooden spoons, screwing up paper cup-cases and eating a gooey melted concoction of sugar and chocolate.

Sated for a short while, they cleared off to watch Dora on Nick Junior, and I set about tackling the bombsite that was the kitchen. Just then a vision of Poppy diving face first onto our cream settee, covered from nose to chin in chocolate goo, had me rushing to the rescue clutching a pack of baby wipes. And I don’t mind telling you I was feeling very smug having managed to escape that disaster, get the kids clean and do the washing up after our crispie cake orgy, all before the closing credits of Dora were rolling.

Once Dora was over we decided to do something else creative, and Lily went to fetch her favourite book with ideas for how to make everything from an octopus to a bonfire out of little more than some PVA glue and a few sheets of coloured paper (must have been written by an ex-Blue Peter presenter from the 1970s before it went all pop music and fashion).

Having settled on the shimmery fish with wavy tails, we set about gathering our supplies of tissue paper and milk bottle tops to embark on our next project. Just then I remembered we had no glue. A frantic search in the kitchen drawers confirmed my worst fears, there was nothing remotely sticky apart from a flea-bitten tube of superglue and I wouldn’t let Poppy loose on that – even I’m not that irresponsible.

On an ordinary day, when I’m feeling dishevelled, browbeaten, inadequate and exhausted from motherhood, I would have told the kids we needed to abandon the fish idea and switched the TV back on again. But no, today was a Bank Holiday – I was coping fine with my kids alone for the first time in ages and the sun was even shining. Hell, I was going to take the bull by the horns, pile them into the car and go shopping for Pritt Stick.

Going for the quickest option, I headed for the local row of shops – I can leave the kids safely locked in the car, nip in and still see them from the shop window. I say safely locked, because this row of shops is on a council estate which was the location for some serious sociological investigation into anti-social behaviour, drug trafficking and vandalism in the 1980s. They even wrote a book about it. Things have improved a little, but not that much, so I had to make this quick.

A quick sprint round the first shop revealed nothing in the way of handy Blue Peter style materials. So double checking the central locking on the car, I raced for the next shop door. Still panting from my first exploration, rather than trying to search the shelves in this place, I ran straight to the back of the shop where I could see the shop girl having a quick fag break out the back while things were slack.
‘Have you got any glue?’ I splutter at the girl, like a woman possessed.
She looks slightly taken aback, flicks the ash off her cigarette, and shakes her head slowly.
My eyes widen in horror – ‘Not even Pritt Stick?’ I gasp in disbelief.

It’s only as I turn to exit the shop that I catch sight of myself in the mirror hung up over the counter to allow the shop keeper to see what’s going on at the back of the shop - and I realise I have not been such a perfect domestic goddess today after all. I self-consciously eased myself back into the car and looked closely in the rear view mirror. In my haste and concern for the furnishings, I may have wiped the kids clean enough to attend Sunday School and saved our tatty settee, but I had completely forgotten to clean my own face.

A flash back to our orgy in the kitchen reminded me that Poppy had been feeding me handfuls of crispie cake from her bowl. Stuck to my chin were several very crusty looking rice puffs, and my lack of attention to person presentation today had extended to not bothering with make-up, and forgetting to brush my hair before leaving the house. So although I had remembered just in time to change from my slippers to my trainers, the overall effect was still that of someone not quite in control of her faculties and just a little deranged.

As I drove away I spotted a group of teenage girls sitting on a wall not far from the shop, and I realised sadly why no shop on this estate was going to make access to glue free and easy. But you’d have thought they could have made an exception with Pritt Stick – I can’t be the only desperate mum around here on a Bank Holiday.

Beaten by our local retailers, I raced to Sainsbury’s five minutes before they were due to close. Grabbing Poppy under one arm and pulling Lily reluctantly along by the other, with no shame I headed straight for customer services and demanded to know where they kept their glue. And finally our search for the Holy Grail was over. There in front of my eyes was a big bucket full of Pritt Sticks – I could have kissed the young man who had led me to this treasure. The icing on the cake – it was ‘buy one get one free’ – perfect, no fighting over one stick of glue. Even I joined in the chorus of ‘We did it’, the Dora song, on the way home in the car.

So it was an afternoon of relative calm from the kids, but clear signs of depravity from their mother. Ok, so I was publicly humiliated and will never be able to show my face in that row of shops again, but the kids were happily entertained with an afternoon of covering themselves, the house, and me with chocolate goo and silvery fish scales. So I still feel like its 1-0 to me this Bank Holiday!

Right, Bill’s back, so I’m off for a well-earned (and much needed) soak.

Daisy x

By the way – in case you were wondering, we won the football 1-0 too!

DAISY RETURNS!!!!!

2005-08-19T21:36:00.000+01:00

Hi there tiddly-peeps (A Hoobs reference for all you wonderfully amazing parents who manage to survive early mornings without the aid of Channel 4). I feel like I’m starting all over again, I’ve been away so long. I must thank Pops for holding the fort during my absence.

It’s been a crazy few weeks. And not the usual summer madness that school holidays and unexpected heatwaves bring, but another level of madness altogether. Pops hinted at the situation – I’ve been stuck in various hospital wards, attached to an array of monitors and drips, enduring an assortment of tests and investigations, and basically have lost touch with the world completely. But I’m back! Well sort of…

I’ve never spent time inside before – in any sort of institution. And for the first time I started to understand how prisoners actually make it through sentences that last for years on end. I know there are some differences – prisons have televisions that work, hospitals don’t – but I should imagine there are also a lot of similarities between long stay in a prison and long stay in a hospital. For a start, breakfast arrives ridiculously early to the sound of clattering on iron railings; secondly the staff get to submit inmates to a range of unexplained ritualistic procedures at periodic intervals throughout the day; and finally, there are strict visiting hours with controls on numbers, suitability and type (children usually not welcome). But I dare say smoking rules are more lax in prison, as Pops pointed out (I never thought I’d live to see the day Pops stood up for the rights of a smoker!).

I’ll tell you more about the details over the next few posts, as I start to orientate myself around the keyboard again. Suffice to say for now that what has always been a healthy suspicion of all things in white coats has now grown into an active distaste. I always knew that historically the world of doctors and medicines was designed to control and subjugate the patient, but I had kind of hoped things had moved on a bit in the 21st century. I was wrong.

More of that to come. But the whole experience has changed me deeply, and this morning when I found myself interrupting a game of doctor and patient between Poppy and Lily, a crisis of conscience quickly ensued. Dr Poppy was administering to patient Lily, by searching for a migrant heartbeat in her lower digestive cavity, with the aid of a plastic stethoscope. At this point, patient Lily intervened, shouting, 'Duh, Poppy! It's my foot that's hurting, you don't have to listen to my heart!' – rounded off with her best 5-year-old impersonation of a teenage grunt.

Dr Poppy simply looked up, made an absentminded adjustment to her stethoscope, and got back to what she was doing, completely ignoring the patient's interjection, as if it had been nothing more than the buzz of a passing fly.

Afraid that the whole thing might escalate into a doctor-patient uprising - as Poppy is going through a very determined stage at the moment, and Lily does her best to provoke her - I urged Lily to let Dr Poppy do what she wanted to her patient. ‘After all’, I heard myself say, 'the doctor always knows best!'

And then I almost choked on my words! Here's me – still reeling from the shock of dealing with a consultant who thought the world revolved around him and no patient had the right to speak - and there I was trying to train my child, already showing very positive signs of rebellion and self confidence to question authority, to abandon all sense of control and give in to the power of the dominant regime. Aarrghh!!

Don’t worry – I will explain all very soon. It’s getting late, and I have a heap of medication to get through before I can go to bed…

It's nice to be back.

Daisy x

Mediterranean Diet

2005-08-18T16:18:00.000+01:00

Hi again from Daisy's Dad. The good news is that Daisy and family are taking a break at the seaside. All the hospital tests so far have proved negative, which is good news but means there is still a puzzle. She is due to have some further tests as an out-patient, but at the moment is soaking up some sun and relaxing, and tells me it's time I made another blog post for her!

I thought I would write about my hobby, which is enjoying serendipitous synchronicity, or in plain English waiting for interesting links between unrelated ideas to pop up. And funnily enough, one happened as I was sitting here at my keyboard thinking about how to explain it.

First, a little background. I live in the United Kingdom and over the years I have taken many self-catering holidays around the Mediterranean. Self catering because one of the holiday high spots for me is being able to buy fresh ingredients for a Mediterranean Diet daily. When I get to a new place, the first thing I want to know is the location of the produce market. Now that I'm retired, I've been mulling over whether to reverse the holiday process - live near the Mediterranean and take occasional holidays back in the UK! So I've looked at all the variables, cost of property, location of airports with low-cost airlines and so on, and decided that the ideal location would be in Italy, probably in Tuscany. And that's as far as it has gone so far - the next stage will be to take an off-season holiday in Tuscany to do some research locally.

Back to Serendipitous Synchronicity. Sitting at my keyboard looking at Daisy's blog, I clicked idly on the link in the right-hand column that says "Break free - how to turn your passion into an income". Sounded like the subject line on a spam email, but I wasn't going anywhere in a hurry and I'd just made a fresh cup of coffee, so I clicked. And there, right in the middle of the page, was a photograph of a Villa which was obviously in Tuscany! So I clicked on the picture, and it gave me the fascinating story of a young couple, Fiona McCardle and Jim Andrew, who did turn their passion into an income, and set up a web business Rent a Villa in Tuscany - if you read their story, there is a link to their site at the end of it.

And that's what I mean by Serendipitous Syncronicity - now I have no excuse - the pieces are falling into place! Oh, and Daisy and company love the idea of holidays in Tuscany...

A surprised defence of smokers rights!

2005-08-04T16:32:00.000+01:00

Hi – this is Daisy’s Dad learning how blogs work. Unfortunately, Daisy has been in and out of hospital over the last couple of weeks, and hasn’t had the time to do much on her computer. I’ll let her tell the story, because I know she has been making loads of notes – in the meanwhile, she asked me to post something to show that her blog is still live, and left the topic up to me to choose. Brave girl!

As it happens, I do have something I want to say, because on my hospital visits I observed a couple of cases of unfair treatment, almost victimisation, which have made me hopping mad.

Our local hospital has a no-smoking policy, and as a lifelong non-smoker who lost both parents to smoking-related disease, I agree with it totally. I am saddened to see hospital staff hanging around in the grounds taking a furtive drag, even though the ban extends in theory to the grounds as well, but I know that they are dedicated and caring people who work long hours for ridiculously low pay, and a cigarette helps them through the day.

But heaven preserve the smokers who end up as patients! They come into hospital because they are ill, and their crutch is kicked away as soon as they are admitted. There is not even a smokers’ day room available to them. One elderly man set himself and his bed on fire trying to have a surreptitious puff during the night shift, but the case that really annoyed me was that of a young mother who was in for investigation of severe abdominal pain.

After a number of tests, they determined that it would be necessary to remove her gall bladder, which would mean going onto a waiting list for the operation. She couldn’t go home immediately because there were some other tests to be carried out, but she was promised an appointment with the Pain Control Team before leaving hospital, as the pain was spasmodic but crippling when it hit. But Oh No! The appointment was cancelled. And why? Because when not in pain she could walk out into the grounds to text her children and, yes, have a cigarette. As she said, she would "crawl over broken glass" to keep in touch with her children, but mobile phones and cigarettes are not allowed in the hospital buildings, and the fact that she could make her journey to the grounds was taken as proof that she was not in sufficient pain.

Sufficient pain! She described the intensity as being like childbirth, and in childbirth it is possible to move around between contractions. I don’t know, I’m only a man, but as a Mum with four children she would know what she was talking about, and I got the impression she was a tough cookie, not someone to make a fuss without reason.

I do not know who took the decision to cancel the Pain Relief consultation, but I do wonder what went through her/his mind while doing it. Where did the compassion go? I would be delighted if all smokers could give up the habit tomorrow, but surely nicotine dependency is a part of the patient’s problem which could be established at admission and taken into account during treatment – for example by offering patches and counselling. Or am I making the mistake of wanting to see a holistic approach to treatment rather than a one-thing-at-a-time conveyor system?

The beautiful mind of motherhood

2005-07-08T12:28:00.000+01:00

After yesterday’s bomb atrocities in London, I tried to lose myself in a film, and finally watched A Beautiful Mind, which has been sitting on my shelf for many months waiting to be returned to its owner and as yet unwatched.

It’s based on the true-life story of Nobel Prize winner John Nash, a Mathematician who gets entangled in a mysterious conspiracy. I don’t want to ruin the end of it for you, but I thought it was rather telling that I believed the characters were all real, and Bill was convinced they weren’t.

Watch the film and see what you think that says about my current state of mind! And then, please let me know…

I’m not a huge Russell Crowe fan, he’s just a bit too ‘all man’ for me – but in this one he’s good and I thoroughly recommend it for anyone who feels like they’re close to losing the plot. It is reassuring in an odd kind of way.

But it isn’t just people like me, who have had a complete meltdown and six months off work who feel like they’re somehow on the edge of everybody else’s reality. I was talking to a friend last night who is on the verge of returning to work after six years of fulltime motherhood, and she is feel understandably apprehensive and nervous about how she will be received in a workplace that she used to know so well, yet now seems strangely alien. And she has all her marbles!!

So it got me thinking that perhaps this is all just about motherhood (although obviously not in John Nash’s case!), not post-natal depression. When I first returned to work after maternity leave - when I was still standing securely on two feet and managing to look the world in the eye - even then I felt like an outsider in the workplace. I sort of had a perception that everyone else was looking at me differently now I was a mother. As if I was somehow less capable, certainly less intelligent, and unlikely to be trusted to perform as well as my non-parent colleagues. Perhaps it was the bottles of expressed breast milk I was seen carrying from my office to the fridge every lunchtime, or maybe the pushchair parked in the corner of my room. Apart from that I was doing everything else as I always had done. But something told me that my status had gone down.

And talking to other mothers yesterday just made me think it doesn’t matter what path we choose, whether we stay at home to bring up our kids, carry on working through their infancy or return to work after a slightly extended maternity break – whatever we do, we are going to end up feeling inferior in the workplace. Because modern day work and modern day motherhood just don’t fit neatly together. It’s messy and emotional and splits you in two.

But you know what? I don’t care. For me, my status in the workplace is far less important than my status as a mother…it’s just a shame that it is the former rather than the latter that pays the bills!

(Have you noticed I haven’t mentioned my little ones today? I’m tired of seeing adverts for nothing but flowers on my blog!!)

Breast is best...is it?

2005-07-05T13:40:00.000+01:00

‘Has the drive to promote breastfeeding gone too far?’ That’s the question that the ITV news asked viewers this afternoon, in the wake of a report by a sociologist claiming that the ‘moral crusade’ by breastfeeding advocates is undermining experiences of parenthood.

I was actually extremely disappointed with the article. Quite unexpectedly they didn’t have the author of the report or anybody to explain why we shouldn’t be breastfeeding our babies. They just had a very nice GP, Sarah Jarvis, who quite categorically said ‘breast is best’. So in danger of being shouted down for being a looney earth mother, for once I say 'hurrah to ITV!'

Dr Jarvis criticised the schizophrenic attitude British society has to breastfeeding – on the one hand we promote the health benefits for baby, but on the other we deny a woman’s right to breastfeed her baby when and where she chooses. It seems ludicrous, in a society where we see naked breasts exposed in all their glory in newspapers everyday, and women are forever being encouraged to ‘get your tits out for the lads’ – that when we want to get our tits out for our babies, we are ridiculed, shunned, moved on and labelled moral-crusading cranks. Why can we get them out for lecherous men but not to ensure the healthy development of our children?

What a sick society we must live in.

Come to think of it, if Britain continues to have this stuck up, sexist, disapproving, priggish attitude towards breastfeeding, then it will be a very sick country indeed. Babies who are breastfed have less gastroenteritis, fewer coughs and colds, less admissions to hospital for infection, and grow up healthier, less likely to become obese and more likely to avoid other common health complaints like asthma, eczema and heart disease. Look at it that way, and breastfeeding isn’t just an issue of personal choice, is it? It is a public health issue as well.

But hopefully there may be change. When they first discovered smoking was bad for your health, nobody listened, smoking continued unabated, smokers protected their 'right' to smoke, and public areas were choked with the fumes of hundreds of cigarettes for all to inhale. Now the realisation has dawned, non-smokers are starting to demand their right to a smoke free environment, lifelong smokers bravely battle through the pain of giving up, and smoking has become one of the biggest public health issues in the UK.

Whatever smokers try and claim – they can give up – and it makes the world a healthier place for all of us. Only a tiny minority of women genuinely can’t breastfeed, and in the majority of cases, difficulties can be overcome with the help of a trained breastfeeding counsellor. So when a few more people in authority realise that breastfeeding needn’t be a shameful and private hell - that it is in fact a pain free, cheap, convenient and loving way to protect the future health of Britain, perhaps it too will be taken up as a public health issue.

On 22 March this year a campaign was launched to protect mothers' rights to feed their babies in public in England and Wales. If you want to help improve the health of the nation, by backing this campaign, sign their petition.

Hey, and to all you mums and dads who haven’t made up your minds yet, another great benefit of breastfeeding – the nappies of breastfed babies smell much sweeter than those of bottle fed babies. Now if that doesn’t convince you when baby starts producing monster stinky poos at two in the morning, nothing will!

Panic in the aisles of Sainsbury's

2005-07-04T13:39:00.000+01:00

The appearance of incompetence. It happens to us all. It certainly happens to me – but I have insanity and prozac as reliable scapegoats. But when it happens to a father, then he for some reason feels like the finger of suspicion is pointing at him, everyone is laughing, and he will shortly be up for nomination as Worst Parent of the Year.

Bill was in charge of Lily and Poppy on Friday night while I was out on my college night. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself, having got the pair upstairs, washed and scrubbed with no major tantrums erupting. Mentally patting himself on the back and dreaming of that bottle of white wine cooling in the fridge, he reached for their pyjamas; and then it struck him – like a tonne of bricks (or a toddler wielding a heavy-handled skipping rope at head height) – there were no nappies in the house. 7 o’clock on a Friday evening, home alone, with not a nappy in sight. And although Poppy is potty-trained during the day (just about!), she still needs a nappy at night.

So it was a site of devastation I returned to later that evening. Every drawer and cupboard had been turned out, in the desperate hunt for a nappy, all to no avail. Bill had ended up piling them both into the car and headed for Sainsbury’s (thank heavens for 24 hour shopping!). He said he was too embarrassed to take them in with him, but mindful of the fact that leaving a two and a five year old unattended in a car in a public place wasn’t exactly up there on the list of perfect parenting tips either. So he bit the bullet and reluctantly dragged the two pyjama-clad children with him on the nappy hunt.

He had hoped to get in and out with nobody noticing him. But Poppy and Lily were determined to let the whole shop know that daddy had forgotten the nappies, and they were out on an exciting late-night shopping trip as a result - so they told everyone they came across (Bill says it is remarkable just how many people do go shopping in Sainsbury's on a Friday night at 7 o’clock). He felt like everyone was judging him as a completely incompetent hopeless dad, who didn’t know one end of a baby from the other.

Grabbing the nappies and rushing through the checkout, with one last embarrassing ‘Daddy got no nappies!’ from Poppy to the checkout lady, and he was herding them back through the shop to the front door. Just as he thought he’d got away with it, he heard the noise of a tap being turned on, and pivoting in horror, he saw Poppy standing behind him, feet hip-with apart, shouting ‘I have done a wee! I have done a wee I have!’

I don’t think he’ll be rushing back to Sainsbury’s in the very near future, my dear Sweet William! (Who, by the way, is the most competent dad I know, so that award can go to one of the other many hundreds of parents enjoying late night dashes to Sainsbury’s. We've all been there one way or another).

Thanks mum

2005-07-02T18:36:00.000+01:00

My mum sent me an amazing book today. A simple little thing entitled Thanks mum: inspiring lessons for mothers. It is compiled by people all around the world, sending in their witty and inspiring comments on motherhood.

I live many miles from my mum, and receiving this was like getting a huge, unexpected hug through the post from her.

So for anyone out there with a mum who you don’t see as often as you'ld like – go and buy her this book.

For those of you who live quite close enough, thank you, and sometimes feel like you’ll never break free; but still love her all the same - buy her this book.
For anyone who sees their mother every day and still can’t tell her how much you appreciate her – buy her this book!

Go on! Send your mum a hug today! (And please excuse the scribbling on the front cover I've scanned in for you - my mum never could resist the temptation to deface a good book!!).

Oh, and by the way... Thanks, mum!

Pippi Longstocking and Poppy Long-stropping

2005-06-30T08:52:00.000+01:00

Do you ever have one of those mornings when you feel like the world is playing some kind of sick joke on you? Any minute now God or somebody else in charge is going to jump out with a big microphone and a cheeky smile, shouting 'Surprise!!'

It started like any other morning. Weetabix on the walls, potties being emptied all over the bathroom floor and an undercurrent of tantrums simmering away discretely. But we were coping. And then Poppy lost it. Completely lost it because she wanted to take her top off in order to put her big girl's pants on. Now search me, I have no reason why one should have to remove one's top in order to put on a pair of knickers, but in the logic of a two year old, it was making perfect sense. And mummy was just being plain stupid for not following the thread of reasoning. So I left her to it. Top still on, because she couldn't get it off herself, but knickers being thrown around the bedroom in a fit of toddler rage.

Then up came Lily looking for trouble. Again, started off innocently enough. She wanted me to do her hair. We had the usual early morning discourse:
Lily: I just want a slide in
Mummy: You need to tie it back, it's hot, you've got Tae Kwon Do tonight (and besides you look like you've been pulled through a hedge backwards and I can't let you out in public like that on top of the combination of clothes you've picked out for yourself this morning).
(This last bit was of course not said out loud)
Lily: Ok, I'll have bunches.

So I struggle on trying to un-knot the mass of straw that passes for hair on Lily's head. She has beautiful hair and we brush it every day, and wash it regularly, but somehow she still manages to make it look like she's auditioning for the part of Victorian Street Urchin in Oliver.

Bunches duly created, and the sulk sets in:
Lily: I don't want bunches. Bunches look silly!
Mummy (through gritted teeth, I hadn't taken my morning Prozac yet): You asked for bunches, sweetheart, that's what you've got.
...Sulk...
Mummy: I tell you what - we'll plait them and then they won't stick out so much.

She was pleased with this idea and so was I - we were meeting half way and that's always so much better than giving in completely. (Meanwhile Poppy is still next door kicking and screaming with a pair of big girl's pants on her head, having completely forgotten what she was in a strop about in the first place, but keeping the show up just in case I hadn't forgotten).

Plaits in place and Lilly lets rip. I guess I didn't help by saying she looked like Pippi Longstocking. I used to love Pippi Longstocking as a kid and I thought Lily looked gorgeous. But she was having none of it and joined in the chorus with Poppy who had by now joined us and was rolling about my bed, still with her top on, but no sign of her pants.

I know it isn't nice when our parents laugh at our attempts to stamp authority on the world - I remember it well myself. But it was such a funny scene I just had to laugh and left them to it. Pippi Longstocking and Poppy Long-stropping, rolling and moaning about the bed as if I'd just banned Christmas!

Perhaps it is all down to their artistic temperament. You've already seen Lily's handiwork with a pencil, so here is Poppy's latest offering from nursery to brighten up the page. Us artists just have to suffer in a world that doesn't understand...

It is entitled Mary, Mary quite contrary... yea, that would be right!

Dx

Discrimination in pay

2005-06-27T11:50:00.000+01:00

I was wrong - it's 18.4%, not 16%.

I'm even more fed up than I thought!

Life is a race

2005-06-27T10:50:00.000+01:00

I need a change in career. I’ve always known that, but having postnatal depression has just made it all the more apparent. I lost valuable time with my babies growing up, because the workplace infiltrated every minute of time I had on maternity leave, and hauled me back into the office far sooner than I would have liked. And now I face a summer with Bill and me alternating time off to look after Lily over the school holidays, leaving precious little time for us to take a proper holiday off together as a family.

If I could do anything I liked I think I would become a classroom assistant with children in their first year of primary school. Then at least I'd get some time off with my kids. But it isn’t as simple as that. I currently work in an industry where women get paid an average of 16 per cent less than men for doing the equivalent job, but if I moved into the world of classroom assistants I wouldn’t even earn as much as somebody stacking the shelves in Aldi. Is it just me or is there something criminal about an economic system that values supermarkets over education? I’ve been a check-out-chick and shelf-stacker before. Nothing wrong with that, but I don’t intend to go back to it just because it pays more than doing something I’d really rather do. But then why should I suffer financially because I want to help kids develop their full potential?

Anyway, it’s all academic, because £6.15 an hour as a classroom assistant won’t cover the mortgage, nor will £6.50 an hour for stacking the shelves in Aldi for that matter, so I guess I’m stuck for now surrounded by men being paid ridiculously more than me. Men who, possibly as a result, feel more valued than me and are less close to the edge of quitting!

On a lighter note I did the Race for Life yesterday. 10 000 participants and almost as many spectators in one small park in the blazing sun – boy was that a bad idea for someone who suffers panic attacks in crowds!! My counsellor said one way to deal with panic attacks is to concentrate really hard on one object and try to lose yourself in that, forgetting the wider chaos around you. Not a recommended strategy in the Race for Life. Most objects in front of me were the backs of other women – backs displaying little pink squares emblazoned with the names of loved ones they had lost through cancer. One particularly heartbreaking group was two women and a small girl, of about 3. Each had a photo of the same young man on their pink square. For one he was a brother, for one he was a husband, and for the little girl, he was her daddy. They were clearly enjoying the day and it must give them a sense of empowerment to be able to do something constructive and so communal in the face of such private and individual sorrow. It just brought a tear to my eye every time I saw them. In a sad sort of way this made me go even quicker, because I wanted to get in front of all these sad, sad stories and not have to see those ghost like faces on little pink squares anymore. But for that family, and for so many like them, there is no getting away from the ghosts, however fast you run.

So it was a very humbling experience, and I’m definitely going to do it again. I am walking a little bit slower than usual this morning. I’m not sure if that is aching muscles or the cheap slip-on sandals I’m wearing. Probably the latter. I’m usually someone who walks at the pace of a professional speed-walker, striding ahead leaving poor little Lily and Poppy squealing at me to slow down. But today I’m having to take life at a more leisurely pace because if I go too quickly my sandals fly off. Maybe I should take to wearing them everyday – it would force me to take life a bit more slowly…

Then again, I wonder how much a professional speed-walker gets paid..?