Witter

Shouldering a problem

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 22:28:00 +0000

I had my first ever visit to a sports massage practitioner. I thought you might know what it was like.

I’d been having problems with my shoulder and upper arm for about a month. I can’t remember what caused the problem, but if I had to blame anything it’s probably be gardening.

The first step was to expose the problem area. So top half clothes came off and were replaced by modesty preserving towel.

My practitioner, Mark, explained that he’d be applying pressure and be asking me, on a scale of one to ten, how painful it was.

I’m not very good at explaining how painful something is. The one to ten scale helped but only to make pain ratings relative. How can one rate pain at a ten? That means that it’s not possible to suffer further pain. Of course it’s mostly possible to put up with more pain.

So with the first attempt I went with a score of four, and tried to score all other pain relative to that first score.

The other thing about pain is that it’s possible to be conditioned to it and, over time, accept more.

Apparently my score of seven has other people screaming “ten” and needing a piece of wood to bite down on.

We did hit a couple of tens but they were only ten relative to the other scores I’d made. If the pressure had been increased I could have coped.

The other thing that I thought was strange was that a score of eight, after pressure was applied for a few seconds turned into a score of two, without any reduction in pressure.

He didn’t just apply pressure constantly. Sometimes the pressure was moved back and forth on an area and sometimes pressure was applied constantly and my arm was moved at the same time to change to impact of the pressure.

Mark told me I might be a “bit sore” tomorrow, and the following day, but he also said that my pain threshold might mean I don’t feel too bad at all.

Let’s see how much complaining about my shoulder I do over the next couple of days, and see whether things improve by the end of the week.

Inappropriate applause

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 20:52:00 +0000

When I was young, and yes I was young once, it was deemed inappropriate for one to applaud oneself. These days it seems to be perfectly acceptable.

I know this makes me sound like a crotchety old woman, but that’s OK, because that’s what I am.

I see celebrities being interviewed and the interviewer will show us, the audience, and the interviewee a piece of their work, maybe a clip from their latest film or perhaps a few bars from their latest single. Invariably the celebrity will applaud with the audience once it’s finished.

When did it become socially acceptable to lack modesty?

Surely the acceptable behaviour is to modestly smile and maybe nod the head to acknowledge the audience’s appreciation.

Isn’t applauding one’s own work arrogant and presumptuous? Shouldn’t one allow the audience the job of critiquing one’s performance?

I know, by the way, that some famous people will excuse this behaviour by claiming they are merely showing their appearance for the audience.

Rubbish! They’re just full of themselves and are trying to excuse the inexcusable.

Gissa job

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 18:00:00 +0000

Our lovely post delivery people, are considering striking. As a response the Royal Mail will be recruiting 30,000 temporary staff to cope with the work that isn’t being done by those who are striking.

This is the time of year when Royal Mail would be recruiting seasonal staff to cope with the Christmas rush anyway, I think they’ve just upped the requirement because of the planned industrial action.

I know we’re emerging from the economical hangover caused by the credit crunch, but there are still many people who have lost their job and will be eyeing 30,000 temporary jobs and thinking “I’ll have a piece of that.”

I have done this job. I have worked the sorting office nightshift and I’ve delivered the mail.

The nightshift: This involved standing in front of a grid of pigeonholes and sorting mail into these pigeonholes which were divided into streets, or sections of streets. It was possible to sit down but the seat that was available was not adjustable and was akin to an uncomfortable bar stool.

Tea breaks were the highlight of the shift because there was a pool table for amusement. I think there may have been a canteen but the food can’t have been great because I’ve blanked it out.

Delivering the mail: I was dumped on my patch by a van and left, with my mail, not really having too much of a clue about which street was where. Most of the time the mail had been sorted appropriately for the street and it was a simple matter of mail into letterboxes.

Low letterboxes cause back ache and are not good (Health and Safety take note). Sprung loaded letter boxes scrape the skin off the back of the hand. Barking dogs petrified me and the fear was realised when the dog followed up the bark by snapping with teeth at the hand through the letterbox. Flats are a pain, especially when one has finished delivering to a block of flats and then there’s a letter that has been mis-sorted and it’s for the top floor. (This happened to me and my response was to pop it in the nearest letterbox. I know this is wrong, please don’t write and complain.)

So in case you are tempted by the headline 30,000 jobs, you can submit your application knowing a little more about what you’re applying for.

A cautionary tale

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 19:12:00 +0000

Ethan asked me this evening “Mummy, what would happen if I put a conker in the washing machine?”

“You’d go on the naughty step.”

“For how long Mummy? How long would I go on the naughty step, if I put a conker in the washing machine?”

“Five years”

“Really?”

“Yes really. I’d be very, very annoyed.”

Nanny state

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 19:49:00 +0000

I read this today on the BBC website:

“Parents in England who regularly look after friends' children and receive a "reward" for doing so must register as childminders, regulator Ofsted says.

It said most parents would be exempt but those who babysat for more than two hours at a time, or for more than 14 days per year, should be registered.”

It incensed me.

The last time I checked, a full day of nursery costs for one child was about £50.

The staff that worked in that nursery also made themselves available for babysitting at a rate of £10 per hour.

With that kind of cost, it really doesn’t surprise me that people seek cheaper solutions. One of the most logical solutions would be a reciprocal arrangement with a friend. Sharing the job of childcare and avoiding the cost.

It is such an arrangement that Ofsted told two detective constables, Leanne Shepherd and Lucy Jarrett, was illegal. A reciprocal arrangement can be deemed to be a reward.

And if I understand this Ofsted statement correctly, it means that my children cannot be babysat by a friend of mine if we plan to be out of the house for more than two hours and I offer to return the favour.

Equally, when I was a teenager I used to get paid to babysit, sometimes for five or six hours. This enabled couples and single parents to enjoy the occasional evening out. This, and the nursery staff that babysit in the evenings to supplement their income, can no longer happen. It is illegal, unless these individuals register as a childminder with Ofsted.

How puerile. How utterly ridiculous. Surely, as a parent, I should be empowered to decide who cares for my children, and if it happens to be a friend or neighbour I trust then that’s my decision.

It might seem strange that I complain about this Nanny State because I rarely go out but it’s the principle that matters here.

Knickers – it gets worse

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 18:55:00 +0000

Update from Hannah.

The knickers weren’t handed to a teacher, but a parent helper. So not only do all of the teaching staff now know about my knickers, but so do all of the mums.

And, the mum she handed them to was her best friend’s mum. This is the woman I often chat to in the playground.

Debbie – can I have my knickers back please?

Knickers

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 18:13:00 +0000

Hannah had her school swimming lesson today and as per usual I asked her how the lesson went.

She started talking about some knickers she’d found.

It appears that when Hannah took her towel out of her swimming bag and started to get changed she found a superfluous pair of black knickers. She knew they weren’t hers and so she took the only action that a sensible little girl would take. She handed them to a teacher.

At this point in the story my ears pricked up and I started to ask questions..

Were the knickers lacy or plain? Lacy.

Were they the kind of knickers that don’t cover somebody’s bottom properly? Yes, Hannah thought they were. A thong then.

So one of my thongs had somehow got caught up in the laundry with Hannah’s swimming gear and had ended up in her swimming bag and subsequently in the changing room and therefore in a teacher’s hands.

And now they were the subject of great amusement in the staff room no doubt.

If I was the teacher receiving the knickers I’d put two and two together and, being a teacher, I’d get four. So the teacher knows they are my knickers which probably means the whole of the staff room knows they are my knickers.

The question is, should I ask for them back? This would clearly be an embarrassing exercise.

The alternative is to just “let it go.”

Whatever I do I am now unable to look any member of the school staff in the eye without a hot flush enveloping me, and not in a good way.

BBQ – no thanks

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 20:41:00 +0000

Is it just me, or are barbeques a bit of a faff?

Victoria wanted a gas barbeque and was asking for advice.

Vish was of the opinion that gas was a heinous crime. The only barbeque one should entertain owning is charcoal.

Lucinda owned up to owning a gas barbeque but that wasn’t her crime. Her crime was buying disposable barbeques and using the gas barbeque as an attractive platform to support the disposable barbeque.

Whereas others considered this to be a bizarre practise, I thought it was completely logical and actually very sensible. Although I did suggest that it would be possible to rest the disposable barbeque on a less expensive option.

Barbeques are hard work.

It’s the cleaning I detest.

I’ve been told that barbeques should be cleaned while they’re warm. How stupidly impractical. When I’ve sat down to a barbeque meal with a glass or three, the last thing I want to do is to rush to don the Marigolds.

Plus it’s just such a horrible job to do. It’s filthy, dirty work. It’s so much worse than a bit of washing up, and of course just because you’ve used the barbeque it doesn’t mean that there isn’t any washing up. So you have the hideous barbeque cleaning and the washing up to do.

So we tend to leave the barbeque cleaning until the next time we want to use it. This means that the happy anticipation of outdoor cooking is spoilt by the knowledge that there’s an onerous task waiting.

So, Victoria, my advice is buy disposable barbeques and enjoy the pleasure and avoid the pain.

Camping

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 19:58:00 +0000

I took a risk this week.

I was walking through town with the children and we ambled into Millets and looked at the tents in the sale.

I want a new tent, mainly because our current tent annoys me but partly because I like shiny new things. I know I won’t get a new tent though because I’m too rational. Our current tent suffices. It does the job, not brilliantly well, but it does the job. I cannot justify the expense associated with replacing it or, as is the case with most things we buy, the new would sit alongside the old as we’re not very good at “getting rid.”

In order to maintain the interest of the children I suggested we could be looking for a tent for them – just for them. I told them that at Hannah’s age I was allowed to camp in a pup tent which was pitched alongside my parents’ tent. I was pretty sure we wouldn’t buy the children a tent as we had our old two man tent in the loft that Dave and I had used pre-children.

The conversation gradually moved on to that two man tent and the idea of putting it up in the garden.

Ten minutes later when we were home, that is exactly what we were doing. Putting up a two man tent in the back garden.

The conversation had also resulted in me agreeing to (and if I’m honest encouraging) the idea of the children sleeping in the tent in the back garden.

In theory this isn’t a big deal except…

We had badgers in the garden this week
We don’t have a secure back garden and usually leave the back gates open
The children would need access to the house during the night which would mean leaving the back door unlocked

We went ahead anyway and whilst the children enjoyed the adventure, they decided they preferred their own beds.

All of which means that two days later we still have a tent in the garden that needs to be taken down.

The joys of dog ownership

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 20:50:00 +0000

I walked to the station today and came across a woman who was enjoying a walk with her Great Dane.

The dog needed to stop and defecate. It produced a vast quantity of diarrhoea.

The owner (or could have been a dog walker as I was walking past some very expensive houses) started fiddling with a bag that presumable contained equipment for dealing with dog poo.

I walked past and didn’t look back, but I did wonder how one cleans up a mess like that. And I doubted she was adequately equipped.

So what do you think? Did she just leave it?

July’s charity

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 19:06:00 +0000

Every childhood dream begins with a vision. At Eye Care For Kids, we make sure the vision can happen.

A non-profit organization, Eye Care for Kids has provided humanitarian aid to more than 20,000 children since 2001. Our program helps visually impaired kids from poor and low-income families get the treatment they so desperately need.

We treat kids in need across the state of Utah, including rural areas and Native American reservations. Here at Eye Care For Kids we see up to 200 children every week.

Our goal is to help restore every child’s vision. Help us make it more than just a vision – help us make it a reality.

“Our Vision… is their Vision.”

Just click on the badge to the left of the Gaping Void cartoon to find out more.

Banter

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 19:00:00 +0000

I’m all for a bit of office banter. I have to be really given that I’m often the person responsible for starting and perpetuating it. But even I think there are times when it’s inappropriate.

I went to a Union meeting today.

Yes I am in the Union and no that doesn’t mean I’m a steel toe cap wearing lesbian who’ll be burning my scab colleagues on a picket line. I happen to think Unions are a good thing; they provide a voice for the workforce who otherwise could go unheard. I’m also a woman working in a very male dominated environment and Union membership just makes me feel a little more secure.

The purpose of the meeting today was to try and encourage “the management” of whom I laughingly call myself a member, to say yes to the Union representing them. At the moment the Union represents hourly paid and salaried staff below management grades. Our lack of representation means that instead of changes to our terms and conditions being negotiated, they’re just communicated via e-mail and it’s a done deal with no opportunity for recourse, other than the obvious move – resignation.

There were probably 250 people in the room which I thought was a good turnout. It was standing room only and although the meeting started well I thought that most of the main points had been made early on and there then followed much reprising of those earlier points. It got to a time where I thought the meeting would end without us having reached the point of a vote so I stuck my hand in the air waiting for my turn to voice an opinion.

I was ignored for a very long time but eventually our man on site did spot me and he waited patiently for the Regional Union Representative to draw breath. We waited, and waited. Finally I had my chance and said “In the interest of time, can I suggest we have a vote.”

The Union rep responded “You remind me of my wife, nagging me to shut up and get on with things.” (or words to that effect) and then he said, addressing the audience, “I don’t want to keep the lady waiting.” (or similar) and we proceeded to vote.

Up to my interjection, all the people speaking had been men, and all of the contributions had been business-like and focussed on the issue at hand. My point, equally, was professional and timely.

Was I right to feel just a tad patronised and belittled by this Union man’s response to me?

If it had been within a small group I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but in front of 250 it just seemed wrong.

Am I being too politically correct? Should I just “get over it”?

Kids eh…

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 21:58:00 +0000

We took Hannah to the Junior School today to meet her new teacher. Ethan came along too.

We met not only Hannah’s teacher we met her new Head Teacher too. He’d given a presentation to all of the parents outlining expectations of children and parents etc.

This next bit you need to know for context. The Junior School Head is a slim male. The Infant School Head is a larger, shorter lady. Ethan and Hannah are both currently attending the Infant School.

When we got back home I was chatting to Dave about the afternoon and Ethan was half listening. I said “I thought the Head was….” and Ethan finished with “…fat!”

I was actually talking about the Junior Head and went on to use words like “switched on, engaged, interested” but Ethan’s word was funnier.

Using a camera

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 20:48:00 +0000

We went to watch the school concert today, along with half of Brentwood.

Hundreds were crowded into a small school hall to watch some 230 infant school pupils performing.

Naturally the room was full of cameras and video cameras and the woman in front of us was one of those with a camera.

It was difficult to see the “action” and many people were using digital cameras on an upwardly extended arm to capture the action.

The lady in front of us was vertically challenged and tried to use the raised digital camera technique. The only problem was that she had a tall chap sitting in front of her.

Every time she clicked the shutter the camera focused on the item just in front of the lens. She must have ended up with 15 pictures of a brightly lit man’s head. The head was so close to the camera flash that it reflected loads of light, fooling the camera into believing the shot was exposed, meaning that the rest of the shot (containing children) was too dimly lit.

I wanted to take the camera from her and explain the problem, because she just wasn’t learning.

Stranger danger

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 19:34:00 +0000

Early yesterday morning I drove past the local school and saw a lone schoolgirl running along the pavement, clearly upset.

I pulled over and spoke to her. She was running late. She’d been to a swimming club and something had happened so that she was late.

I offered to give her a lift wherever she needed to go and she accepted.

Gradually she stopped crying and I discovered she was on her way home. It was the first time she had ever done this journey on her own.

I had assumed she didn’t live far from the school but as she gave me directions to her house I realised the journey we were on was over a mile.

I was surprised that a girl of just seven or eight was expected to walk over a mile after swimming, and before school, on her own.

As we got closer to her house I realised that, whilst I think I did the right thing, she might get into trouble for accepting a lift from a stranger.

When I told my husband later in the day he told me how he’d handle the situation: hand your phone to the child and let them phone their parents and, if required, you can talk to the parents too. Wish I’d thought of that.

Couldn’t sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 21:45:00 +0000

Dave was due back from Belgium last night. He’d left on Tuesday and I hadn’t heard from him.

I started thinking that maybe he’d had an accident. It’s unusual for him not to call while he’s away.

I didn’t really think he’d accident, but he might have done. I ran through what would have happened if he had had an accident.

Well surely the company would have phoned me.

Except that the HR department are useless and probably mislaid my number.

And would anyone know if he’d had an accident on the way there or would they have assumed he just hadn’t made it because he was sick.

And if he had had an accident then surely the police would have found something with contact details.

Unless it was a major car wreck with fire or in which debris is scattered far and wide.

I started to wonder what time would be a reasonable time to start worrying.

I then realised I had probably already started worrying.

So I tried to persuade myself that all of these thoughts were just hypothetical and everything was OK really.

Lord Roberts's Message to the Troops

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 13:14:00 +0000

I have inherited a book that belonged to my grandfather, William Sadler.

I never knew my grandfather but he served in the first world war and the book is called The Daily Portion Testament. I'm guessing it was issued to troops to give them comfort and to help preserve faith.

This is inside the front cover:

Lord Roberts's Message to the Troops

25th Aug 1914
I ask you to put your trust in God. He will watch over you and strengthen you.
You will find in this little Book guidance when you are in health, comfort when you are in sickness, and strength when you are in adversity.
Roberts.

The message inside the front cover is not overly legible which is not surprising, as if it was Lord Roberts that wrote the message by hand, he was 81 at the time. He died later that year, in November, aged 82.

I wonder if the same time, thought and effort goes into the spiritual welfare of today's troops.

The poncy world of marketing

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 20:21:00 +0000

I received indirect feedback today. It wasn’t positive.

I’m overly aggressive.

On a good day this means passionate and assertive. It means fighting for the right course of action and having the courage of my convictions.

On a bad day it means raising my voice and/or swearing and arguing or consistently persisting with an opposing or unpopular point of view.

This is not new news and frankly if I found it easy to change, I probably would.

When I’m stressed I bite my tongue less and I speak out more. I am stressed right now to the point where tears are not far away for most of my days. I can’t pinpoint one specific thing that’s causing the stress as I think there are a number of factors but I know it has an impact on my behaviour.

I don’t want sympathy, frankly it doesn’t help and is more likely to push me over the edge. I just wanted to let people, anyone, maybe nobody, know that this feedback has had an effect.

Instead of being more vocal than normal because of the stress, I now just feel utterly depressed. I really don’t want to go into work tomorrow or any day.

I know that’s selfish because people are losing their jobs, but I'm not appreciated and I just feel some people would rather I just wasn’t there at all.

So what am I doing about it? Eating too much, drinking too much and finding excuses not to exercise. Shouting at my husband and shouting at the children. Great.

Invasion of privacy

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 21:48:00 +0000

I had an inkling that my doc would refer me to see a specialist so I sorted out my healthcare arrangements. Not very complicated just arranging to be covered in my own right rather than being a dependant on my husband’s policy.

Doc did refer me so I phoned PPP to get authority to make appt with specialist.

I went through the usual verification of name, date of birth, mother’s maiden name, height in centimetres when I was three, the number of times in the last month I’ve had sex, the number of lightbulbs in my house, the name of my first pet and my pornstar name etc. And then the conversation turned to the reason for the call.

I was calling from work because all of my membership details were in a work e-mail that I’d only recently received and it hadn’t been followed up by anything in the post.

I was comfortable with explaining that I’d been to the doctor and I had a referral. I was also comfortable with providing the specialist’s name and the hospital in which he works. It was when I was asked to describe symptoms that I declined and we arranged that I’d call back when I had more privacy.

I don’t believe it’s the business of anyone at work to know about any medical condition. I could launch into a diatribe about medical case management but that might have to wait until I’m forced to go through the process.

Summer fruit muffins

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 20:25:00 +0000

This one’s for Tim, after he used the banana and chocolate muffin recipe to make blueberry muffins, and it didn’t quite work.

280g plain flour
3 tsp baking powder
Pinch of salt
110g sugar
1 egg
240ml milk
90ml corn oil
140g summer fruit (any berries, either alone or in combination: blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants, cherries etc.), fresh or frozen (don’t thaw frozen berries); larger berries should be coarsely chopped.

Pre-heat fan oven to 160 degrees
In a large bowl sift together flour, baking powder, salt. Stir in sugar.
In another bowl, beat egg and stir in milk and oil.
Pour wet ingredients into dry. Stir until just combined, folding in berries at the end using 2-3 gentle strokes to avoid crushing fruit.
Spoon mixture into muffin cases and then bake for 20 mins or when tops are lightly browned and spring back when pressed gently. If frozen fruit was used then add 4-5 minutes to the cooking time.

Sweet

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 21:52:00 +0000

Ethan and Hannah were trying to find something that their dad would like for Father’s Day.

When their dad didn’t have many suggestions then he was presented with a variety of ideas like books, videos (bless Hannah for not thinking DVD), iPod, etc.

And then Ethan said “What about a book about Grandad?” and Hannah explained.

“Ethan thought Mummy could write a book about Grandad to help you remember him.”

My dad died just over a year ago. Ethan is such a sweet and caring little boy and his Grandad’s death has obviously affected him.

*Wobbly bottom lip.*

Local elections

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 21:30:00 +0000

We had four parties contesting the local elections and they all had very different ways of trying to get my vote.

Labour did nothing.

Conservatives but boards up everywhere around the town saying “Vote for change. Vote Conservative.”

Lib-Dems put their blurb through the letterbox and knocked on the door for a chat to discuss issues uppermost in my mind.

BNP bought advertising space on a hoarding near the town centre. This was mysteriously papered over “by accident” and then somehow got redone. Not sure I really know exactly what went on.

Who do you think got my vote?

I could blog about Euro elections but frankly there were about 15 candidates and I didn’t know who 80% of them were.

I cannot accept your refusal

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 22:33:00 +0000

To those who might be receiving refusal letters in such a tough labour market – you may want to adopt this approach.

I stumbled across this today.

Herbert A. Millington
Chair - Search Committee
412A Clarkson Hall, Whitson University
College Hill, MA 34109

Dear Professor Millington,
Thank you for your letter of March 16. After careful consideration, I
regret to inform you that I am unable to accept your refusal to offer me
an assistant professor position in your department.
This year I have been particularly fortunate in receiving an unusually
large number of rejection letters. With such a varied and promising field
of candidates, it is impossible for me to accept all refusals.
Despite Whitson's outstanding qualifications and previous experience in
rejecting applicants, I find that your rejection does not meet my needs at
this time. Therefore, I will assume the position of assistant professor
in your department this August. I look forward to seeing you then.
Best of luck in rejecting future applicants.
Sincerely,
Chris L. Jensen

Road rage

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Thu, 28 May 2009 21:19:00 +0000

I took the children to a local country park yesterday for an organised treasure hunt.

As we left in the car a lorry was manouvering and blocking our exit. We waited until he stopped and then I waited again.

The driver had stopped in such a way that the only way we could get around his vehicle was to drive on the wrong side of the road.

Where this occurs and there’s great visibility of oncoming traffic this would be fine, but it was right near a junction. Traffic on an A road could pull into the road I was on without either driver having visibility of the other.

The lorry driver indicated I should pull round his vehicle. I didn’t because I was always taught to check myself before taking anyone else’s word for the safety of a situation. In this case I couldn’t, so I got out of the car.

I didn’t meet with a particularly co-operative or polite response when I asked the driver if he could park the lorry elsewhere. I explained why it was dangerous for him to park there and he explained that was why he had waved me around his vehicle.

All very well except his next move was to get out of his cab and walk over to a roadside cafe. Any other park goers would experience the same problem.

I had no choice and risked driving around his vehicle. I encountered two vehicles pulling off the fast A road. Luckily a collision was avoided, but it was definitely not safe.

I was furious but didn’t know what to do. So I seethed all the way home.

Out of the blue

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Fri, 22 May 2009 23:09:00 +0000

I met Alice when I was first pregnant. She and I went to the same ante natal classes.

I discovered that Alice sometimes struggled to get to or from the classes because she didn’t drive. I offered to help by going to and from the classes via Alice’s house.

As the ante natal class due dates approached the group had started to meet socially. As babies arrived the group was a mixture of bumps and babies.

Alice wasn’t as lucky as the rest of us. She had a midwife visit just before her due date and the midwife couldn’t find a heartbeat. Alice had to give birth to her dead baby.

That is such a tragic and terrible thing to happen to anyone and, in general the group didn’t know how to respond. I was probably closest to Alice because of the car sharing but I didn’t know what to do either.

I imagined that the last person she would want to see was someone who was still pregnant with a healthy child.

I can’t remember exactly how I kept in touch but I did. We did talk about her loss and how she was feeling. I remember broaching the subject of meeting the other mums. I was honest and said we had hesitated to invite her along because we didn’t want to get it wrong, but I made sure she knew that when, or if, she was ready to meet us she would be very welcome.

We did meet a few times but we didn’t have much in common. We drifted and became people that send Christmas cards. Until yesterday.

We hadn’t spoken for years, but yesterday she called, out of the blue.

Perhaps I should have asked why she called, but I didn’t, so we just started talking in a very stilted fashion through lack of familiarity.

She’s become a grandmother (her first child, a daughter, has started her family) but has also suffered terribly with cancer. I got the feeling she just wanted to talk to someone, anyone. So we talked. I listened and shared.

Today, out of the blue, a bouquet of flowers arrived from Alice. Whilst this is lovely and kind and sweet, I don’t understand it.