Cultural misunderstandings

Cute comment from number 5 tonight: 'For goodness sake! Americans are ridiculous. There was this one guy on the TV moaning that it was 19 degrees and snowing! He should try Scotland where we manage to cope with zero degrees and snow!'
😂

Catching up

These two photos are taken 24 months apart. Going from eleven to thirteen makes so much bigger a difference to a boy child, than going from 19 to 21, it would seem. 

I can't help but think, looking at Friday's snap that I now have two grown-up-looking sons; the period of eight years and two months that separates their births seems to be shrinking by the day, and I can see that it'll be a few short years before they'll be out on the town together, hitting a pub or a club, looking like friends rather than brothers. 

It's so strange for me to see, as I still remember where it all began, and it feels like yesterday!

Polski Zakatek

We have this lovely little Polish shop not far from the house, in Thornliebank. We discovered it by accident when the kids were tiny. One Easter, we were looking for white eggs to paint and all the local supermarkets only had brown. We noticed that Poles love their white eggs.

Thereafter, we started going reasonably often. Léon loves their cold meat - they have a weird ham with mushroom and pickle slices in it, they have lovely lean ham and lots of great kabanos type sausages. I am a great lover of their great sałatka polska. They have unusual cream cakes, interesting beers and wonderfully exotic stock cubes - beetroot for making borscht and mushroom ones too, though I've no idea what they use them for! The kids like their fancy fruit lollipops and the older ones are fans of the garlic crouton chips and thin pretzels covered in sesame seeds. We often load up on different types of bulgur and dumplings too.

The two women who work there are always friendly and helpful and interested to hear Thomas wandering around talking to the kids in Danish - they give us that knowing smile that means you're foreign too, just different foreign.

Last week we decided to go down and stock up for the new year...

The shop wasn't open so we messaged them. They've gone into liquidation, presumably because of Brexit. 😡😡

I hate this country.

Settled status

I've been in a foul mood all day.

For some reason I can't quite put my finger on, I find it offensive that my husband is being told he has to apply for 'settled status'. Thomas has lived here 17 years, he has a UK national as a wife and several UK national children. Thomas has been paying income tax to the UK government for 17 years, without missing a month, despite having no right to vote here. Thomas is nearly fourteen years into paying the mortgage for the home he owns here. Ten years ago Thomas opened a company in Scotland. We work with international clients, bringing money into the UK from abroad, but despite all of this the government wants him to apply for the right to remain in the country where his children were born and if he doesn't he will be deported by 31 December 2020 (if the government opts for no deal) or 30 June 2021 (if the government doesn't crash out of the EU).

Thomas didn't come here for a better life or for a job no UK national would do. Thomas actually earns less than he would in his home country of Denmark. He didn't steal anyone's job - well if you can find me a Glasgow resident with a computing degree, a Japanese degree, a Maths one and a linguistics one who happens to have a working knowledge of English, Danish, German, Spanish, Esperanto, Georgian, Russian, Czech, Basque, Japanese, Italian, French, Dutch, Norwegian (Nynorsk), Swedish, Schwäbisch, Sanskrit, Scottish Gaelic, Yiddish and Scots, then maybe he did, but I don't think too many folk in the Glasgow area fit that CV.

Until about 4pm, he was even getting charged to apply to remain in his home with his British citizen kids, but as of then, the Maybot seems to have withdrawn the charge for this at least, but what irks me is this idea of 'applying'. If this is something you are required to apply for, there is at least a chance you will be rejected... not everyone in this situation will have the required biometric passport - I know of many EU pensioners who have been here so long and are so old, they simply no longer have a passport from their original country. We've moved several times so don't have the required proofs of address from over the years - council tax bills, pay slips, utility bills and the likes. Thomas moved here in good faith nearly two decades ago, started a family and is now being threatened with deportation from his family if he can't meet the requirements brought in retrospectively as the result of a referendum he was denied a vote in. Moreover, I am being denied the right to follow him if he's deported as the gammon brigade have voted away my freedom of movement. You couldn't make it up!

Even if we survive this, how many EU families will be torn apart, lose their homes or similar? I am utterly disgusted by this government.

Léon and Charlotte

Léon is a mix of two kids - 85% of the time he is enthusiastic and exuberant, wandering from room to room whistling the latest concerto or ceilidh music he has been practising for his orchestra or folk group. He hums, he sings, he keeps the beat of some tune only he can hear in his head. He twitches and taps and never sits still. Music is everything. When he's not being musical, he spends hours googling what he refers to as 'fun facts' and comes out with the most incredible general knowledge any of my kids has ever mastered. I often find myself wondering what on earth he googled in the first place to learn the information on every subject under the sun. He sucks it all up like an oversized sponge. He's bouncy like a puppy, never walking but skipping everywhere. Where this approach was cute in our small house when he measured 1m25, it is a tad annoying now he's 1m70+ and lanky as a bean pole. The other 15% of the time he's 'gammoning' about some minor annoyance that no one else would have noticed but once he's got hold of that stick it's hard to fight it away from him.

Charlotte is the opposite of Léon. She's a quiet and passive sloth-like creature, never making a sound. Occasionally you hear her singing along to something in Spanish in the kitchen while cooking but only when she's alone and if you enter, she quickly falls silent. Charlotte sits still on the couch, earpods in, or just silent. She moves slowly and never bounces. She comes out with cutting, sarcastic remarks about Léon's nerdiness. Léon's music is often met with stares, huffs and calls for him to fall silent, until exasperated when he's forgotten for the third time in less than two minutes that she's asked him to stop whistling, she loses her temper and shouts at him to shut up!

Don't get me wrong - the two are inseparable and they adore each other. He was her first baby after all, but on a noise level, they are opposite ends of the spectrum.

So, when I saw this yesterday on Facebook and it made me laugh out loud... Definitely think it was written with them in mind!

When I forwarded it to Charlotte who was on the bus into town, she also laughed out loud, as did Léon when I showed him it after school.

Oops

Amaia, did you forget you were running yourself a bath, by any chance?
Ehhhhh, oops!

Not so Grinch, really

At the end of the Christmas season last year, I noticed someone on eBay had discounted their vinyl Christmas-themed table cloths. Given that was something we don't have, I went ahead and ordered one without mentioning it to the family.

Before I was due to go in for my operation, I went up to our loft and brought down all the old nappy boxes full of Xmas baubles and the likes, as I am the only one who knows exactly where in the loft everything is stored. Inside one, I had put this so I didn't forget about it.

When I pulled this out proudly to show the family, Charlotte knocked me down with the cutting comment: 'Good God, the Grinch has bought herself a Christmas tablecloth!'

That got me to thinking... Do my family consider me to a festive party pooper, and if so, why?

It is true that I find Xmas quite stressful. I want everyone to be happy and finding gifts to please everyone equally worries me as I don't want to let anyone down but don't feel confident that I have found the perfect present. Maybe that comes across as me being an unhappy gift-buyer, when in fact I am just a bit of a paranoid one. I want it to be so special for everyone that I apparently screw up by looking worried!

Then there's the tree. I like our tree but our house barely fits the seven of us so half the dining room being taken over by a Scandinavian pine forest stresses me because it makes me feel a bit claustrophobic. But where others interpret this as me being pissed off at having a tree kicking about my house, what is stressing me is in fact the size of my dining room and not my tree! I get quite S.A.D. in Scotland in winter so can't imagine how I'd cope without all the pretty lights and candles, but again, all people see is me being grumpy, once again.

I don't tend to decorate the tree itself, not because I am not interested in it, but more to give the kids pleasure. I know so many parents who won't let their kids near the tree for decorating purposes because they have a very fixed idea of how it should end up. I love the chaos we end up with every year, with sparkly shoes next to various birds and all sorts of home-made baubles from years gone by. I like that it looks like a kid decorated it because that means the kids had fun. But somehow me sitting taking photos of them putting it up comes across as me just not being very into it☹️ Who knew?

There's nothing I like better than listening to the Xmas CD on the school run all of December, but because I vetoed it once in November, I apparently don't like Xmas music either!

I happily participate in family evenings in front of Xmas movies but no one seems to notice. I even read Skipping Christmas, long before it hit the screens as Christmas with the Kranks...

I've never been a baker, that's true, but again I love to see the kids making their Danish biscuits and gingerbread houses. Thomas and Charlotte take over on that front leaving the Grinch out, as usual.

To me Christmas is more about seeing family, chatting and eating the lovely and traditional meals we serve up, both on Danish Xmas day and on the Scottish one. Everyone being together is much more important than anything else.

So somehow, I have become known as the family Grinch, even if I'm not the least bit green or evil. I'm not sure how to change their perception of that for the future.

That Fiat

You can't get very far on this blog without noticing my somewhat irrational adoration of all things Fiat 500, or all things 'Chuggy', if you're in on the lingo... so when I refer to my Chuggy today as 'that Fiat', you know it has done something major to get into my bad books!

It started the first week in November as far as I am aware. I was in hospital so I don't know. One day on the school run, Thomas turned on the radio and the touchscreen froze on the Fiat symbol (the screen before you get the option to change radio station, jump to CD or any of the Bluetooth or phone settings.) He'd been listening to Radio Scotland the previous day so that was now the only option available.

That state of affairs lasted two weeks until he was at the garage anyway and asked the mechanic to take a look. He told him it needed a software update and said it'd cost about £50 to fix... a bit steep but nonetheless... The update didn't work (and he refused to pay for it!) It stayed frozen. The mechanic decided to unfreeze it, he could always pull the battery connection for a minute to reset it. He did and it didn't. The radio was still frozen and now, as all the settings go through that panel, the car reset itself to midnight on January 1 2000, with no way to override it. Into the bargain, as I couldn't confirm that, it was flashing on and off waiting for confirmation. 

That must have been 28 days ago, as that Fiat is now insisting it is January 28 at some ungodly hour. 😡 So I have no CD player, no Bluetooth, no phone, a flashing dash and I'm stuck on radio Scotland. Things can't get any worse, or so I thought...

Last week I was driving the kids to Braehead when the radio suddenly switched itself on. Exactly three minutes later, it switched itself off. It went on to do this a further seventeen times between Nitshill and Braehead. This was annoying to say the least and also startled me each and every time.

Surely things were now as bad as they could get? 

On my next outing into town, it decided I wanted to listen to Thomas's Christmas CD - a mix of Danish, German and Spanish carols - a bit incongruous after Christmas, but why not? I had missed a month of driving this Christmas season so wasn't completely Christmas-musicked-out, for once. However, the switching on and off had tripled so I decided to combat it by turning off the volume. Mummy 1 - that Fiat 0! Until it reset the volume each and every time it turned it back on - bastard Fiat!

Surely things were now as bad as they could get?

Sigh... nope.

On Sunday I drove Charlotte and mum to Braehead to have their iPhone batteries updated. It played silly buggers all the way over and the volume button was no longer working so I couldn't shut it up at all. I parked and turned off the engine... the music continued. I took out the keys... the music continued. I locked the car and put my ear to the window... to my dismay, this is what I could hear.

Bastard Fiat! I needed some shopping in IKEA but was forced to sprint round the aisles in case the stupid thing ran my battery down to zero in the meantime. I would have expected better behaviour from my Chuggy. It was obviously possessed by some demonic radio system and needed exorcising immediately!

I made one stop on my way home at Aldi to buy dinner and we hit the final straw. The touchscreen that had been frozen on this picture for six weeks, suddenly went white, wavy black lines appeared and it started screaming, at full volume, some hideous noise that reminded me of the sound you used to hear when you loaded a program into a ZX Spectrum from a tape deck in the 80s! And the bloody keys were in my pocket at the time! I'm literally at the stage where earplugs are becoming a necessity to drive.

So on Hogmanay I rang my local Fiat dealer and explained the whole saga. They said they could have a look at that for me, no problem. They charge a standard £100 to diagnose the fault and if I need a new radio because their software fault has crippled it, it'll be £600!!! FFS, I've owned cars that I paid less for than that. You've got to be having a laugh! Needless to say, I'll be having Halfords fit me a new bog-standard radio as soon as they reopen and my local Fiat dealership can stick their diagnostics where the sun doesn't shine. 

Hopefully by this time next week my Chuggy will be back to its usual self, and no longer possessed by demons.

Amaia

Amaia decided to edit this photo I took of her so you could only see the blue shades around her. I really like the final effect so am bookmarking it here so I can find it in the future.

Eastenders

Today's posts are quite TV-oriented, for someone who rarely watches TV, and never watches terrestrial!

So after my week in the jungle, I developed an infection and was readmitted to the Royal, but this time, it was post-pathology so I was put in the non-oncology gynaecology ward for Glasgow's east end. My 'catchment' hospital (when I don't have suspected cancer) is the Queen Elizabeth, but given my consultant works out of the oncology unit, I was sent back there.

My first day was spent alone, but Marcel came through from Edinburgh to visit so that was nice.

Later that afternoon two young girls were admitted. One said she was 23, the other 19. They were typical salt-of-the-earth east end girls. 23 had three kids who were 1, 2 and 3. 19 had two kids who were 1 and 3. Both were in with suspected ectopic pregnancies.

23 looked shocked and asked the nurses not to mention to any of her visitors why she was in, 19 hadn't a clue what it meant and said she wasn't that bothered as long as she was still allowed out for a fag break!

After my fifth birthday, the only places I have lived (in Scotland at least) are Newton Mearns and Dowanhill (Glasgow's West end). Broad Scots was something my grandparents spoke, and to a lesser extent my parents, but it was entirely alive and going as strong as ever over there, just 9 miles from my sheltered existence. I definitely live in a strange and alien bubble down here. I've lived abroad, so know you need to tone down your Scottish accent for foreigners, these girls had obviously never experienced anything of the sort and spoke to a succession of foreign consultants without the slightest attempt to make themselves easier to understand. As someone who works with Scots from time to time, this was a fascinating opportunity to watch Scotland in action.

Visiting hour came. There was a strict two to a bed policy... or so it said on signs up everywhere. No one was coming in for me that night so again I was left people-watching. 19 had her boyfriend and three friends around her. 23 had her sister and a child. At that point a noticeably drunk man staggered in, stinking of booze and fags, he stood in front of my bed eyeing up both 23 and 19, who were similar medium-build brunettes. He sidled over to 23 and said 'hello, hen'. 19, raging, eyed him back and shouted at the top of her voice 'that's no me, ya daft cunt!' and he then staggered to her instead. There were hissed words in hushed tones for the next ten minutes then the drunk man left again. 'Thon fucker didnae even know his own wean!' she exclaimed. It transpired that he'd not seen his daughter in six years and had heard she was unwell so had dropped by to visit and accidentally sat down at the other girl's bed as he didn't recognize her! She ranted and raved for the next few hours about him being useless, other than the fact that he'd been so embarrassed he'd left her his pack of cigarettes.

We had some fun chats - when 23 told me she'd done all her Xmas shopping already in her local pub, where a guy sells stuff like Xboxes for £20. Hmmmm  And 19 told me she only ever got pregnant when she got high on cannabis, so she was going to stick to booze in the future!

Every morning, both were taken to be scanned as they needed the foetuses to grow to find where they were hiding. On day three, 19's was found and she was operated on and ended up in a fist fight with a nurse when she said she wasn't allowed out for a fag break until she could actually stand up after the anaesthetic. (She apologized later once she'd calmed down!) On day four, 23's was found too, but it wasn't ectopic after all! The pregnancy was completely normal so she was allowed home. As she was leaving, I wished her well. She replied that she was going home to tell her partner she was pregnant. She looked vaguely concerned. I asked if she thought he was going to find it daunting to have a fourth kid in four years and she laughed and said, 'it's no that that's worrying me, it's telling him it isnae his, it's his best pal's!' GULP!

It was a very entertaining week; they were lovely girls, in their own way, so refreshingly honest and transparent, just not very similar to the ones I come across in my usual day-to-day. I guessed I learned there's a bigger world out there, than I remembered.

I'm a celebrity (but in the east end, not the jungle)

I've never been in hospital before, not really. I had the five babies, but with the first two I had so little clue what I was doing I spent my hospital stay engrossed in them and didn't notice anyone else in the ward and for the last three I left hospital within 24 hours of the birth so had no time to befriend anyone. When the purpose of your hospital stay is childbirth, by definition you have a companion throughout your stay!

So, at the ripe old age of 50, I went in for my first operation. There were a number of stress factors: I'd never had surgery, I'd never had an anaesthetic, I'd never been in hospital, they had told me they weren't sure what they'd find but whatever was cut out would be sent to pathology for cancer screening, I'd been given high odds it was cancer (60%), my family were in pieces and I wasn't exactly looking forward to leaving them having to step up to doing all my jobs as well as their own and visiting me at the same time.

I was to come in for 7-30 on the day of the op, fasted and ready to go. Although I wasn't scheduled to be on the table till 14-30, they wanted a standby in case the 9-00 didn't show. I was shown into a ward and made to sit on a bed with the curtain drawn. There was someone else in the next bed, but I couldn't see her. A student nurse came to check us in. I was asked loads of questions - was I on any regular meds, had I ever had an anaesthetic, did I take drugs, was I an alcoholic, was I allergic to anything, did I know why I was there that day etc, etc.

Then they moved on to my neighbour. I worked out from the date of birth she gave that we were the same age. This put me at ease already as I had only been to one group meeting before the op, where the procedure and post-op physio was explained. In the group there were about fifteen women and even the youngest was old enough to be my mother. I had come home with the distinct impression that I didn't belong there and fate was taking the piss.

My neighbour was asked all the same questions and gave similar answers to me... similar until they asked if she knew what she was in for, when her reply was 'well, I'm hoping it's a boob job!', the student nurse sounded flustered, started leafing through her notes and trying to find the simplest way to explain it was actually a hysterectomy. She was so busy trying to do her job well, she hadn't noted the cheeky tone in my neighbour's voice. She burst out laughing and explained she was pulling her leg but added that if they could see a way to fix her boobs while she was under anaesthetic anyway, she'd slip her a cheque!

The nurse left and we sat behind our curtains, quiet for a few minutes. It was 8 in the morning, we were both hungry and thirsty (we weren't even allowed water) and we had at least six hours ahead of us. I went to the loo and keeked round her curtain to say hello. A beautiful, and much younger-looking than me Pakistani woman was sitting on the bed, her long hair in pigtails. We started to chat and the next six hours, that I had been dreading, passed too fast and in fits of laughter and camaraderie. She'd had operations before so could put my mind at ease, she told me she'd negotiated holding on to one of her ovaries (I couldn't as both had tumours on them) as she remembered her mum being so unhinged during menopause, she'd often thrown plates of curry at her dad and she'd had to try to scrape the turmeric stains off the walls! She told me her parents had arranged her marriage at 16 and she'd had three boys by 19. She told me her husband was a lovely friend but she didn't fancy him at all so she used to make up gynae issues and tell him her doc had told her to avoid sex for six months, when in reality he'd said a week! She told me the secret to her youthful looks was some dodgy Botox cream her sister bought on holiday in Turkey and since she'd started using it her wrinkles had all gone! She mentioned the boyfriend she had had since her divorce who asks her to marry him every year at the bells, so she's started avoiding him at New Year to save the embarrassment of saying no again cos she just wasn't into him enough for that! She had me in fits of laughter and I felt I'd known her my whole life. It's weird to think we were both there terrified we might be dying and having what felt like a ladies' spa day. I can honestly say I enjoyed that morning more than most social occasions I've had for years!

After the operation we came round to find ourselves in a ward of five. Interestingly, the ages were much better than at the pre-op - well, from a social point of view, at least. I am 50, so was my new friend. There was a 40, a 56 and a 76 too. It was the dreaded oncology post-op ward. We all knew that but a snooty older woman in the end bed hadn't quite sussed it. We were all post-operative and fairly helpless for the first twelve hours. A nurse came round carrying cloths and a basin and asked who'd like to be freshened up first. Mrs Snooty on the end actually came out with 'Well, I deserve to be washed first as I am having to deal with the fact I have cancer, unlike you young things!' The youngest of us all calmly replied 'This is the oncology ward, we are all waiting on pathology reports, so you're no different to the rest of us!' That was met by a tut and a 'Well, it's harder at my time of life, my husband is in a terrible state and so is my daughter and her kids' to which the youngest again replied, ever so calmly 'I realize, it's not what anyone wants at any age, but your child is fifty, mine is ten'. Silence fell and as my pre-op friend and I bonded with 40, and 56, 76 sat chewing a wasp in the end bed!

It really was a strange experience. I was thrown in with a group of people I would never normally have met - a teacher from Ayrshire, an NHS administrator, my pre-op friend who ran her own letting agency, and the grumpy granny on the end. We shared a highly intimate experience, both of post-op pain and of whiling away the waiting time till the pathology reports came in. We sat in hospital gowns and no make-up, showing our true selves in a way you never do with strangers and bonded in the best and worst of circumstances. We laughed our selves silly every night trying to identify what the food was, we cried together in fear for our futures. It was a truly incredible experience and one I'll never forget, obviously. We even got to the stage where we could hug grumpy gran as she left and genuinely wish her well.

When I came home, the kids were watching I'm a celebrity - a group of people who knew nothing of each other thrown into the jungle, make-up free and eating the oddest of meals and I thought to myself - I've actually just been through exactly the same experience - well, I didn't need to eat worms or spiders but the rest was fairly similar.

Since I've come home, I've heard from the others that I was the only one whose pathology came back negative so their stories will all continue, but we've kept in touch so I'll be there if they need a chat.

A real live Chuggy

I have found my Xmas present, if anyone is still looking...




This has been restored with so much love! I could definitely look after it well! 😏

Or even this one if you're feeling really adventurous...

Glasgow, Xmas 2018

Here's a pretty wee video of Glasgow this Xmas - probably worth archiving in case we have power shortages and feral children roaming the streets here by this time next year, given the current government...

Just a thought

For all the last nearly three months have been difficult, I have had access to care when I needed it and it has saved my life. Everything they cut out of me, they cut out of me on time, when it was still at the pre-cancerous stage. There are women, wives, mums, fifty year olds all around this world suffering from exactly the same issues as me, but they find themselves in Syria, in Gaza, or in the Yemen. They are displaced Rohingya people, or refugees fleeing other crises, of which there are too many to mention. Those women are the same as me, but their fate won't be, and that is not right. We need to be acutely aware that it is simply a fluke of birth that sees my situation end differently to theirs and we need to think of a way to start righting that wrong.

Day 75 takes the biscuit

It's been another interesting few days on my 'death bed' - I thought the latest update might give you all a laugh...

As I said last week, I spent most of the week waiting on a scan that never happened, and having no treatment in hospital other than the odd paracetamol so I got sent home to free up a bed. 

This morning the phone went and it was my GP. I have never actually met my GP, despite being with the practice more than four years. It's a big medical centre with nearly a dozen (lovely and helpful) doctors, but today my own GP decided to chase up my case... He seems very nice!

It was an interesting conversation. He said he'd seen on my notes that after my visit to the GP in a lot of pain last Thursday, they had sent me to hospital for a scan but couldn't see the scan results so was ringing to ask me what they found! I filled him in on that one and got a sigh or two. He then asked if they'd discharged me with a course of strong antibiotics. I said they had discharged me without so much as a paracetamol. I asked if the antibiotics he was suggesting were to treat the intra-abdominal abscess that I think I have and the GPs at my practice think I have but the QEUH registrar thinks I might not have. He replied that they might of course help with that but he meant them to deal with my wound infection. I wasn't aware I had a wound infection, especially given no one looked at it in the hospital other than to acknowledge I had a hole in my front and suggest I take a shower to keep it clean! Oh, he replied, shocked again - it's just that when you were here on Thursday, we swabbed it and you have three different infections going on in there, the most concerning of which is E. Coli.

Well, whoopdefuckingdoo. ♪♩♫♬♫All I want for Christmas is E.Coli...♪♩♫♬♫ Has a certain ring to it, doesn't it? 

The doc hopes he hasn't wrecked my Xmas but he'll have to prescribe some antibiotics you can't drink alcohol with! Seriously, I'd happily forego my weekend glass of wine forever if they could just get me back on my feet!

The saga continues

So... They couldn't fit in a scan as an emergency outpatient on Tuesday, so they sent me home, they couldn't fit in a scan as an outpatient on Thursday so they admitted me to do it on Friday, they couldn't fit it in on Friday so they called over to the main building today to be told they can't do them at the weekend so I'm being discharged to come back for a scan next week as an outpatient. This is getting tedious 🙄

56 days, plus 13, plus 2

It looks like I might have spoken too soon on Tuesday. My attempt at an NHS-free week didn't even reach the 48 hour milestone.

The day had started stressfully as I had pre-booked a taxi to take the kids to school as Thomas wasn't home. The taxi had not turned up and when I rang to complain they'd blamed the O2 network outage. The upshot was that I paid over a tenner to have my kids delivered to school late. I was not amused.

By lunchtime eating had become a trial as sitting at a 90 degree angle was becoming increasingly difficult. Something was burning deep inside me on the left of my wound and something was making the surface of my skin so sensitive, I could barely brush the back of my hand against my abdomen. I googled again, desperate not to end up 'back inside'. I couldn't work out what it could be. An infection seemed unlikely given I was on my 12th straight day on antibiotics. Had they left the scalpel in there by mistake? 

I had been booked in with the nurse once again to change my dressing on the Thursday at 3. 

I found sitting in the car almost impossible so had to recline the seat on my trip to the medical centre. I couldn't sit in the waiting room because I basically couldn't sit. The nurse took one look at me and called the doctor in. She'd seen me on Tuesday and saw a difference. After a poke and a prod, he decided I needed admitted for a suspected abscess deep inside on my left hand side. The weans were dumped on Charlotte though asked to be in charge of making some sort of meal as she had a university economics exam the next day so was studying in her room. I texted Thomas who had braved going to his office in Edinburgh rather than working from home for the first time in weeks to say mum was driving me to hospital though this time the GP opted for QEUH, and I wasn't going to argue.

On arrival, I became aware myself of how taxing even walking was becoming. They brought the Registrar in who examined me and helpfully suggested that maybe during the original operation, they'd cut the supply to or from my left kidney and that was potentially the problem. My blood and urine tests were all fine and infection free but that could be explained by the fact that as a reasonably young (!) and healthy (till 11 weeks ago) person, my other kidney would simply have taken over all function.

To ascertain if this is the issue there are two problems. Firstly, I need transferred to the actual main 'Death Star' building for a renal CT scan (I'm currently in the maternity and gynaecology block) but no appointments have become free over there today. And secondly, my veins have all thrown in the towel after nearly a month of abuse and they can't CT scan me until they can get the dye into me through a cannula. All attempts at putting one in yesterday failed ☹️

So I'm stuck here thumb-twiddling once again, missing my normality and my family life. I have well and truly had enough now. And that's before anyone tells me how to fix my kidney, if it turns out to be that, or what hypothesis B is, if it isn't that. 

I feel autumn was only just beginning when my life spun off into some parallel and unpleasant universe. I missed all of autumn, the beginning of winter and the whole Christmas season. Santa still hasn't done any real shopping, I haven't heard a single Christmas record or seen any Christmas lights or markets and I'm missing the whole build-up with the kids. I've missed the school Christmas gala, the open classroom day, the p7 Christmas assembly. The Santa Dash on Sunday is out both as a participant and as a photographer 😭 And our annual trip to IKEA'S party has been cancelled too. Next week the girls are carol singing in Silverburn - is there any hope? 

I'm going to get to January bypassing Christmas altogether at this rate and that's not nice when you have a young family.

I'm sooooo feed up.

56 days, plus 13

So, let's update the saga.

I had psyched myself up to being fighting fit and running round the shops doing Xmas shopping by post-op day 20.

Ok, so I hadn't factored in that once they opened me up, they'd perform a sigmoid colectomy, on top of the full hysterectomy and the fix of the umbilical hernia. The fact that each of these three operations has a predicted minimum six week recovery time estimate didn't faze me. Surely it's like sticking three pies in the oven to cook at the same time instead of one - you just do your six weeks simultaneously, reducing the timings by half as I'm younger than the average person undergoing these procedures and I'm never ill. If I can go shopping within 24 hours of giving birth, how hard can it be?

Well, that doesn't seem to be exactly the path I'm travelling, strangely. Having got home on day four after the original op, everything went ok for the first two days. I checked the instructions on how to get well sooner and even went on the prescribed five minute walk twice a day. The others from my ward, who I'd kept in touch with, weren't even out their pyjamas yet so I was feeling well-smug.

The slight redness above my belly button only really started to worry me on day seven when I noticed my skin was becoming hard. By day eight it had crept across my stomach and by day nine I could no longer sit at the dining table. My entire stomach was red, hard and nipping like mad. I called NHS 24 who decided it sounded bad enough to send an out-of-hours GP to my house. I haven't had a GP come to me since I was four years old. Christ, I thought, I must be at death's door! I was told to ring back on day ten if it hadn't improved. It hadn't worsened, but it hadn't improved. A second GP came out to me in the middle of the night. (I'm definitely dead!) She looked at the wound, the red, my blood pressure and temperature and phoned me an ambulance. I was going to need IV antibiotics as I'd developed cellulitis...

At 4am I left for the Royal again. She almost sent me to the QEUH, my fingers were very much crossed as they have free parking and decentish food, but at the last moment she decided she wanted me back under my original consultant so off I went again to the Royal. By 10am I was on the ward with tubes in all my veins again.

In my seven days absence, ward 56 had put up two Christmas trees. The only positive moment for me that day was when they explained that I would be moved to the other half of the ward from last time. I'd been in 56B as it was the oncology gynaecology ward the previous week, but my pathology results meant I was now bumped down to 56A which is standard gynae for Glasgow's East end. And what a different experience that was, but that can be a post in its own right!

I was poked and prodded for another whole week till my veins actually started to nip with the amount of IV going in and blood coming out. The redness slowly subsided but the pus from the infection needed an outlet, so my beautiful and neat scar split to let pus, by the coffee-cup full ooze from my front. It looked not unlike that scene from Alien crossed with Vesuvius on 24/8/0079! They warned me that the three tiny holes that had opened along my scar might pop and merge to become one large grape-sized trough and what do you know, they were right! Apparently it'll heal over but it is un-sew-up-able! So having had my umbilical hernia fixed after 18 years to make my belly button look normal, I now appear to have two belly buttons! Joy! I'll spare you the photo (for now at least|).

I was finally told my infection levels were passable on Friday at 1pm so they were willing to discharge me with oral antibiotics and a nurse to care for Vesuvius. Thomas was working so mum drove in to get me. I hadn't factored in that the Royal pharmacy would actually take till 6-50pm to send up the antibiotics to let me out! FFS! They even tried to tell mum she couldn't wait as it wasn't visiting hour! I pointed out she wasn't a visitor but a taxi driver who'd been waiting five hours so we were given an uncomfortable little cupboard to wait in!

Home at last but I am actually feeling more run-over-by-a-truck than first time round. I've had to go to the GP every other day for my dressing and yesterday the pain had become so bad I was taken back into the QEUH for tests to see if I was developing a new infection, but apparently I am not, I just have a lot of bruising on the inside post-infection and post-op.

I'm still so foggy-headed I can't even do my Xmas shopping online. I was really sure I'd be fully recovered by now, other than my ability to lift things, so I'm not in the best of moods.

Hopefully I will manage a whole week without visiting the A&E department. I've manged 24 hours so far, fingers crossed.

The Barras

Léon is very European. There's nothing he loves better than sitting at an open-air café, then wandering aimlessly round a typical southern European market. Recently he was lamenting the fact that northern Europe is much less market-y. It suddenly struck me I hadn't been to the Barras since the older two were wee so I told Léon Glasgow had a market too and although it was maybe a little different to what he was used to, I'd take him along for a look...

Off to the Barras we went one Sunday just after lunch (note to self, go much earlier next time, as most things we starting to pack up when we arrived). However, Léon's reaction was wonderful! First we passed a guy selling bootleg cds from a camping table. Everything was on display of a sheet, the corners of tightly held, ready to leg it if the police came round the corner. Léon naively asked why the covers were just poor photocopies! Lol. Then it started to rain so we moved to the undercover bit. Every stall was more peculiar than the next; a mix of items, I'd tend to bin or give to charity: books, cds, ornaments that came out of the ark, odd mismatching wine glasses and assorted plates, used bras and slippers! We moved on to furniture, obviously from house clearouts, ranging from ornate, to chuck-outable tack. The traditional Scottish sweetie stall with jars of soor plooms and cinnamon balls drew in the girls, of course. Léon's mouth fell open when we rounded a corner to a stall selling only used miscellaneous cables; there were scarts, kettle cables and all sorts of transformers that seemed of little use to anyone piled a metre high like the biggest plate of black spaghetti you ever saw! To one side was a box containing, I'd reckon, over 500 old remotes for TVs, DVD players and satellite systems. Again, I can't imagine these were flying off the shelves! Lastly, a stall selling leather belts at £2 less than he'd recently paid on Amazon was the clincher. 'Oh mum, it is just like walking through eBay!' he smiled, 'When I'm older I'm going to get a stall here and make enough to buy my first Porsche!' Nothing if not an optimist, my boy! We came home with a quality German Bierstein and an ornate Aztec/Spanish chess set.

I must take him up again to experience the magic nearer to Xmas, health permitting.

Get-well flowers

I came home from hospital yesterday after my second week-long stay.

Waiting for me were these two beautiful bunches of flowers. Big thanks to Linda and Robin for one and to the mystery sender for the other as there was no card included! Much appreciated whoever you are! 🌝

Save our lollipop lady, now!

On Friday, the parents at Kirkhill primary, East Renfrewshire received this cryptic message:

'Please note, due to personnel changes in the authority, there will be a new School Crossing Patroller at Kirkvale Drive/Kirkvale Court in the New Year.

This seems to be admin speak for 'we're moving your lollipop lady elsewhere'.

Well, we, the parents at Kirkhill, are not happy about this and we won't be going down without a fight.

I have been a parent at that school (continuously) since 2002, which possibly makes me the most 'senior' parent at the school. I've been through quite a number of crossing patrollers over the years, all pleasant enough; they give you a nod as they cross your child over but Stephanie, our Stephanie, is not like that. She is made from another mould entirely. Stephanie has been at our back gate for a number of years and is right there at the heart of our school community. She has amazingly learnt the name, not only of every child using the back entrance, but their nursery and high school siblings too. She has learnt the parents' names and jobs too. She asks after everyone as you cross the road, she wishes you a lovely day doing whatever you are off to do in the office. Every morning we are greeted with a huge smile, no matter the weather, she remarks to the kids about changes of hair style, new shoes and all the rest. She notices everything and makes every one of us and our kids feel like we are the most important people in the universe.

On snowy days, she turns up early and grits the paths, she helps drivers as their car wheels spin in the snow. She comes along to all the school shows and cheers on each kid as if they were her own - probably because to her, they are. As a parent, you know that if you're running late, your child will be taken under her wing and cared for. That level of trust matters a lot. 

She deals with the dangerous and abusive drivers in a calm and authoritative manner too, which can't be easy.

Moving Stephanie to another school simply to meet some administrative criterion is the most infuriating thing I have heard for a long time. Someone who had invested so much of her own time and energy into being part of our community deserves her place. To us parents, she is the first school face of the morning and last in the evening. Stephanie is Kirkhill Primary and we call for the authority to reconsider their decision. It would take years for anyone to be able to come close to filling her shoes...

So let's all get writing to ER, our councillors and similar. We can do this! 

56 days

The nightmare started on September 26. September 26 is the anniversary of the day I moved in with Thomas many, many moons ago, so we'd been looking forward to celebrating our semi-anniversary until the world came crashing down unexpectedly...

For many years, I'd say most of my 40s, I've had health issues - digestion issues, prolapse issues, general gynaecological aches and pains that eventually got put down to IBS with a wee bit prolapse. By the middle of last summer I was signed up for prolapse surgery until, when I went in for the pre-op assessment, the consultant took one look at my age and tried her best to warn me against it. A last-ditched attempt to fix me was made - this time through pelvic physio. That began this February and went on till September. Still I had terrible bloating, constipation, a bladder that needed emptying too often but would never fully empty, back pain, an inability to wear any clothing round my waist (for all those who thought I thought I actually looked good in those leggings - it was that or my nightie!) and the fatigue linked to always being in pain. So yet again they started going on about irritable bowel syndrome and how I needed just to get on with it. I asked if they could check where things were sitting because I felt crap, to put it nicely.

On September 25 I got a phone call in the car out of the blue asking if I'd like an ultrasound at the Victoria Infirmary the following day. Hallelujah! I thought. I picked up the kids and threw them off at home then zoomed in, not sure I would make it by my 3-45 deadline. If not I was just going to have to miss it. (Imagine I had...) A doctor came out and took me in to a dark room, asked me to empty my bladder then started looking around inside with a wand. I should have noticed it sooner but wasn't really concentrating. I've only had that kind of scan before when pregnant. She was silent, her nurse was also completely silent. The machines were facing away from me so I couldn't see what they were seeing. She was printing photos and I could hear her measuring something, the way they do to date a foetus. It went on way too long and way too quietly. There was no general chitchat about what I did or my kids etc. When she finally put on the lights, I caught the look in her eyes. I turned to her nurse who also looked at me in a strange pitying way but said nothing. And then it struck me. The look in the radiographer's eyes was the same look as I had seen back in 2004 when I had gone for a scan, 8 weeks pregnant, unsuspecting and they had had to tell me there was no heartbeat and I was about to miscarry.

The doctor asked me into her room and told me she had found some concerning 'masses' growing on my ovaries and that she wanted me to go for an urgent CT scan. I asked how worried I should be and she said she couldn't answer my question, and therefore in doing so did basically answer it indirectly with the word 'extremely'. She said she wanted a scan of my entire torso to see if there were any other 'masses' in there. If she had actually said the words 'I think you have advanced ovarian cancer and I want to check if it has spread to your kidneys, liver and lungs' she wouldn't have been any more clear. They did blood tests at that point and told me my CA125 markers were extremely elevated. I was told I'd have a scan within the fortnight. 

I drove home in shock and parked in front of my house (I've no idea how) and phoned Thomas inside to come out. I relayed what had happened.

The next fortnight, which included poor Léon's birthday was spent in a daze of phoning and getting no info and googling and concluding I wouldn't see Christmas. I had every ache and pain listed as I always do because of all my health issues. I had to turn down two jobs as I couldn't sleep so couldn't concentrate. I could barely speak to the people I met on the school run or in the supermarket. I would  hyperventilate in Aldi and find myself unable to buy dinner. We spent most evenings in tears, trying not to freak Anna and Amaia out too much. Charlotte sussed it immediately and also went into a meltdown, not great two weeks into uni. Léon sussed it too, but as an optimist who remembered less of his grandfather's cancer years, assumed I'd be fixable.

After two weeks (which felt like 20) my scan came through. I went in and afterwards, asked what would happen next. They actually replied - 'we've no idea, we only scan, we don't deal with results'. Another two days meltdown ensued. I tried ringing the original consultant at the Vicky but got nowhere. Eventually on the first morning of the October week, I cracked. I phoned my GP in tears and asked if there was anything she could do. Five hours later the Vicky consultant phoned to say she thought, looking at my scan, that it hadn't spread though couldn't be sure but she'd arrange for a full hysterectomy within two weeks. She stressed over and over the need for haste.

The next day I flew to Italy. I needed to be away from all this as they weren't going to see me that week anyway (I'd double-checked). I sat in the sun and contemplated the fact that I was now 'only' looking at a contained cancer. Still I knew how many years I'd been unwell so it was hard to fully believe until they opened me up but at least for the first time in three weeks I could actually breathe, sleep and eat. Before I had started having crazy thoughts - my granny - Phyllis Buchanan - had died of cancer at 50 so I was going to die because I was called Phyllis Buchanan and I was 50. Every comment from the kids, even as small as 'will you do my hair for prom mummy?' was enough to send me into waves of panic and hysteria. I wondered if this would be my last flight, my last visit to my in-laws. My mother-in-law kindly offered to take me to her hairdresser one afternoon to cheer me up and I couldn't get past the thought that I'd be losing my hair six weeks later, so it was lovely but pointless. That's how unstable I'd become and Thomas was exhausted both from being both parents and my personal psychologist, while scared witless himself!

When we got back, we saw the original consultant who said I'd be done and dusted within a fortnight. If it hadn't spread yet, they didn't want to risk it spreading by holding off. Two weeks passed however and I heard nothing. I rang her again and was told my case was now with the oncology team at the Royal Infirmary. I rang them and after much passing from pillar to post, I was told they hadn't even put me on their system yet and they hoped they could fit me in by the end of November or early December! It would be a minimum of five weeks despite my being told I needed it to be two, max. The only thing worse than being told you have a cancer which has spread, is being told you have one that hasn't and then being left so long it does. Mental torture doesn't come close...

We started to melt again. Suddenly though, a consultant from a third hospital phoned and asked to see me ten days ago. He examined me and asked if I couldn't feel the tumours given they were already grapefruit-sized (>10cm each). This was the first time anyone had mentioned size and I was shocked. He told me I was carrying the equivalent of a twin pregnancy of 16-18 weeks. That would explain why my clothes felt a tad tight and none of my recent dieting had worked. He explained that often when they go in they find things not on the CT scan like it having spread to the lymph nodes and generally terrified me again... I was given some scary odds: 60% of people with my scan turn out to have cancer, only 15% of ovarian tumours are found at the pre-cancer stage and these are almost exclusively in women aged 20-40...

Eight days later he pulled me in. I was unconscious for six hours and he removed my uterus, tubes, ovaries, the tumours, and my cervix. When I was still barely conscious the surgeon also explained he'd found some worrying cells on my bowel so had brought in a third surgeon while I was unconscious to perform a bowel resection and send that off to pathology too. My dad died of bowel cancer in 2012. This frightened me witless. Nothing had spread to the lymphs however, which was something.

Pathology took six days and they rang yesterday:

Bowel: severe diverticular disease - painful but it won't kill me.

Uterus: ok

Tubes: ok

Cervix: ok

Ovaries: Pre-cancerous tumours that had not yet turned dangerous despite their size.

Bloody hell! I have aged ten years in the last 56 days but it looks like I might get to see my son graduate next summer, see my daughter through her time at uni, listen to my son's orchestra some more, see my little girl leave primary next summer and my littlest girl might even have me around long enough to remember me. In the last 56 days I have learnt that nothing matters in life beyond health, not really, because without it, you have nothing. If you have any aches and pains jump up and down till someone looks inside you. A little later for me would have left Thomas a widower with five kids in his 40s, would quite frankly have killed my mother and would have changed all the kids forever.

So apologies to friends who I've seemed a bit standoffish with recently, especially on a certain bus trip to Edinburgh in October when I couldn't really speak, let alone chat - my mind was elsewhere. Putting one foot in front of the other and not falling over took all my concentration. Thanks to those who have helped with my kids at Halloween etc, no questions asked. Thanks to teachers who've hugged away the girls' worries over the last few weeks when they confided their cancer fears in them.

And now I only have to deal with getting back to full strength with no sick pay, with Thomas trying to do all my school runs on top of his own full-time job, while contending, of course with having taken 6 hours to go through menopause rather than the usual 5+ years - that's going to be fun!

Going awol

I'm going to be disappearing from all my usual haunts (the school run, Aldi, Blogger and Facebook) later in the week and I am not yet sure when I'll be back. After being hit by a few health issues over the last six weeks (yes, that's why we've been acting a bit odd), I'm going in for a big op on Thursday, so I'll let you know how that went once I'm out of the woods. Thomas is going to be demented playing both mum and dad, doing all the school runs while running both halves of our business, and worrying about me at the same time, so please bear with us if things slip a little. See you on the other side. Phyl x

More Titanic homework

So, Amaia's researching the Titanic and spent this evening making tickets for all the different classes. When she looked up the third-class tickets she was more than impressed that you could get to the USA for just a fiver, especially given she has more than a fiver in her piggy bank.

Then she came out with the sweet but daft statement: If only I had a time machine, I'd go back to 1912 with my fiver and buy a ticket for the Titanic. It's such good value!

I can see a wee flaw with that plan!

Titanic homework

Me: What are you doing, Amaia?Amaia: I'm making a model of the Titanic out of a kitchen sponge!Well that's innovative!... silly me! Should I point out those sponges float or would that just be cruel? 😜

Sunflower extravaganza...

        

Over the years, I have grown my fair share of sunflowers in the garden. I usually plant around 30 and end up with about a dozen (thanks to the weather and the slugs). Granted, they don't turn up till about October given the climate, but we get there.

This year we had the hottest and most prolonged summer since we've been in this house. I knew this year I could end up with something rivalling my trips to the South of France or Italy (almost...)

So, I coaxed fifty little seeds till they were about 15cm tall in my greenhouse, and then I planted them all round the garden in June as always. I sat back, camera ready and waited, and waited... 

And believe it or not, this is what Scotland's best summer of the new millennium yielded from those fifty little plants. Seriously? Is that the best you can do?! I give up!

The youth of today

Charlotte was talking about uni this morning on the school run. Maybe I should start calling it the educational establishment run now she's left school but the others haven't... (I have to drop her at Mearns road to catch the No.4 bus to Glasgow uni as First have stopped its coming to Harvie avenue - it's not like anyone needs a bus from half of Newton Mearns that goes to Glasgow uni, is it?! Grrrr)

So, she was saying something about having a lecture in the McIntyre building and I commented that the John Smith bookshop was in there when I was a student so we had never used it for classes.

I then remembered it was where you went for NUS meetings and all our protest marches had set out from there. I then fondly told her of our great protests - the RIP free education marches of '86 and '89 when student grants were scrapped in favour of loans and where we'd carried a coffin from the McIntyre down to town picking up the Glasgow School of Art, Glasgow Tech and Strathclyde uni students en route before holding a rally in George square and marching out to Queens Park.

I told her about the Mandela protests and our small part in the fight to overthrow the Apartheid regime in South Africa during my student days and our campaign to make Winnie Mandela rector and give Mandela the freedom of the city of Glasgow, then I explained Apartheid to the three wee ones as I drove. Charlotte was listening quite intently, then came out with a comment that blew me away...

'But that was before social media! You did all that and the only people who saw you were doing it were the ones you actually marched past? How did you motivate people to protest if you couldn't get your message out to the wider public?' I explained that it would have made it into the papers or on to the BBC back then and everyone would have known. She found it hard to imagine mainstream media actually reporting anti-establishment news. Her generation assumes that if you protest you need to livestream it on Twitter or Facebook as it won't show up in the newspapers or the TV news. Interesting, if a tad Orwellian.

My sweet, innocent little friend

Charlotte's sitting watching Friends on Netflix. She's back at the beginning when Ross and Rachel first get together. Amaia, who's never seen it before is sitting with her. The happy couple are canoodling in the hallway. Ross comes out with something like: I really want to make it up to you for last night. Maybe we could go to a fancy restaurant? Rachel smiles at him sexily and replies: Oh yes, and maybe afterwards we can go back to my place for some... dessert! Ross's eyeballs fall out his head and immediately Amaia pipes up indignantly: Well, that's the stupidest thing I ever heard! It's obvious that dessert is going to be much nicer in the fancy restaurant rather than them going home and making like Angel Delight or something at Rachel's flat!

Léon is currently trying desperately not to point and laugh. Sweet! He then suggested I note it down here so he can show her it in a couple of years once she's more worldly-wise!

Happy families

It's a bit of stressful time at the moment.

First there's Marcel - my number one and usually very capable child. At 21, he's been living in Edinburgh for over three years. This summer, however, he managed to get himself not one but two jobs and his eight hours a day, seven days a week have resulted in him having run out of time on the flat-hunting front. Instead of lining up his next flat which he needed to get from Sept 1, he left that to his slightly more laid-back flatmate, who has enough money for hotels and who also has a girlfriend round the corner. Marcel has now moved back home and is booking flat viewings by the dozen from across the country at ten a week while shouting expletives, punching the air and muttering under his breath about never leaving a job to someone else if you can do it yourself. Of course, he's also having to commute to Edinburgh three days a week for his Apple job and uni starts next Monday! He's contemplating sleeping in the library from then!

Then there's number two. She's no longer stressing me but I couldn't say the same last weekend: I got a text from Spain saying the single mum she had been au pairing for had decided to give her ex husband the kids three days early and had disappeared off to visit her new boyfriend three hundred miles away, leaving Charlotte homeless, but I wasn't to worry because she'd moved in with the mum's (single, forty year old, lives alone) brother and they were having a lovely time getting to know each other over wine!!!! Do you trust him? I asked in the calmest of voices, trying not to shriek or squeak! Turned out he was a lovely guy who paid for her food, lent her his travel cards and drew her maps to the beach and tourist sites of Valencia, worked on a work presentation all weekend, and waved her off on the tube to the airport on Monday morning but that doesn't mean I slept a wink till she got off the plane on Monday afternoon!

Number three is usually happy to have his brother home, probably because he only comes during holidays and they sit and watch movies or play play station together, but this time he's gammoning away: Marcel is taking over my room with his bags, and I can't sit on my spare bed to get dressed in the morning because Marcel is asleep in it, and I have to get dressed in the dark because he isn't up yet and when are you going to convert the spare bathroom into a guestroom like you've always said  you would mum, so I can get my room back NOW!!!

Number four isn't overly annoyed though First's decision to terminate the number 4 (ie Glasgow uni) bus at ASDA now means that school run has been moved to ten minutes earlier to let Charlotte jump out at Mearns Castle where she can catch the bus to uni and this is worth a rant or two in the morning.

Number five is still in full packed lunch meltdown. Apparently packed lunches are worse than smallpox and syphilis rolled into one and if I just whine another week, maybe they'll give in and start buying me school lunches again! (Maybe I should take up lotto to see if I can win a year's subscription to canteen lunches at Kirkhill primary)

Reminds me a bit of my first (German) mother-in-law - she also had five kids and used to say to me: Kleine Kinder, kleine Sorgen, große Kinder... I was meant to fill in the blanks myself, I think I get it now!

Number six, aka my dearly beloved, has manged to do all sort of damage to himself over the weekend. He slipped on the wet kitchen floor at 1am on Saturday morning and it was after two before the adrenaline shakes had worn off enough for me to get him into bed. Saturday morning I was up again before nine and got Charlotte to take 3, 4, and 5 to their Williamwood music lessons while I got six x-rayed: nothing broken - just a twisted knee and a strained Achilles tendon. Now, he would probably deserve sympathy if he'd been running a marathon but given he slipped on an ice cube he was putting in his white wine because he hadn't chilled the bottle enough, I'm not so sure!😂

Even the hamster has been so awol this weekend, I was beginning to wonder if she'd kicked the bucket until I heard her drinking this morning.

I'm fine... well as fine as someone can be this close to the Tory party conference announcing whether or not my husband is an illegal alien who needs to be booted back to where he came from.

I'm seriously considering remortgaging the house before the pound collapses anyway and pissing off to somewhere Mediterranean for the October week where I can recharge my batteries in the sun far from all the madness, only question is whether to go alone or take this bunch with me!

A dramatic loathing of sandwiches

We spotted the issue when Amaia was about two... no matter how much coaxing and cajoling, the girl who happily downs the spiciest Mexican or Indian food, any amount of pasta or other more boring offerings, just reacts to sandwiches in the way most family pets do to the sight of the local vet's surgery!

All through nursery we tried to break her and got as far as jam or honey, but that was about it. It isn't that she doesn't like bread, it is that she thinks savoury food ought to be hot and therefore ought not to be on bread! So as I said last month, packed lunches have begun.

Charlotte returned from Spain on Monday. Charlotte is Amaia's bestie and confidant. At bed time, she showed up in Lot's room with tears rolling down her face. 'It's not that I haven't tried, Charlotte, I have but I just hate everything about school lunches now', she wailed dramatically. 'I've tried them for three weeks now and I'm just soooo depressed!'

Sigh! It's going to be a long ten years!

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Anna can be impulsive and determined at times. Only Sunday, she suddenly came out with the notion that she ought to cut off all her hair and donate it to the Little Princess Trust. Her friend Inishka had done that last year, but at the time she hadn't really considered it, she was simply very proud of her (and her sister Ameya) for doing so. I'm not sure why the notion suddenly came to her now.

On Monday, she reiterated the idea but again, I figured she'd give it up after a day or two. But on Tuesday, she went over to the hairdresser and asked for an appointment, and when they said they actually had one free immediately, she simply sat down on the first seat and got on with it.

She certainly has balls!