Casting my mind back a couple of years, I was a lone-parent. I rarely found life a struggle, in fact I relished it. I did an exceptional job bringing up my daughter on my own and she did not want for anything. I have never liked to consider myself as a competitive parent. Of course I want the best for my daughter and feel triumphant when she excels at something but I like to think of myself as quietly confident in her abilities, content with the wonderful human being that she is.
That was until the merit awards came along. The school, gives out much sought after certificates after a certain number of stickers have been collected. The stickers being of the "Great Reading!" "Super Work!" "Fantastic Help!" variety. Collect twelve stickers and get your merit award signed off by none other than The Head then take home to proudly stick on wall of your choice.
"So Darling"
"Yes Mummy"
"These merit awards"
"Yes Mummy, what about them?"
"Who's got the most merit awards? I mean not that it matters, I'm simply curious, just out of interest"
"Johnathon"
"Johnathon? Who's he?
"You know, Johnathon. It's not fair, the teacher's ALWAYS giving him stickers all the time"
Johnathon? Haven't heard much about him before. Hmmm. Well I expect goody-two-shoes Johnathon doesn't have single mum for a parent who works four jobs to pay the bills. I can just imagine him in his beautiful pristine house with his Mummy and Daddy standing over him smiling sweetly while he does extra Maths and English to stay ahead of the game. In fact she's probably a stay at home mum and he's the director of a large firm with a company car, pension and a dental plan.
"Well done son, great job" A sparkle of light pings from his shiny white teeth.
Johnathon, hair combed neatly looks up fondly at Dad and smiles.
"Gee thanks Dad"
A few months later.....
I am disturbed to see one of Missy's friends at the end of the school day coming out of school with tears, real ones streaming down her face. Her eyes are sad and she is inhaling in short bursts the way you do when you can't stop crying. Then another child, this time one of the tough boys also upset. Oh God what's happened? All the kids sobbing. Before I even know what's up I am filled with terror and sorrow. What is it? I scan the sea of red faces for my little angel.
"Baby what is it? What the matter?"
"Johnathon's leaving"
"Oh no really? How come?"
Me thinks he's probably about to attend an international school of excellence out in the far east.
"He's been given a new Mummy and Daddy"
"What do you mean a new Mummy and Daddy?"
I am very confused.
"He's been waiting for a new Mummy and Daddy and they've found him some so he's moving away to be with them"
More uncontrollable sobs.
"Well where are his real Mummy and Daddy?"
"He doesn't have them"
"Why not?"
"They were bad so he lived in a home while he waited for a new set"
Out of school slowly walked Johnathon, cradled either side by his friends, a tiny dot of a boy at least six inches shorter than his peers. His face was red and swollen from his sobs.
I went home that evening and told my man about Johnathon and cried. Things are not always what they seem.
Johnathon has visited school a few time since he left to get a new Mummy and Daddy and is doing very well.
Thursday, 10 July 2008
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Summer Sale Madness
So I am dragged to Debenhams, the department store for a spot of leisurely Sunday afternoon shopping by my bloke and bloke's best friend. Blue Cross Sale was in full swing and we go our separate ways to dig out some bargains. The clothing department is a shambles, worse than a jumble sale. What struck me about the shop floor was there was not a member of staff in sight. It was impossible to tell which items were in the sale and most items were strewn across the floor. After searching for ten minutes I managed to find an assistant
"Excuse me, can you tell me which items are in the sale?"
I was shot a vague blank look and answered in a monotone Manchester drawl,
"well....some of these items reaaaallaaay" She pointed to an area of shoes.
"So how do I know which items are in the sale?"
"Well, you 'av to look at the laaaaaybulls"
"I have and there doesn't seem to be any indication as to what is in the sale"
"Well...you 'av to taaaayke it to the till" She gestured in the direction of the sales counter. I looked over, nobody there.
"Okay, thank you"
Freak.
So I am in the changing rooms trying on some dresses, a spark of guilt and nervousness comes over me, not sure whether or not I am about to bag myself a bargain and I overhear a conversation between an assistant (like buses, non for ages then two come along) and a customer.
"Can I try these on love?"
"Yeah, 'course. Sorry 'bout waaaayt, it's reaaaallaaay busaaaaaay. Dorn't knor why"
Is it just me?
I reconvene with Man and man's friend and we decide to try our luck with the home ware department. We head towards the lift and press the button. Ping, the lift opens there's a swarm of bodies waiting to get out. From nowhere a lady (we'll call her a lady) with a buggy comes barging through trying to get herself into the lift. Never mind the people trying to get out, she wanted in. I muttered under my breath to my man stood next to me "push in why don't you?" knowing she couldn't hear me as she has already wedged herself in the elevator between the people trying to get out.
We step in too and off we go, next thing her best mate who was stood right behind me said,
"She were only trying to get into lift, you've no right to comment"
I turned to her slightly surprised to have had my mumbled complaints rumbled and said,
"I will comment if I want"
The lady was staring me right in the face so I stood firm and stared back until she looked away. The sales rage was overwhelming me.
"We were in the queue too", She retorted
"Look",I say calmly yet firmly, "I am not about to enter into an argument about getting into a lift"
In other words shut your mouth, you are wrong and rude and I am right and polite. The lift was stuffy and crowded and the elevator had gone down, not up. The doors opened and a woman of the larger persusion squeezed herself in.
The angry friend continued,"We were in queue an' all you know, do you begrudge a baby in a pushchair getting into a lift"
Oh great, try to lay a guilt trip on me now why don't you? Rubbish argument, she pushed in. Is that why it's called a push chair? The lift didn't move. A man, obviously uncomfortable with the disagreement unfolding in front of him pressed all the buttons but nothing was happening.
"Of course I don't begrudge a baby in a pushchair getting the lift, I know you were waiting too but there is such a thing as manners"
Crazy overzealous woman in pushchair is red faced standing in corner of lift looking sheepish. Lift is still stationary and getting warmer. The problem becomes clear. The lift is too full. Fat woman isn't showing any signs of leaving to make the load lighter. I decide to jump ship, I don't wish to share the same sweaty air as mad woman with buggy, over protective argumentative friend and inconsiderate lard arse.
Is it just me?
"Excuse me, can you tell me which items are in the sale?"
I was shot a vague blank look and answered in a monotone Manchester drawl,
"well....some of these items reaaaallaaay" She pointed to an area of shoes.
"So how do I know which items are in the sale?"
"Well, you 'av to look at the laaaaaybulls"
"I have and there doesn't seem to be any indication as to what is in the sale"
"Well...you 'av to taaaayke it to the till" She gestured in the direction of the sales counter. I looked over, nobody there.
"Okay, thank you"
Freak.
So I am in the changing rooms trying on some dresses, a spark of guilt and nervousness comes over me, not sure whether or not I am about to bag myself a bargain and I overhear a conversation between an assistant (like buses, non for ages then two come along) and a customer.
"Can I try these on love?"
"Yeah, 'course. Sorry 'bout waaaayt, it's reaaaallaaay busaaaaaay. Dorn't knor why"
Is it just me?
I reconvene with Man and man's friend and we decide to try our luck with the home ware department. We head towards the lift and press the button. Ping, the lift opens there's a swarm of bodies waiting to get out. From nowhere a lady (we'll call her a lady) with a buggy comes barging through trying to get herself into the lift. Never mind the people trying to get out, she wanted in. I muttered under my breath to my man stood next to me "push in why don't you?" knowing she couldn't hear me as she has already wedged herself in the elevator between the people trying to get out.
We step in too and off we go, next thing her best mate who was stood right behind me said,
"She were only trying to get into lift, you've no right to comment"
I turned to her slightly surprised to have had my mumbled complaints rumbled and said,
"I will comment if I want"
The lady was staring me right in the face so I stood firm and stared back until she looked away. The sales rage was overwhelming me.
"We were in the queue too", She retorted
"Look",I say calmly yet firmly, "I am not about to enter into an argument about getting into a lift"
In other words shut your mouth, you are wrong and rude and I am right and polite. The lift was stuffy and crowded and the elevator had gone down, not up. The doors opened and a woman of the larger persusion squeezed herself in.
The angry friend continued,"We were in queue an' all you know, do you begrudge a baby in a pushchair getting into a lift"
Oh great, try to lay a guilt trip on me now why don't you? Rubbish argument, she pushed in. Is that why it's called a push chair? The lift didn't move. A man, obviously uncomfortable with the disagreement unfolding in front of him pressed all the buttons but nothing was happening.
"Of course I don't begrudge a baby in a pushchair getting the lift, I know you were waiting too but there is such a thing as manners"
Crazy overzealous woman in pushchair is red faced standing in corner of lift looking sheepish. Lift is still stationary and getting warmer. The problem becomes clear. The lift is too full. Fat woman isn't showing any signs of leaving to make the load lighter. I decide to jump ship, I don't wish to share the same sweaty air as mad woman with buggy, over protective argumentative friend and inconsiderate lard arse.
Is it just me?
Friday, 4 July 2008
phobias
Buttons. Unobtrusive, useful, inoffensive? Not if you have a button phobia. Seriously, this is not a joke, someone very close to me has a button phobia. One of my neighbours has a phobia of dwarves. It is believed this irrational anxiety stems from childhood. Hmmm makes it even more unusual that my button hater has a parent and a step-parent that are both clinical psychologists, one of whom specialises in, wait for it, phobias.
Some buttons are okay and manageable on a day-to-day basis. My friend's fear is at its worse when he comes in contact with decorative buttons. Loose buttons, buttins stored in a jar, a button inside a plastic bag (the kind you get as a spare with items of clothing), oversized buttons, unusually shaped buttons and buttons out of place.
He's travelling a long distance, he has been driving for a long time, he is desperate for a coffee and a break. He stops at the service station on the motorway and goes into the shop. He gets a tray, his coffee and a newspaper, and queues. Slowly but surely he gets nearer to the till. Finally, he is ready to pay. The cashier rings up the amount
"That's £9.30 please"
My friend is frozen on the spot. Not at the ridiculous price, this is rip-off Britain remember.
His eyes are fixed, glazed, filled with sheer terror. The cashier is waiting to be paid, my friend is oblivious. He has seen something that to him that is utterly disgusting and terrifying. Wedged in a gap between two counters was a button neatly contained in a clear plastic bag. He lets go of the tray and takes a careful step backwards, eyes still fixed. The cashier is confused. He turns around, walks quickly, heading for the door, now it's a run, he's running fast out of the service station. He gets into the car starts the engine and drives away, fast. No coffee, no paper, no toilet break.
My neighbour was standing in the street minding her own business. She turned to look in a shop window and out of the corner of her eye she saw something at hip level. She looked down, it was a dwarf. The dwarf smiled my neighbour screamed. A blood curldling, haunting, ear piecing scream. She began to run away also. The dwarf looked a mixture of bemusement and confusion. Afterwards my neighbour was mortified, in case she offended the little dwarf. She realises it is irrational but cannot help it. She avoids driving a certain way in the morning to work as there at the bus stop regularly stands, a dwarf.
Back to buttons. There is more to this story. His niece is showing signs of developing it, she is five years old and refuses to wear anything remotely button-like. Did I mention his sister also has it? Could it be learned behaviour? I wonder if his mum used to wear fancy, perhaps sometimes sharp buttons on clothing that could have scratched him during a cuddle. His sister then copied this (she is utterly in awe of her big brother) and in turn she has now passed it on to her youngest child.
We were at a dinner party recently and one of the guests has three decorative buttons on the shoulder of her top. He sat as far away from her as possible, he said he couldn't even look over in her direction for fear it would put him off his food.
I have been looking at phobias and found a few more unusual ones, buttons? Dwarves? They're quite rational compared to some I have found. If you think you are hard done by, there is always someone else worse off than you.
Ablutophobia- Fear of washing or bathing.
Alliumphobia- Fear of garlic
Androphobia- Fear of men
Caligynephobia- Fear of beautiful women
Chrometophobia or Chrematophobia- Fear of money
Some buttons are okay and manageable on a day-to-day basis. My friend's fear is at its worse when he comes in contact with decorative buttons. Loose buttons, buttins stored in a jar, a button inside a plastic bag (the kind you get as a spare with items of clothing), oversized buttons, unusually shaped buttons and buttons out of place.
He's travelling a long distance, he has been driving for a long time, he is desperate for a coffee and a break. He stops at the service station on the motorway and goes into the shop. He gets a tray, his coffee and a newspaper, and queues. Slowly but surely he gets nearer to the till. Finally, he is ready to pay. The cashier rings up the amount
"That's £9.30 please"
My friend is frozen on the spot. Not at the ridiculous price, this is rip-off Britain remember.
His eyes are fixed, glazed, filled with sheer terror. The cashier is waiting to be paid, my friend is oblivious. He has seen something that to him that is utterly disgusting and terrifying. Wedged in a gap between two counters was a button neatly contained in a clear plastic bag. He lets go of the tray and takes a careful step backwards, eyes still fixed. The cashier is confused. He turns around, walks quickly, heading for the door, now it's a run, he's running fast out of the service station. He gets into the car starts the engine and drives away, fast. No coffee, no paper, no toilet break.
My neighbour was standing in the street minding her own business. She turned to look in a shop window and out of the corner of her eye she saw something at hip level. She looked down, it was a dwarf. The dwarf smiled my neighbour screamed. A blood curldling, haunting, ear piecing scream. She began to run away also. The dwarf looked a mixture of bemusement and confusion. Afterwards my neighbour was mortified, in case she offended the little dwarf. She realises it is irrational but cannot help it. She avoids driving a certain way in the morning to work as there at the bus stop regularly stands, a dwarf.
Back to buttons. There is more to this story. His niece is showing signs of developing it, she is five years old and refuses to wear anything remotely button-like. Did I mention his sister also has it? Could it be learned behaviour? I wonder if his mum used to wear fancy, perhaps sometimes sharp buttons on clothing that could have scratched him during a cuddle. His sister then copied this (she is utterly in awe of her big brother) and in turn she has now passed it on to her youngest child.
We were at a dinner party recently and one of the guests has three decorative buttons on the shoulder of her top. He sat as far away from her as possible, he said he couldn't even look over in her direction for fear it would put him off his food.
I have been looking at phobias and found a few more unusual ones, buttons? Dwarves? They're quite rational compared to some I have found. If you think you are hard done by, there is always someone else worse off than you.
Ablutophobia- Fear of washing or bathing.
Alliumphobia- Fear of garlic
Androphobia- Fear of men
Caligynephobia- Fear of beautiful women
Chrometophobia or Chrematophobia- Fear of money
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