We are now a week into 2010 and this is my first post of the new decade. It has been an interesting week, here are some of the highlights.
On new years eve only one carer arrived. Polly had taken the boys to the early part of a party and I was home alone happily catching up with the second part of Day of the Triffids. Kolapo wrangled me into bed alone.
New years day – only one carer arrived. Polly helped Kolapo get me up. There appears to have been some confusion over on which days care was cancelled. This had arisen because the decision had to be taken weeks in advance. Polly was in her run up to Christmas where she dashes from nursery to nursery loaded down with puppets, dressed as a fairy and can barely remember what day of the week it is, let alone decide what care requirements will be needed over the festive period. The care agency seemed to have no clue either but lack the excuse of having to entertain hundreds of children with only the aid of Stella the Star puppet.
On January 2nd we had friends round for dinner. This was great fun. We had cancelled the carers for the evening which was just as well because no one went home until 1.30am. The only problem was that then Polly had to get me to bed alone and we were both very tired.
January 4th, Monday, the last day of the holidays before the boys go back to school and Kolapo arrives in the morning alone. Polly gets a phone call from the agency saying several of their staff are off sick. They make the assumption that Polly will bail them out and act as the second carer. Polly rebels and points out she is not a member of their staff and, besides, she has plans for the morning which do not include lugging me about. She then gathers the boys and takes them over to a friends. I am left in bed until 12.30pm when an irate Carlotte arrives all the way from Lambeth. There is much muttering in French and African dialects about the organizational abilities of the agency management. It also occurs to me that had the agency made fewer assumptions about Polly's willingness to drop everything to become their unpaid emergency backup worker and had asked her nicely rather than just assuming her availability then things would have run a lot more smoothly.
In the afternoon, after I had had a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, we took the boys for a last day of the holidays trip to the cinema to see Avatar. Fabulous. Rush to see it. The plot is blockbuster typical but despite the eco-save the planet-civilization bad/tree hugging natives good-climatic battle scene finale storyline the film is absolutely beautiful to watch. The alien planet Pandora is stunningly realised. We saw it in 3D which literally adds a new dimension to it but I understand that even in 2D the SFX are spectacular. It's the first time I've seen a truly convincing alien world. The film is quite long (161 minutes) but I was immersed totally and so were the boys. (Polly fell asleep for a little while but that is because she was in a warm dark place and had nothing to do with the film.) The film making is genuinely ground breaking and makes me excited about the future of the technology. Go and see it. Now.
January 5th – the boys go back to school.
January 6th – today. 3cm of snow has fallen in our area and so naturally the school is closed. Matty is only slightly aggrieved that he had an appointment at the dental hospital today and would have been off school anyway. Both boys are watching the forecasts keenly in hopeful anticipation of Siberian conditions for the rest of the month.
So, as you can see, 2010 has not ushered in a new era of blissful tranquillity for the writer of this blog. Mind you, if my life was just one long peaceful wheelchair ride you probably wouldn't care enough to read about it. I hope you all enjoyed Christmas and have had a happy new year.
Until next time.
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
That Was The Year That Was
As we slide down the razor blade of life (as Tom Lehrer had it) into 2010 I am compelled by convention to look back on 2009 with consideration.
I had a run of deterioration in my Muscular Dystrophy which caused me some concern early in the year but a new super-duper wheelchair has gone some way towards compensating for that. I lost the ability to raise my arm in such a way as to be able to eat meals. A devise called a Neater arm has greatly helped with that problem. Frankly it was a bit scary at the time but I've got a new consultant at Kings who actually knows something about FSH MD and managed to reassure me that my condition was not spiralling out of control, just reaching a tipping point. The new wheelchair combined with a decent air mattress has meant I've been able to cut down on about 90% of the painkillers I was on. I've decided to postpone my demise for another year.
Sam has had his kidneys scanned and they have been deemed satisfactory. Matty is now wearing glasses, something he is perfectly happy with and he is now perfecting his geek-chic look. Polly has now qualified as a fully fledged junior Clown Doctor. She works once or twice a week at Great Ormond Street Hospital and the Royal Marsden. The work is sometimes traumatic but always deeply rewarding. For reasons I don't fully understand she has decided to learn how to play the ukulele. And since Matty is intending to learn the guitar I dread to think what our home will sound like next year.
A highlight of the year was when we received our new car, a Volkswagon Caddy. It is significantly longer than our old van which means we all have a bit more space. We only have this fabulous new vehicle because of the generosity of my brother and sister. Best of all, it arrived in time for our holiday in Wales.
Since I last blogged we have attended the deadly Christingle service where hundreds of children wave oranges with lit candles stuck in them around. This year both Matty and Sam took part in the Nativity play. Sam was a fearful shepherd. He was given the direction to look scared when the angel of the Lord appeared. While the other shepherds stood rooted to the spot Sam 'acted'. You would have thought that the angel Gabriel had appeared in the guise of Freddy Krueger. Matty meanwhile was cast as Joseph. He managed, with 9 year-old aplomb, to walk Mary to Bethlehem in a manner that showed loving, husbandly devotion but at the same time subtly conveyed the message that, in real life, he and the girl were not actually an 'item'.
Christmas day morning was spent at home in a frenzy of present opening and included a visit from Nanny, Pam, Polly's mum. In the afternoon we travelled to Dulwich and my brother Simon's new house. To get into the house I had to cross the gravel driveway in which I got stuck. The tread of my wheels became embedded with tiny stones which had to be individually removed before I dared move onto the newly fitted real wood flooring. We had a great time as my entire family gathered, including my sister Helena and her family all the way from Texas. Fortunately Simon and Jaspreet's house is huge so 6 boy cousins and 9 adults had plenty of space. In fact, had we wanted to, I think we could have played 5-a-side football in the living room.
So, as 2009 comes to an end I'd like to thank everybody who has kept me alive this year and to everyone who reads this blog. I appreciate your company and your comments. I hope you will stay with me for the new decade. I'm certainly intending to stay with you. Happy new year.
Until next time...
I had a run of deterioration in my Muscular Dystrophy which caused me some concern early in the year but a new super-duper wheelchair has gone some way towards compensating for that. I lost the ability to raise my arm in such a way as to be able to eat meals. A devise called a Neater arm has greatly helped with that problem. Frankly it was a bit scary at the time but I've got a new consultant at Kings who actually knows something about FSH MD and managed to reassure me that my condition was not spiralling out of control, just reaching a tipping point. The new wheelchair combined with a decent air mattress has meant I've been able to cut down on about 90% of the painkillers I was on. I've decided to postpone my demise for another year.
Sam has had his kidneys scanned and they have been deemed satisfactory. Matty is now wearing glasses, something he is perfectly happy with and he is now perfecting his geek-chic look. Polly has now qualified as a fully fledged junior Clown Doctor. She works once or twice a week at Great Ormond Street Hospital and the Royal Marsden. The work is sometimes traumatic but always deeply rewarding. For reasons I don't fully understand she has decided to learn how to play the ukulele. And since Matty is intending to learn the guitar I dread to think what our home will sound like next year.
A highlight of the year was when we received our new car, a Volkswagon Caddy. It is significantly longer than our old van which means we all have a bit more space. We only have this fabulous new vehicle because of the generosity of my brother and sister. Best of all, it arrived in time for our holiday in Wales.
Since I last blogged we have attended the deadly Christingle service where hundreds of children wave oranges with lit candles stuck in them around. This year both Matty and Sam took part in the Nativity play. Sam was a fearful shepherd. He was given the direction to look scared when the angel of the Lord appeared. While the other shepherds stood rooted to the spot Sam 'acted'. You would have thought that the angel Gabriel had appeared in the guise of Freddy Krueger. Matty meanwhile was cast as Joseph. He managed, with 9 year-old aplomb, to walk Mary to Bethlehem in a manner that showed loving, husbandly devotion but at the same time subtly conveyed the message that, in real life, he and the girl were not actually an 'item'.
Christmas day morning was spent at home in a frenzy of present opening and included a visit from Nanny, Pam, Polly's mum. In the afternoon we travelled to Dulwich and my brother Simon's new house. To get into the house I had to cross the gravel driveway in which I got stuck. The tread of my wheels became embedded with tiny stones which had to be individually removed before I dared move onto the newly fitted real wood flooring. We had a great time as my entire family gathered, including my sister Helena and her family all the way from Texas. Fortunately Simon and Jaspreet's house is huge so 6 boy cousins and 9 adults had plenty of space. In fact, had we wanted to, I think we could have played 5-a-side football in the living room.
So, as 2009 comes to an end I'd like to thank everybody who has kept me alive this year and to everyone who reads this blog. I appreciate your company and your comments. I hope you will stay with me for the new decade. I'm certainly intending to stay with you. Happy new year.
Until next time...
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Blackout - Call 999
I feel sufficiently recovered to tell you about the events of Sunday night. Those of a nervous or sensitive disposition should skip this post and find something nice to do like decorating a pine tree.
Sunday evening had been very pleasant. Polly had performed at her last party of the year, danced the 'I've finished! I've finished!' dance, and we had celebrated with a rare Indian take-a-way. We don't eat take-a-way very often because oily food makes my chest bubbly, but the last party of the year is always a momentous occasion and must be marked accordingly.
By the time the carers arrived I was feeling a little bubbly but was not unduly concerned because I would soon be in bed on the BiPap ventilator. And so it proved. While Polly watched Cranford, a BBC costumed melodrama on TV, I was retired to bed to happily read Bernard Knight's Fear in the Forest. It felt a bit like breathing soup but the BiPap forced air in and I relaxed into it knowing that eventually the mucus in my lungs would be broken down into a kind of froth that could be relatively easily coughed up. The process was taking time but I was engrossed in twelfth century Exeter's problems and so focussed on those rather than on the crackly noises coming from chest.
And then there was a power cut.
The air being pushed into my lungs stopped mid-breath. The room was plunged into darkness and the alarm on the ventilator started its piercing shriek. The rational part of my brain assured me I wouldn't suffocate but the more primitive part knew this was nonsense and that death was imminent. I tried to suck in air through the now useless mask but the froth in my lungs gave the illusion I was drowning. The suddenness of having the breath snatched from me caused me to briefly panic and I had to fight to calm down. All this took only a few seconds. I then heard Polly rushing up the hallway and her voice telling me it as all going to be okay.
My bed is an electric profiling bed that can be raised or lowered, tilted or reclined to help me change position or sit up. The operative word here is electric. During a power cut it is just a bed. Polly came into the bedroom knowing she had to sit me up because breathing whilst lying down is difficult for me. Using leverage and brute force she raised me to a sitting position and removed the mask. She then rushed off to find a torch and then the emergency battery pack for the BiPap. It took a few moments but soon the ventilator was working again and the mask was back on. Air rushed back into my now aching lungs but the mucus had shifted and part of my lungs were blocked off. Polly helped me lie down again.
Other problems were arising. Our heating had gone off and as snow was falling heavily outside the temperature was already plummeting. My electric blanket was now just a rapidly cooling thin sheet. In addition, my electrically powered air mattress was deflating beneath me. Still, at least I could breathe. Polly looked at the control panel on the BiPap. It told her that the emergency backup battery was only a quarter charged. I had, perhaps, an hour and a half of breathing time. I couldn't get out of bed and transfer to the wheelchair because the hoist is, you've guessed it, electrically powered.
Polly rang the power company and explained the situation. The outage was extremely local, affecting only a few houses around us. Our upstairs neighbour had no power but the flat above her did. The house next door was in darkness but across the road Christmas lights shone. The customer service manager at EDF was full of sympathy at my plight but regretfully informed Polly that they would not be sending an engineer out before morning. What, Polly asked, was I supposed to do when the backup battery ran out and I started turning blue? Call an ambulance, she was told. Polly dialled 999.
Within a short while an ambulance duly arrived complete with two green clad paramedic type women who quickly grasped the situation but were at a loss at what to do. They could take me to hospital where there was at least power and warmth but transferring me there would require another ambulance team to safely move me without the use of the hoist. Even incapacitated as I was this seemed a bit too much. The weather outside was treacherous and the emergency services were already stretched. The ambulance woman called the power company herself and put a flea in their ear.
By now our neighbours were anxiously hovering, alerted by the presence of the ambulance, and offering any help that they could. Then Polly had a brainwave. We could run an extension lead down from the top flat where there was electricity. Fortunately our next door neighbour was able to rummage in his company van and produce an industrial length cable which could be trailed three floors down and through our flat into our bedroom. Within a few minutes we had limited power again. My mattress began to re-inflate and my electric blanket began to warm up again. Crisis over. Or so we thought.
Polly said goodbye to the ambulance crew and apologised for having called them out. Oh no, they said cheerfully, it made a pleasant change from picking up drunk people who had slipped on the ice. They departed to fill in forms about the incident.
I'm not exactly sure what caused what happened next. I think the sudden changes in pressure, position and temperature had caused the sticky and frothy mucus in my rather abused lungs to foam into my mouth where due to the forced breaths from the ventilator I swallowed it and great mouthfuls of pressurised air. The contents of my stomach rebelled and a grim combination of semi-digested curry, mucus and medication came up in to my mouth. This would be nasty under any circumstances, but remember, my ventilator was forcing me to take regular breaths regardless of whether I was being sick at the time. I was in real danger of choking.
Polly took one look at me and came as close to panicking as she ever has with me. She made a dash for the front door and waved down the departing ambulance. Moments later the two ambulance women were back looking down at me anxiously. “Get some suction,” said one of them, and I suddenly felt like I was in an episode of Casualty. One of the crew admitted frankly they were a bit out of their depth. They took my sats (96% on the BiPap) and my blood pressure (slightly raised) and my temperature (normal) but since they didn't know what my baseline was they weren't sure how useful the information was. Still, it gave them something to do.
I kept being sick and they kept telling me not to breathe it into my lungs. It is generally agreed among medical folk that aspiration pneumonia is something to try and avoid – so I did. It wasn't easy but, as you will have gathered, I somehow managed. When there was nothing left in my stomach I finally stopped being sick. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Well, everyone except me; I sort of bubbled.
Once they were satisfied I wasn't going to expire the ambulance crew left to pick up more drunken ice-skaters. I drifted off to sleep leaving Polly to recover from a near nervous breakdown. “God, you're a lot of work,” I heard her mutter. Good job she loves me. The power came back on a couple of hours later. Apparently EDF relented and sent out an engineer. I woke up a few times during the night with a raging thirst but Polly would only let me sip a few drops of water for fear of me drowning or something.
I would like to thank the ambulance crew who were a reassuring presence and very patient. I would also like to thank our neighbours who rallied round and made a real difference. I am a fortunate fellow indeed to have so many people around me who are prepared to endure snow and freezing conditions to help.
This will probably be the last post before Christmas. This afternoon we are taking the boys to see Father Christmas at a local grotto and last night we took them to see Thumblina at the Charles Cryer Theatre in the village. After the events of Sunday night I'm grateful to be well enough to enjoy these seasonal experiences with them.
Merry Christmas to everyone kind enough to spend time reading this blog. I truly appreciate it. I'll try and squeeze in another post before the new year.
Seasons greetings. Until next time...
Sunday evening had been very pleasant. Polly had performed at her last party of the year, danced the 'I've finished! I've finished!' dance, and we had celebrated with a rare Indian take-a-way. We don't eat take-a-way very often because oily food makes my chest bubbly, but the last party of the year is always a momentous occasion and must be marked accordingly.
By the time the carers arrived I was feeling a little bubbly but was not unduly concerned because I would soon be in bed on the BiPap ventilator. And so it proved. While Polly watched Cranford, a BBC costumed melodrama on TV, I was retired to bed to happily read Bernard Knight's Fear in the Forest. It felt a bit like breathing soup but the BiPap forced air in and I relaxed into it knowing that eventually the mucus in my lungs would be broken down into a kind of froth that could be relatively easily coughed up. The process was taking time but I was engrossed in twelfth century Exeter's problems and so focussed on those rather than on the crackly noises coming from chest.
And then there was a power cut.
The air being pushed into my lungs stopped mid-breath. The room was plunged into darkness and the alarm on the ventilator started its piercing shriek. The rational part of my brain assured me I wouldn't suffocate but the more primitive part knew this was nonsense and that death was imminent. I tried to suck in air through the now useless mask but the froth in my lungs gave the illusion I was drowning. The suddenness of having the breath snatched from me caused me to briefly panic and I had to fight to calm down. All this took only a few seconds. I then heard Polly rushing up the hallway and her voice telling me it as all going to be okay.
My bed is an electric profiling bed that can be raised or lowered, tilted or reclined to help me change position or sit up. The operative word here is electric. During a power cut it is just a bed. Polly came into the bedroom knowing she had to sit me up because breathing whilst lying down is difficult for me. Using leverage and brute force she raised me to a sitting position and removed the mask. She then rushed off to find a torch and then the emergency battery pack for the BiPap. It took a few moments but soon the ventilator was working again and the mask was back on. Air rushed back into my now aching lungs but the mucus had shifted and part of my lungs were blocked off. Polly helped me lie down again.
Other problems were arising. Our heating had gone off and as snow was falling heavily outside the temperature was already plummeting. My electric blanket was now just a rapidly cooling thin sheet. In addition, my electrically powered air mattress was deflating beneath me. Still, at least I could breathe. Polly looked at the control panel on the BiPap. It told her that the emergency backup battery was only a quarter charged. I had, perhaps, an hour and a half of breathing time. I couldn't get out of bed and transfer to the wheelchair because the hoist is, you've guessed it, electrically powered.
Polly rang the power company and explained the situation. The outage was extremely local, affecting only a few houses around us. Our upstairs neighbour had no power but the flat above her did. The house next door was in darkness but across the road Christmas lights shone. The customer service manager at EDF was full of sympathy at my plight but regretfully informed Polly that they would not be sending an engineer out before morning. What, Polly asked, was I supposed to do when the backup battery ran out and I started turning blue? Call an ambulance, she was told. Polly dialled 999.
Within a short while an ambulance duly arrived complete with two green clad paramedic type women who quickly grasped the situation but were at a loss at what to do. They could take me to hospital where there was at least power and warmth but transferring me there would require another ambulance team to safely move me without the use of the hoist. Even incapacitated as I was this seemed a bit too much. The weather outside was treacherous and the emergency services were already stretched. The ambulance woman called the power company herself and put a flea in their ear.
By now our neighbours were anxiously hovering, alerted by the presence of the ambulance, and offering any help that they could. Then Polly had a brainwave. We could run an extension lead down from the top flat where there was electricity. Fortunately our next door neighbour was able to rummage in his company van and produce an industrial length cable which could be trailed three floors down and through our flat into our bedroom. Within a few minutes we had limited power again. My mattress began to re-inflate and my electric blanket began to warm up again. Crisis over. Or so we thought.
Polly said goodbye to the ambulance crew and apologised for having called them out. Oh no, they said cheerfully, it made a pleasant change from picking up drunk people who had slipped on the ice. They departed to fill in forms about the incident.
I'm not exactly sure what caused what happened next. I think the sudden changes in pressure, position and temperature had caused the sticky and frothy mucus in my rather abused lungs to foam into my mouth where due to the forced breaths from the ventilator I swallowed it and great mouthfuls of pressurised air. The contents of my stomach rebelled and a grim combination of semi-digested curry, mucus and medication came up in to my mouth. This would be nasty under any circumstances, but remember, my ventilator was forcing me to take regular breaths regardless of whether I was being sick at the time. I was in real danger of choking.
Polly took one look at me and came as close to panicking as she ever has with me. She made a dash for the front door and waved down the departing ambulance. Moments later the two ambulance women were back looking down at me anxiously. “Get some suction,” said one of them, and I suddenly felt like I was in an episode of Casualty. One of the crew admitted frankly they were a bit out of their depth. They took my sats (96% on the BiPap) and my blood pressure (slightly raised) and my temperature (normal) but since they didn't know what my baseline was they weren't sure how useful the information was. Still, it gave them something to do.
I kept being sick and they kept telling me not to breathe it into my lungs. It is generally agreed among medical folk that aspiration pneumonia is something to try and avoid – so I did. It wasn't easy but, as you will have gathered, I somehow managed. When there was nothing left in my stomach I finally stopped being sick. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Well, everyone except me; I sort of bubbled.
Once they were satisfied I wasn't going to expire the ambulance crew left to pick up more drunken ice-skaters. I drifted off to sleep leaving Polly to recover from a near nervous breakdown. “God, you're a lot of work,” I heard her mutter. Good job she loves me. The power came back on a couple of hours later. Apparently EDF relented and sent out an engineer. I woke up a few times during the night with a raging thirst but Polly would only let me sip a few drops of water for fear of me drowning or something.
I would like to thank the ambulance crew who were a reassuring presence and very patient. I would also like to thank our neighbours who rallied round and made a real difference. I am a fortunate fellow indeed to have so many people around me who are prepared to endure snow and freezing conditions to help.
This will probably be the last post before Christmas. This afternoon we are taking the boys to see Father Christmas at a local grotto and last night we took them to see Thumblina at the Charles Cryer Theatre in the village. After the events of Sunday night I'm grateful to be well enough to enjoy these seasonal experiences with them.
Merry Christmas to everyone kind enough to spend time reading this blog. I truly appreciate it. I'll try and squeeze in another post before the new year.
Seasons greetings. Until next time...
Thursday, 10 December 2009
The True Meaning Of Christmas
As any parent knows, 'tis the season to watch your children dress up as angels or shepherds or, in my case, angry chefs. Yes, I've been to see Sam in the infant school nativity play this afternoon. The age old story was told this year using the conceit of Ned the donkey seeking out the true meaning of Christmas.
There is something wonderful about sitting in a crowded school hall, searching the assembled ranks of costumed children, who are in turn searching the audience, for that spark of mutual recognition. The surreptitious wave, Sam's grin and the look of possessive joy and slight relief that daddy is there to see him perform will be a memory that forms one of those great pleasures of parenthood. He is dressed in black and white, wearing a chef's hat, and is only partially obscured by the piano. As Ned searches for the true meaning of Christmas, Sam and his band of angry chefs prove that the festive season is not all about food, with my boy delivering his one solo line, “With flour in my hair!” loudly and clearly. It is up to other parents children to dismiss toys and even Santa as being the essential element of Christmas but my attention is focussed on my child as he sings and dances his way towards the nativity. Eventually we learn that Christmas is about a baby, born in a stable and, as demanded by tradition and grandparents in the audience, Away in a Manger is sung.
Last week I trundled over to the school to see Matty in the junior school performance of Panto-Pandemonium, a witty subversion of traditional pantomime stories. Matty was a member of the vast choir that supported the big kids of year 6 who got to do all the acting. Next year Matty will be one of the big kids of year 6 and he is already angling for a major role. He lives in genuine terror that the school will change its tradition and next year the acting will be shared out amongst the years and as a result there will be less starring roles for him to audition for. Matty is determined to be an actor and sees next years Christmas show as his potential big break.
We are now well into the festive season as far as the school is concerned. Tomorrow the boys have their Christmas dinner. I may be persona non grata after Sam told his class that daddy says sprouts are the devil's food. Next week they have their class parties. Matty has to take six satsumas. I'm sending Sam with a bag of sprouts.
Until next time.
There is something wonderful about sitting in a crowded school hall, searching the assembled ranks of costumed children, who are in turn searching the audience, for that spark of mutual recognition. The surreptitious wave, Sam's grin and the look of possessive joy and slight relief that daddy is there to see him perform will be a memory that forms one of those great pleasures of parenthood. He is dressed in black and white, wearing a chef's hat, and is only partially obscured by the piano. As Ned searches for the true meaning of Christmas, Sam and his band of angry chefs prove that the festive season is not all about food, with my boy delivering his one solo line, “With flour in my hair!” loudly and clearly. It is up to other parents children to dismiss toys and even Santa as being the essential element of Christmas but my attention is focussed on my child as he sings and dances his way towards the nativity. Eventually we learn that Christmas is about a baby, born in a stable and, as demanded by tradition and grandparents in the audience, Away in a Manger is sung.
Last week I trundled over to the school to see Matty in the junior school performance of Panto-Pandemonium, a witty subversion of traditional pantomime stories. Matty was a member of the vast choir that supported the big kids of year 6 who got to do all the acting. Next year Matty will be one of the big kids of year 6 and he is already angling for a major role. He lives in genuine terror that the school will change its tradition and next year the acting will be shared out amongst the years and as a result there will be less starring roles for him to audition for. Matty is determined to be an actor and sees next years Christmas show as his potential big break.
We are now well into the festive season as far as the school is concerned. Tomorrow the boys have their Christmas dinner. I may be persona non grata after Sam told his class that daddy says sprouts are the devil's food. Next week they have their class parties. Matty has to take six satsumas. I'm sending Sam with a bag of sprouts.
Until next time.
Monday, 30 November 2009
Fair's Fair
Last Saturday was the school Christmas fair and it was all hands to the deck. A school fair is the Burn (Polly's maiden name) family's natural habitat. Despite being swamped in clown doctoring and Polly Mixturing, Polly somehow managed to find herself agreeing to design, make and wear a Polly's Pockets crinoline hooped dress covered in pockets for children to pick presents from. Of course, it was a huge amount of work, involving a temperamental sewing machine, some hula-hoops and yards of material, and quite a few late late nights, but the final result was thoroughly satisfactory.
Meanwhile, Pam, Polly's mum had agreed to run and stock Nanny's Stall. She had been collecting toys, ornaments and bits and bobs for months, as well as knitting cardigans at a prodigious rate. It took two car trips to transport the accumulated stock to the school.
On the day Polly and Pam disappeared off to the school early leaving me to sort out the boys. It turned out that it is easier to corral custard than get two boys ready to go out. You say, “we're leaving in five minutes. Have you got your shoes on?” They hear, “we're leaving in five minutes. You have time to start a computer game, build something large out of Lego, and have a pillow fight whilst bouncing on the bed.” It is a miracle to me that Polly ever gets them to school of a morning. Eventually they announced they were ready to go. Sam appeared dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. I sent him back to find some jeans and a warm top. He was indignant but reluctantly went back to change. He reappeared wearing a cardigan that had last fitted him when he was three. I sent him back to change again. Sam, with a perfectly straight face, denied that he had any other clothes.
Many minutes later we were on our way, walking across the local leisure centre's car park, when Sam announced he had forgotten to bring his purse which contained all his spending money. Back we went.
By the time we arrived at the school the fair was well under way. Polly was surrounded by a horde of small children handing over their 50p coins and rummaging in her many pockets to find presents. Pam was doing a roaring trade on Nanny's Stall. Hundreds of people were milling around. I retreated to a corner and hid.
My wheelchair allowed me to rise up and survey the scene. Occasionally the crowds would part to allow Sam, wielding a puff of pink candy-floss like a sticky magic sword, to pass through. Matty would appear periodically to beg more money to invest in trying to win the fastest Mario Kart lap on the Wii stall.
We're not sure yet how much was raised for the school at this years fair, but if the efforts of my family are anything to go by, it should be a lot.
Until next time.
Meanwhile, Pam, Polly's mum had agreed to run and stock Nanny's Stall. She had been collecting toys, ornaments and bits and bobs for months, as well as knitting cardigans at a prodigious rate. It took two car trips to transport the accumulated stock to the school.
On the day Polly and Pam disappeared off to the school early leaving me to sort out the boys. It turned out that it is easier to corral custard than get two boys ready to go out. You say, “we're leaving in five minutes. Have you got your shoes on?” They hear, “we're leaving in five minutes. You have time to start a computer game, build something large out of Lego, and have a pillow fight whilst bouncing on the bed.” It is a miracle to me that Polly ever gets them to school of a morning. Eventually they announced they were ready to go. Sam appeared dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. I sent him back to find some jeans and a warm top. He was indignant but reluctantly went back to change. He reappeared wearing a cardigan that had last fitted him when he was three. I sent him back to change again. Sam, with a perfectly straight face, denied that he had any other clothes.
Many minutes later we were on our way, walking across the local leisure centre's car park, when Sam announced he had forgotten to bring his purse which contained all his spending money. Back we went.
By the time we arrived at the school the fair was well under way. Polly was surrounded by a horde of small children handing over their 50p coins and rummaging in her many pockets to find presents. Pam was doing a roaring trade on Nanny's Stall. Hundreds of people were milling around. I retreated to a corner and hid.
My wheelchair allowed me to rise up and survey the scene. Occasionally the crowds would part to allow Sam, wielding a puff of pink candy-floss like a sticky magic sword, to pass through. Matty would appear periodically to beg more money to invest in trying to win the fastest Mario Kart lap on the Wii stall.
We're not sure yet how much was raised for the school at this years fair, but if the efforts of my family are anything to go by, it should be a lot.
Until next time.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Not Just Any Cake
During our foray to the pub on Friday (see last post), Bob and I made a tentative arrangement to go to the cinema this Monday. I remembered this on Monday morning and checked with Polly that this would okay and that she hadn't organized anything exciting, like the weekly food shop, and would need the car. Rather to my surprise she was delighted that I was going out and assured me she could manage, briefly, in my absence. Just as I was checking the listings and choosing between Saw VI and Zombieland she added that the boys would enjoy a trip out with their dad as well. I tried to explain that I thought Sam was a little young for the fiendish puzzles of Jigsaw, but if she was sure. . .
Which is how I ended up seeing Up in 3d with Bob, his wife Antoinette and Matty and Sam. Despite a severe lack of the undead and a complete absence of grotesque killer puzzles Up is a brilliant film and neither Matty or Sam bemoaned the shortage of blood. Instead we all sat entranced, enjoying a rare thing in the two a penny world of CGI animated output, a good story, well drawn characters who ooze humour, charm and warmth, and a whole series of comic set pieces that are both funny and visually pleasing, especially in 3d. I defy anybody not to love Dug, the Golden Retriever.
When I got home with two burger-stuffed boys, way past their bedtime, I found a sightly fractious wife. Polly had been baking a cake. Now it must be said that Polly is an excellent cook and has baked countless cakes over the years. This cake, however, is a cake with baggage, a cake with history. This is the Deal family Christmas cake, a recipe handed down the generations. This is the cake that until this year my mother has made every year for as many Christmases as I can remember. A cake that is so complicated and takes so long to prepare that my mother can no longer stand to bake it. I mean that literally, mum has arthritis. The mantle has now passed to Polly. It had taken her over three and a half hours to mix and prepare. Muttering grimly about 'your family' she told me she would have to set the alarm to go off at 1:30am to take it out of the oven after its five and a half hour baking time. She swears that next year she will make a chocolate log but I'm sure she will have calmed down by next October.
At 1:30am the alarm went off and Polly staggered into the kitchen. I was asleep before she crawled back to bed. I learned in the morning that the cake needed to cool a further 40 minutes before it could be removed from the tin.
All I can say is that it is a VERY nice cake. It has to be decorated in a certain way too, but I'll mention that next time I go to the cinema.
Until next time...
Which is how I ended up seeing Up in 3d with Bob, his wife Antoinette and Matty and Sam. Despite a severe lack of the undead and a complete absence of grotesque killer puzzles Up is a brilliant film and neither Matty or Sam bemoaned the shortage of blood. Instead we all sat entranced, enjoying a rare thing in the two a penny world of CGI animated output, a good story, well drawn characters who ooze humour, charm and warmth, and a whole series of comic set pieces that are both funny and visually pleasing, especially in 3d. I defy anybody not to love Dug, the Golden Retriever.
When I got home with two burger-stuffed boys, way past their bedtime, I found a sightly fractious wife. Polly had been baking a cake. Now it must be said that Polly is an excellent cook and has baked countless cakes over the years. This cake, however, is a cake with baggage, a cake with history. This is the Deal family Christmas cake, a recipe handed down the generations. This is the cake that until this year my mother has made every year for as many Christmases as I can remember. A cake that is so complicated and takes so long to prepare that my mother can no longer stand to bake it. I mean that literally, mum has arthritis. The mantle has now passed to Polly. It had taken her over three and a half hours to mix and prepare. Muttering grimly about 'your family' she told me she would have to set the alarm to go off at 1:30am to take it out of the oven after its five and a half hour baking time. She swears that next year she will make a chocolate log but I'm sure she will have calmed down by next October.
At 1:30am the alarm went off and Polly staggered into the kitchen. I was asleep before she crawled back to bed. I learned in the morning that the cake needed to cool a further 40 minutes before it could be removed from the tin.
All I can say is that it is a VERY nice cake. It has to be decorated in a certain way too, but I'll mention that next time I go to the cinema.
Until next time...
Thursday, 1 January 2009
It's Lovely - Did You Keep The Receipt?
Happy New Year.
It's been a long week. Christmas day seems a long time ago now. And the dust has finally settled. In my defence I would like to say that I have a pretty good record of present giving. In the last few months we've had a 15th wedding anniversary (perfume) and a 40th birthday (artwork) and now Christmas. I gave Polly some magic tricks that she wanted for her clown doctoring and the latest book in the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series that she loves. I also gave her a Tefal ActiFry Low Fat Electric Fryer. She took one look at it and said, “Oh lovely, a chip pan.” There was a pause while icicles formed before she asked, “did you keep the receipt?” Apparently what I really meant to give her was some rather expensive face cream.
We spent Christmas day at my brother Simon's house where the Deal clan had gathered. My sister-in-law Jaspreet had prepared a fabulous dinner of which the centre piece was a 5 bird roast which as best I can work out consisted of a fresh Turkey breast, stuffed with Chicken, stuffed with Duck, stuffed with Guinea Fowl, stuffed with Wood Pigeon. The boys were in ecstasy having received from overly indulgent relatives various electronic games machines including a Wii Fit, Nintendo DS's and joy of joys, a Playstation 3. Even as I write Matty is busy playing with. . . some Lego. (Some toys are timeless.)
Polly gave me a beautiful print by a local artist of Carshalton pond and a Bill Bailey DVD. Among other wonderful and generous gifts, I received from my sister Helena and brother-in-law Andrew a gadget designed especially with me in mind, a Sony Reader. I now can carry an entire library with me at all times. I find I can read much faster when I don't have to fiddle with turning pages. Wonderful.
Boxing day was delightfully quiet but of course not everything has gone smoothly. Kalapo, one of my regular carers has gone home to Nigeria for Christmas and Godfrey, the other regular, has been very unwell. As I result I've been left with two sweet, but rather scatty women, neither of whom have a full grasp of English (or indeed caring). The week has been full of perilously dangerous transfers and shrieks of “Polly, Polly, come help. Quick!” I've run out of ways to explain how to fit the foot-plates to the wheelchair and I've been too scared to have a shower all week. Carlotta saying “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” is no compensation for a broken leg.
Today, New Years day, we forsook the carers and Polly got me up and gave me a much needed shower in half the time that the women take to give me a wash. So I've started 2009 all clean and shiny. My new years resolution is to only buy Polly presents that don't cook food.
It's been a long week. Christmas day seems a long time ago now. And the dust has finally settled. In my defence I would like to say that I have a pretty good record of present giving. In the last few months we've had a 15th wedding anniversary (perfume) and a 40th birthday (artwork) and now Christmas. I gave Polly some magic tricks that she wanted for her clown doctoring and the latest book in the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series that she loves. I also gave her a Tefal ActiFry Low Fat Electric Fryer. She took one look at it and said, “Oh lovely, a chip pan.” There was a pause while icicles formed before she asked, “did you keep the receipt?” Apparently what I really meant to give her was some rather expensive face cream.
We spent Christmas day at my brother Simon's house where the Deal clan had gathered. My sister-in-law Jaspreet had prepared a fabulous dinner of which the centre piece was a 5 bird roast which as best I can work out consisted of a fresh Turkey breast, stuffed with Chicken, stuffed with Duck, stuffed with Guinea Fowl, stuffed with Wood Pigeon. The boys were in ecstasy having received from overly indulgent relatives various electronic games machines including a Wii Fit, Nintendo DS's and joy of joys, a Playstation 3. Even as I write Matty is busy playing with. . . some Lego. (Some toys are timeless.)
Polly gave me a beautiful print by a local artist of Carshalton pond and a Bill Bailey DVD. Among other wonderful and generous gifts, I received from my sister Helena and brother-in-law Andrew a gadget designed especially with me in mind, a Sony Reader. I now can carry an entire library with me at all times. I find I can read much faster when I don't have to fiddle with turning pages. Wonderful.
Boxing day was delightfully quiet but of course not everything has gone smoothly. Kalapo, one of my regular carers has gone home to Nigeria for Christmas and Godfrey, the other regular, has been very unwell. As I result I've been left with two sweet, but rather scatty women, neither of whom have a full grasp of English (or indeed caring). The week has been full of perilously dangerous transfers and shrieks of “Polly, Polly, come help. Quick!” I've run out of ways to explain how to fit the foot-plates to the wheelchair and I've been too scared to have a shower all week. Carlotta saying “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” is no compensation for a broken leg.
Today, New Years day, we forsook the carers and Polly got me up and gave me a much needed shower in half the time that the women take to give me a wash. So I've started 2009 all clean and shiny. My new years resolution is to only buy Polly presents that don't cook food.
Wednesday, 24 December 2008
Merry Christmas And The Most Dangerous Service Of The Year
It is Christmas eve and the big day hurtles towards us like a runaway snowball. I have two small boys who are wound up to fever pitch and vibrating with excitement. So much so, that if I could find a way to harness the energy they are emitting the world fuel crisis could be averted.
We've just come home from the most dangerous church service of the year, Christingle. For those of you not familiar with this peculiarly Anglican service, it's a children's carol service involving flaming oranges. Imagine 3 or 400 people, many of them children, holding oranges with lit candles stuck in the top, and waving them around whilst singing Away In A Manger. I make it my business to sit as near to a fire exit as possible. I'm pleased to announce that once again this year there was no fatal conflagration.
Matty and Sam took part in the nativity play as a king and a shepherd respectively. Sam ran down the aisle shouting “We're going to Bethlehem to see the bay-beee!” Very sweet.
Thank you for reading 'How To Be An Inspiration`. Assuming I survive the next few days I'll try and post again on or around New Years eve.
Merry Christmas to everyone reading this, what ever your faith or personal belief. Above all, let this be a time of peace for you. Even if you have children.
We've just come home from the most dangerous church service of the year, Christingle. For those of you not familiar with this peculiarly Anglican service, it's a children's carol service involving flaming oranges. Imagine 3 or 400 people, many of them children, holding oranges with lit candles stuck in the top, and waving them around whilst singing Away In A Manger. I make it my business to sit as near to a fire exit as possible. I'm pleased to announce that once again this year there was no fatal conflagration.
Matty and Sam took part in the nativity play as a king and a shepherd respectively. Sam ran down the aisle shouting “We're going to Bethlehem to see the bay-beee!” Very sweet.
Thank you for reading 'How To Be An Inspiration`. Assuming I survive the next few days I'll try and post again on or around New Years eve.
Merry Christmas to everyone reading this, what ever your faith or personal belief. Above all, let this be a time of peace for you. Even if you have children.
Saturday, 20 December 2008
A Weird Day
I wasn't intending on posting today but Sam made me laugh.
With fairness in mind the boys alternate opening the Advent calendar. Obviously the aim is to be the one who opens the double sized window on Christmas eve. Sam was delighted, and not a little surprised, when Matty graciously said he could go first.
And so the pattern was established, Sam opening on the odd numbered days and Matty opening on the even. Sam takes his duty very seriously but sometimes loses track of who's turn it is. Which is why I was puzzled and then amused when he came bounding up to me today asking, “Daddy, is today a weird day?” He was disappointed when I told him it wasn't.
With fairness in mind the boys alternate opening the Advent calendar. Obviously the aim is to be the one who opens the double sized window on Christmas eve. Sam was delighted, and not a little surprised, when Matty graciously said he could go first.
And so the pattern was established, Sam opening on the odd numbered days and Matty opening on the even. Sam takes his duty very seriously but sometimes loses track of who's turn it is. Which is why I was puzzled and then amused when he came bounding up to me today asking, “Daddy, is today a weird day?” He was disappointed when I told him it wasn't.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
The Christmas Fairy Monologue
[BRENDA, A RATHER TIRED AND BATTERED FAIRY, IS BUSY MENDING HER BROKEN WAND. SHE IS HUMMING 'DING DONG MERRILY ON HIGH' CHEERFULLY WHILST TYING HERSELF UP IN STICKY TAPE.]
BRENDA:
La la la la la la, hosanna in the highest. There! [SHE HOLDS UP A RATHER WONKY WAND.] Now where's that tiara?
[SHE TRYS TO PUT DOWN THE WAND BUT IT IS STUCK TO HER HAND.]
Oh hello. No, don't mind me, I'm nearly done.
[SHE HOLDS UP A HAND MIRROR AND ADJUSTS THE TIARA.]
Does that look straight to you?
[SHE PICKS UP A CHRISTMAS CARD.]
Ah, look at this. A card from Cinderella. "Dear Brenda, Merry Christmas, love Cinders and Charming. XXX. PS. Please can you send me your recipe for Pumpkin pie."
What palaver hey? Every year it's the same. The sound of the last firework dies away and Asda is discounting mince pies on the telly. Wham, bam, thank you mam, it's the festive season. Mind you, you won't hear me complaining. It may only be seasonal work but being the fairy on top of the Christmas tree is a lot better than scraping a living collecting children's teeth from under pillows. People go round sticking Fluoride in toothpaste but they don't think of the consequences. There are those of us for whom bad teeth are a source of income.
Being the fairy on top of the Christmas tree is dead brill. For a start you get a good view of what's going on. And don't it go on.
First there's all that business with Father Christmas. What's that all about, hey? A fat bloke in a red suit squeezes his way down the chimney and leaves a load of stuff. The first time I saw him I thought he was a fly-tipper.
I had a peek one year. Do you know he arrives on a flying sleigh? It's only got one light and that's red. It's stuck on the nose of a reindeer. That can't be legal.
Oh and them poor elves he has. He never lets them have a swig of the sherry people leave out for him. Mind you, it's probably a good thing. They're vicious when they're drunk.
Do you like my wings? I'm not sure myself. I think they make my bum look big.
I want a figure like that fashion doll they gave the little girl here last year. Ooh she was lovely. She had long golden hair and fabulous clothes. She was 44-18-24. Look at me, 44-44-44. Well it comes from being made out of the inside of a toilet roll.
You wouldn't believe the turkey the family has bought. It's the size of a small caravan. They always buy too much. No one needs a hundred weight of Brussels Sprouts. Not even in Belgium.
That's the thing about Christmas. Everyone does things to excess. Have you seen outside? They've put up some outdoor decorations. There are so many lights out there a jumbo jet landed on the garage roof.
And what about this tree I'm supposed to sit on. It's huge. There's still a family of squirrels hibernating in the trunk. It's got so many baubles hanging off it it looks like a pawnbrokers convention. And it's got those fairy lights that flash and play music. It's going to be like sitting on top of a high pitched discotheque.
Still, I shouldn't complain. It's that lot in the corner I feel sorry for. Apparently it's called a crib scene. Now I have to be honest, for quite a while I didn't realise that it had anything to do with Christmas. But I've been talking to one of the camels and he explained it all to me.
It seems there's a baby over there. It's in a manger. Apparently it's his birthday. The poor thing, fancy being born at Christmas when there's so much going on.
Anyway, according to the camel, Mum and Dad couldn't find anywhere to stop and have the baby. They obviously hadn't booked in advance which is what you should do in the holiday season. And so they ended up in a stable. It's very picturesque, just not very hygienic.
So then, the baby is born and next thing they know all these people start appearing. There's a whole load of shepherds complete with sheep. There's a donkey and then three kings turned up on camels bearing gifts. The kings not the camels. Gold, frankincense and fur. It should be myrrh but that broke off a few years back and when they tried to glue it back on - the cat got in the way. On top of all this there are several angels and a whopping great big star made out of bottle tops.
I feel sorry the child, I really do. He's dragged out every Christmas and made a fuss of. Then before you know it he's back in a box and shoved up out of the way in the attic. You never have a chance to get to know him. It's a pity because I get the feeling there's a whole lot more to him than a guest slot in the school nativity and a chorus of 'Away in a Manger'.
Right, it's time to climb the tree. I hope they've got one of those non-drop ones. Those pine needles get everywhere.
Stephen Deal, 1998
BRENDA:
La la la la la la, hosanna in the highest. There! [SHE HOLDS UP A RATHER WONKY WAND.] Now where's that tiara?
[SHE TRYS TO PUT DOWN THE WAND BUT IT IS STUCK TO HER HAND.]
Oh hello. No, don't mind me, I'm nearly done.
[SHE HOLDS UP A HAND MIRROR AND ADJUSTS THE TIARA.]
Does that look straight to you?
[SHE PICKS UP A CHRISTMAS CARD.]
Ah, look at this. A card from Cinderella. "Dear Brenda, Merry Christmas, love Cinders and Charming. XXX. PS. Please can you send me your recipe for Pumpkin pie."
What palaver hey? Every year it's the same. The sound of the last firework dies away and Asda is discounting mince pies on the telly. Wham, bam, thank you mam, it's the festive season. Mind you, you won't hear me complaining. It may only be seasonal work but being the fairy on top of the Christmas tree is a lot better than scraping a living collecting children's teeth from under pillows. People go round sticking Fluoride in toothpaste but they don't think of the consequences. There are those of us for whom bad teeth are a source of income.
Being the fairy on top of the Christmas tree is dead brill. For a start you get a good view of what's going on. And don't it go on.
First there's all that business with Father Christmas. What's that all about, hey? A fat bloke in a red suit squeezes his way down the chimney and leaves a load of stuff. The first time I saw him I thought he was a fly-tipper.
I had a peek one year. Do you know he arrives on a flying sleigh? It's only got one light and that's red. It's stuck on the nose of a reindeer. That can't be legal.
Oh and them poor elves he has. He never lets them have a swig of the sherry people leave out for him. Mind you, it's probably a good thing. They're vicious when they're drunk.
Do you like my wings? I'm not sure myself. I think they make my bum look big.
I want a figure like that fashion doll they gave the little girl here last year. Ooh she was lovely. She had long golden hair and fabulous clothes. She was 44-18-24. Look at me, 44-44-44. Well it comes from being made out of the inside of a toilet roll.
You wouldn't believe the turkey the family has bought. It's the size of a small caravan. They always buy too much. No one needs a hundred weight of Brussels Sprouts. Not even in Belgium.
That's the thing about Christmas. Everyone does things to excess. Have you seen outside? They've put up some outdoor decorations. There are so many lights out there a jumbo jet landed on the garage roof.
And what about this tree I'm supposed to sit on. It's huge. There's still a family of squirrels hibernating in the trunk. It's got so many baubles hanging off it it looks like a pawnbrokers convention. And it's got those fairy lights that flash and play music. It's going to be like sitting on top of a high pitched discotheque.
Still, I shouldn't complain. It's that lot in the corner I feel sorry for. Apparently it's called a crib scene. Now I have to be honest, for quite a while I didn't realise that it had anything to do with Christmas. But I've been talking to one of the camels and he explained it all to me.
It seems there's a baby over there. It's in a manger. Apparently it's his birthday. The poor thing, fancy being born at Christmas when there's so much going on.
Anyway, according to the camel, Mum and Dad couldn't find anywhere to stop and have the baby. They obviously hadn't booked in advance which is what you should do in the holiday season. And so they ended up in a stable. It's very picturesque, just not very hygienic.
So then, the baby is born and next thing they know all these people start appearing. There's a whole load of shepherds complete with sheep. There's a donkey and then three kings turned up on camels bearing gifts. The kings not the camels. Gold, frankincense and fur. It should be myrrh but that broke off a few years back and when they tried to glue it back on - the cat got in the way. On top of all this there are several angels and a whopping great big star made out of bottle tops.
I feel sorry the child, I really do. He's dragged out every Christmas and made a fuss of. Then before you know it he's back in a box and shoved up out of the way in the attic. You never have a chance to get to know him. It's a pity because I get the feeling there's a whole lot more to him than a guest slot in the school nativity and a chorus of 'Away in a Manger'.
Right, it's time to climb the tree. I hope they've got one of those non-drop ones. Those pine needles get everywhere.
Stephen Deal, 1998
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
Dear Mary - A Christmas Letter
Dear Mary,
Oh my poor, poor girl. A stable! I’m so sorry. It sounds like a nightmare. I just thank God that the baby is okay. Jesus is a lovely name but what happened to calling him Immanuel?
I’m not sure that it’s right that you should be entertaining guests so soon. Did you make sure those shepherds washed? I read somewhere that sheep carry all sorts of diseases. As for Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh - What kind of gifts are they for a newborn? And they call themselves wise. Men! Where is Orient R anyway?
Regarding the problem with the bright star all I can suggest is that you make sure the shutters are firmly closed at night. You must make sure you get a few good nights sleep.
I can’t wait to see the baby. A newborn always give hope for the future.
Write soon dear and give my love to Joe.
Love,
Mum
PS. Did you get the swaddling cloth I sent? I’m knitting you a shawl. It’s blue.
Oh my poor, poor girl. A stable! I’m so sorry. It sounds like a nightmare. I just thank God that the baby is okay. Jesus is a lovely name but what happened to calling him Immanuel?
I’m not sure that it’s right that you should be entertaining guests so soon. Did you make sure those shepherds washed? I read somewhere that sheep carry all sorts of diseases. As for Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh - What kind of gifts are they for a newborn? And they call themselves wise. Men! Where is Orient R anyway?
Regarding the problem with the bright star all I can suggest is that you make sure the shutters are firmly closed at night. You must make sure you get a few good nights sleep.
I can’t wait to see the baby. A newborn always give hope for the future.
Write soon dear and give my love to Joe.
Love,
Mum
PS. Did you get the swaddling cloth I sent? I’m knitting you a shawl. It’s blue.
Saturday, 6 December 2008
Escape To The North Pole
Yesterday, Polly and I picked the boys up from school and we all headed to the North Pole. The North Pole had temporarily relocated to a garden centre a few miles away, although Sam maintained with absolute certainty that it was usually located west of Africa. Matty was less than enthusiastic about the adventure, maintaining that both the North Pole and garden centres were boring.
Matty's attitude changed markedly when he saw that we were following signs to Santa's Grotto. At 8, Matty is beginning to harbour uncertainty about the whole Father Christmas mythology, but faced with the prospect of a face to face encounter decided to hedge his bets and repent his doubts and embrace the fable. An elf at a cash register welcomed us and invited the children to meet Santa. As we entered the grotto a sign read '2 hours queuing time from this point' and a winding path led off to the left. Fortunately our quick escape from school meant we were ahead of the crowds and the grotto was, for the most part empty. We wound our way along the path, pausing to admire animatronic elves preparing for Christmas, making and wrapping presents with mechanical efficiency while others played seasonal musak and loaded a sleigh. All good fun but I confess to being relieved we weren't enjoying them for 2 hours.
Eventually we reached a sign declaring '10 minutes queuing time from here` and joined the line of excited children. Every few minutes an elf, slightly self conscious in his green elven attire, would open a door and beckon the next group into Santa's living room. Some long 10 minutes later it was our turn.
A suitably convincing Father Christmas, resplendently bearded, greeted the boys and determined if they'd been naughty or good. Assured of their saintliness he enquired after their
preferences regarding presents but was thankfully vague about the likelihood of them receiving anything specific. He posed with the boys for a couple of photographs and finally, prompted by the elf, doled out presents, before the busy elf ushered us out from the North Pole and back into the garden centre.
After a much needed cup of coffee, during which the boys unwrapped their gifts and discovered that they both had age appropriate construction sets, we followed signs to Santa's Reindeer. The reindeer were in a high security enclosure, having last year made a bid for freedom, escaping to be found grazing on a round-about a mile or so away on Christmas day. This lot were going nowhere. I was surprised not to see gun turrets. After a few minutes of watching them eat carrots and forge identity documents we headed for home, humming the theme tune to The Great Escape.
Matty's attitude changed markedly when he saw that we were following signs to Santa's Grotto. At 8, Matty is beginning to harbour uncertainty about the whole Father Christmas mythology, but faced with the prospect of a face to face encounter decided to hedge his bets and repent his doubts and embrace the fable. An elf at a cash register welcomed us and invited the children to meet Santa. As we entered the grotto a sign read '2 hours queuing time from this point' and a winding path led off to the left. Fortunately our quick escape from school meant we were ahead of the crowds and the grotto was, for the most part empty. We wound our way along the path, pausing to admire animatronic elves preparing for Christmas, making and wrapping presents with mechanical efficiency while others played seasonal musak and loaded a sleigh. All good fun but I confess to being relieved we weren't enjoying them for 2 hours.
Eventually we reached a sign declaring '10 minutes queuing time from here` and joined the line of excited children. Every few minutes an elf, slightly self conscious in his green elven attire, would open a door and beckon the next group into Santa's living room. Some long 10 minutes later it was our turn.
A suitably convincing Father Christmas, resplendently bearded, greeted the boys and determined if they'd been naughty or good. Assured of their saintliness he enquired after their
preferences regarding presents but was thankfully vague about the likelihood of them receiving anything specific. He posed with the boys for a couple of photographs and finally, prompted by the elf, doled out presents, before the busy elf ushered us out from the North Pole and back into the garden centre.
After a much needed cup of coffee, during which the boys unwrapped their gifts and discovered that they both had age appropriate construction sets, we followed signs to Santa's Reindeer. The reindeer were in a high security enclosure, having last year made a bid for freedom, escaping to be found grazing on a round-about a mile or so away on Christmas day. This lot were going nowhere. I was surprised not to see gun turrets. After a few minutes of watching them eat carrots and forge identity documents we headed for home, humming the theme tune to The Great Escape.
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