Today I have enjoyed the delights of blueberries popping as I bit into the muffins my daughter made, and shared them with my pixie of a granddaughter, a child I never thought I would see and for whom I have a close affinity. We not only look alike, at least as I looked as a child, slender and rather fragile, but share the same brittle bone condition. I am determined she will not suffer the same fate as myself, being defined by the condition and limited because of it.
She is beautiful, as most children are, with an impish look and temperament that closely replicates her mother's and therefore the ability to give masterclasses in tantrum and sulk. That they will clash is all ready evident, and I have had to mediate, but Pixie's fire gives me hope that she will give a good account of herself and not be any one's fool, unlike her grandmother.
There is so much character in the sideways glances and snatched looks, beneath luxurious eyelashes, and an ego that finds itself already struggling with the physical limitations and immaturity of being two years old and wanting to delve into every nook and cranny. I see the individual differences in interaction between her and mum and dad. As they pass each other, Daddy says "Hi" and Pixie responds in the same tone and pitch, they nod to each other, each mirroring the other. With Mummy there is the same unforced response but, for me, the bemusing sight of a mini me and her grown up twin - the same volatility and passion mixed with a great tenderness. The ability to evoke both great love and exasperation.
Given the headlong descent into apparent self destruction that characterised Mummy's teenage years - there came a time when she was nineteen when I resigned myself to the possibility that I would lose a child young - I had given up hope of her living into her twenties let alone that she would ever be a mother.
She was never going to have children, she couldn't cope with the competition, particularly of a daughter, and felt she would be a terrible mother.
The truth of course is that not only is she a very good mother but has found a depth of maternalism that has astounded her. She has almost literally given her life to deliver her children and, sometimes, works far too hard being SuperMum.
I pondered all this while trying to prevent Pixie from getting blueberry all over herself, it stains so tenaciously. It could be a metaphor for the deep embedding of Pixie into my being and the brio she spreads as freely as crumbs and juice.
Monday 31 March 2008
Sunday 30 March 2008
the lost hour
Can't help it, folks, but this losing of an hour each year,especially as one gets older, is no joke.
It always leaves me feeling cheated and more groggy than usual when I wake up on this particular Sunday morning. Who is this suppose to benefit? Farmers these days seem to work whether its light or not, and have big searchlights if they need it. School children don't care whether it's light or dark if/when they make their way to/from school - it's going to be one way or another after all.
So, what is it all about? When we were fighting for our lives and needed every hour of daylight to plough and sow; when we couldn't use headlights or street lamps then this all made sense, economically and in safety terms, but now?
Of course, we all live in different time zones, whether geographically or mentally, but it would help if at least within the confines of this country we didnot have to go through this twice a year - constantly quoting to ourselves, or trying to remember, spring forward and fall back - and then being unsure whether we have it the right way round.
My children, all adults seemingly, still wait for a message from me reminding them about the change, because for goodness sake they couldn't remember it themselves could they? Apparently not because on more than one occasion, when I didn't nudge their memories, they have lived life an hour behind the rest of us trying to make sense of the discrepancy, so they have no need to scoff.
However, this time I sent the message and then an hour later, after consideration, realised I had made the basic error and had to swallow my pride and admit my mistake, all excused on the grounds that I'm becoming gaga, and send another text.
It will be interesting to find out which member of staff arrived an hour late this year. I do know that overseas workers find it bemusing to say the least. If we can't work it out or explain it what chance do they have?
It always leaves me feeling cheated and more groggy than usual when I wake up on this particular Sunday morning. Who is this suppose to benefit? Farmers these days seem to work whether its light or not, and have big searchlights if they need it. School children don't care whether it's light or dark if/when they make their way to/from school - it's going to be one way or another after all.
So, what is it all about? When we were fighting for our lives and needed every hour of daylight to plough and sow; when we couldn't use headlights or street lamps then this all made sense, economically and in safety terms, but now?
Of course, we all live in different time zones, whether geographically or mentally, but it would help if at least within the confines of this country we didnot have to go through this twice a year - constantly quoting to ourselves, or trying to remember, spring forward and fall back - and then being unsure whether we have it the right way round.
My children, all adults seemingly, still wait for a message from me reminding them about the change, because for goodness sake they couldn't remember it themselves could they? Apparently not because on more than one occasion, when I didn't nudge their memories, they have lived life an hour behind the rest of us trying to make sense of the discrepancy, so they have no need to scoff.
However, this time I sent the message and then an hour later, after consideration, realised I had made the basic error and had to swallow my pride and admit my mistake, all excused on the grounds that I'm becoming gaga, and send another text.
It will be interesting to find out which member of staff arrived an hour late this year. I do know that overseas workers find it bemusing to say the least. If we can't work it out or explain it what chance do they have?
Saturday 29 March 2008
the return2
Dear Blog - after all you do seem to have become an entity to me - I returned to work to find that nothing had changed and the work load was heavier than ever. Now, before you tell me off for moaning, where else can I whinge, legitimately, if not here. One of the residents, now deceased, used to say it was alright living longer and being well cared for but it was at the cost of wearing the carers out in the process!
Nothing runs to schedule when there are four of us and twentyfour of them and a significant proportion of them need intensive care from all hands. Monday to Friday there are five on care but, for some obscure reason, there is this idea that everything eases up at the weekend so we can do with less staff. The truth is that we have exactly the same work load and extras like marketing to fit in. The official answer is that "this is how it always is in care and no one works with a full staff quota at weekends" - yet, the expectation is that standards will not be compromised and we will plough on regardless. It's damned hard work and not difficult to understand why recruitment and retention is such an ongoing issue.
However, I have now been at home for a little while and had chance to defuse myself so ought to have a more positive outlook even if there is precious little energy. I have fought the desire to go and have a nap as something that wastes time and is inefficient but having checked my emails, my ebay and facebook I am running out of excuses. The time of chopping and slicing approaches and then getting into bed with a crossword and something mind numbing on digital tv and I might feel a little more human.
Nothing runs to schedule when there are four of us and twentyfour of them and a significant proportion of them need intensive care from all hands. Monday to Friday there are five on care but, for some obscure reason, there is this idea that everything eases up at the weekend so we can do with less staff. The truth is that we have exactly the same work load and extras like marketing to fit in. The official answer is that "this is how it always is in care and no one works with a full staff quota at weekends" - yet, the expectation is that standards will not be compromised and we will plough on regardless. It's damned hard work and not difficult to understand why recruitment and retention is such an ongoing issue.
However, I have now been at home for a little while and had chance to defuse myself so ought to have a more positive outlook even if there is precious little energy. I have fought the desire to go and have a nap as something that wastes time and is inefficient but having checked my emails, my ebay and facebook I am running out of excuses. The time of chopping and slicing approaches and then getting into bed with a crossword and something mind numbing on digital tv and I might feel a little more human.
Thursday 27 March 2008
The return
Well, I have returned home and I swear that the next set of days off I get I am going to go somewhere on my own.
I love my family dearly but I don't think I can stand the stress anymore!
I have missed you, dear Blog, and the self discipline you invoke in me.
This has been four days of flu, stress, more flu and more stress with me in the middle trying to keep everyone on an even keel. Now, it's back to work tomorrow and I am absolutely wrecked but at least I have some topics for the blogs to come.
For now, I am off to bed, to get something approximating to a decent night's sleep,with my melange of fruit and veg. and a word puzzle, to try and attain some sort of equilibrium again. Must remember the 14 points of articulation......
I love my family dearly but I don't think I can stand the stress anymore!
I have missed you, dear Blog, and the self discipline you invoke in me.
This has been four days of flu, stress, more flu and more stress with me in the middle trying to keep everyone on an even keel. Now, it's back to work tomorrow and I am absolutely wrecked but at least I have some topics for the blogs to come.
For now, I am off to bed, to get something approximating to a decent night's sleep,with my melange of fruit and veg. and a word puzzle, to try and attain some sort of equilibrium again. Must remember the 14 points of articulation......
Sunday 23 March 2008
The wrong button
I have racked my brains ......Damn! Now would you believe, I have caught a wrong button, just the merest pressure, and lost all I have written. I was going to say that I have found it difficult to decide on a topic for today, especially as I shall be away from the laptop for four days. No doubt themes will occur during that time and, given the nature of my family, they will be many and varied.
This is by way of a coda to my first series of blogs and has been an excellent exercise in daily discipline and overcoming my inability to compose at the keyboard.
My next test is to transpose work I have already drafted in longhand.
More immediately, I must gear myself up for today's shift and coping with a member of staff noted for her ability to not only talk but also slow down the pace dangerously. This needs careful handling and planned strategy otherwise the work load falls on the backs of the rest of us instead of being shared.
So, Blog, until the next time.....
This is by way of a coda to my first series of blogs and has been an excellent exercise in daily discipline and overcoming my inability to compose at the keyboard.
My next test is to transpose work I have already drafted in longhand.
More immediately, I must gear myself up for today's shift and coping with a member of staff noted for her ability to not only talk but also slow down the pace dangerously. This needs careful handling and planned strategy otherwise the work load falls on the backs of the rest of us instead of being shared.
So, Blog, until the next time.....
Saturday 22 March 2008
A good childhood?
The Children's Society are conducting research into what constitutes a good childhood and inviting reminiscences from past generations as well as today's. It got me wondering about my own childhood and that of my children and grandchildren.
I suppose my childhood was privileged in many ways, both in terms of a lot of my contemporaries and todays' children. It didn't seem like it at the time and,by today's standards, I suppose that materially it might seem fairly deprived, but where it differed from a lot of my contemporaries was that because we lived with my mother's parents security came from several sources. I had my own room; we kept pigs and chickens so ham and eggs weren't scarce; my grandmother dealt in second hand goods, mostly clothes and books etc., so I was dressed in Ladybird clothing, used but in good condition, right from the start, and there was a large kitchen garden with apples,pears, soft fruits and vegetables. There was room to roam and play and grandma's ragbag provided me with endless dressing up possibilities. There was also an endless supply of comics, both boys and girls, and classic books. The house was never empty and the door open to a varied selection of callers: some to do with my grandma's business, some were family, sometimes neighbours in for a chat and a barter - Mrs Jackson next door made ice cream in the summer and used our eggs or gave us Staffordshire oatcakes and pikelets in winter - and motorists paying their rents on the garages at the end of the yard.
Like most children, though, I was only dimly aware, at that time, that not everyone lived as we did and given that my father worked a brick making machine, only the extended family setup gave us the extras.
Where my childhood might be construed as lacking was that there were few other children living around us. I had to be taken to play with other little girls unless cousins visited. I don't remember feeling lonely but I suppose my preference for being with older people stems from this time. There were two children living across the road, in a row of dilapidated cottages, twins with an Italian father and English mother, but my grandfather disapproved of my consorting with them - not because of Italy's role in the war but because the father was a jail bird. It didn't always stop me playing mud pies with them though.
However, the fact was circumstances and choice meant that I was in the company of adults most of the time. Even school didn't redress the balance as it took me ages to settle. I hated leaving my mother and with fractures and such a great deal of my general knowledge was acquired from the books supplied to me by gran at home.
I have never known again the warmth and security I felt, when ill, of being tucked up in front of a blazing fire, a rich comforting mug of Sister Laura's food in reach, and a pile of comics, annuals. and picture books to occupy me.
My children knew a different sort of environment - a new council estate with a lot of the modern conveniences not available to my family when I was small.
Sophisticated technology was starting to impact on most peoples lives. A wider range of people and experiences influenced their development and there were more children around. We were the nuclear family, living in our own four walls, albeit rented, and living on what was in effect a more restricted income than my parents. Grandparents still helped to make up the shortfall but not so much in terms of their daily presence.
Now I have five grandchildren experiencing, in many respects, a childhood that, materially, would have seemed unachievable fifty five years ago. Three of them have already moved home several times due to dad's job. They have flown and lived life in the sun, gone to school in three countries, become almost casual about travelling and never known life with outdoor plumbing or being in close contact with their food.
My two granddaughters have graduates for parents, a home that belongs to those parents and already know, as do their cousins, how to operate keyboards and digital this and that.
The other great change is in the fluid nature of family relationships. I lived in an extended family but the relationships were relatively simple and stable. Today, children, including my grandchildren, have to untangle the complex web of family connections where both sets of grandparents are divorced and "step-grandparents" are part of the set up. Where aunties and uncles may not stay in the same combinations.
Whose childhood is better? Materially, I suspect, theirs by miles, but having space and opportunity to indulge and develop imagination, time to consider,a lack of pressure to react and a greater degree of certainty then, maybe, mine.
The truth is that all is relative and, while I can see where their childhoods could have been bettered, they would probably regard mine as boring and restrictive in its opportunities and lack of what are now regarded as common place necessities.
I suppose my childhood was privileged in many ways, both in terms of a lot of my contemporaries and todays' children. It didn't seem like it at the time and,by today's standards, I suppose that materially it might seem fairly deprived, but where it differed from a lot of my contemporaries was that because we lived with my mother's parents security came from several sources. I had my own room; we kept pigs and chickens so ham and eggs weren't scarce; my grandmother dealt in second hand goods, mostly clothes and books etc., so I was dressed in Ladybird clothing, used but in good condition, right from the start, and there was a large kitchen garden with apples,pears, soft fruits and vegetables. There was room to roam and play and grandma's ragbag provided me with endless dressing up possibilities. There was also an endless supply of comics, both boys and girls, and classic books. The house was never empty and the door open to a varied selection of callers: some to do with my grandma's business, some were family, sometimes neighbours in for a chat and a barter - Mrs Jackson next door made ice cream in the summer and used our eggs or gave us Staffordshire oatcakes and pikelets in winter - and motorists paying their rents on the garages at the end of the yard.
Like most children, though, I was only dimly aware, at that time, that not everyone lived as we did and given that my father worked a brick making machine, only the extended family setup gave us the extras.
Where my childhood might be construed as lacking was that there were few other children living around us. I had to be taken to play with other little girls unless cousins visited. I don't remember feeling lonely but I suppose my preference for being with older people stems from this time. There were two children living across the road, in a row of dilapidated cottages, twins with an Italian father and English mother, but my grandfather disapproved of my consorting with them - not because of Italy's role in the war but because the father was a jail bird. It didn't always stop me playing mud pies with them though.
However, the fact was circumstances and choice meant that I was in the company of adults most of the time. Even school didn't redress the balance as it took me ages to settle. I hated leaving my mother and with fractures and such a great deal of my general knowledge was acquired from the books supplied to me by gran at home.
I have never known again the warmth and security I felt, when ill, of being tucked up in front of a blazing fire, a rich comforting mug of Sister Laura's food in reach, and a pile of comics, annuals. and picture books to occupy me.
My children knew a different sort of environment - a new council estate with a lot of the modern conveniences not available to my family when I was small.
Sophisticated technology was starting to impact on most peoples lives. A wider range of people and experiences influenced their development and there were more children around. We were the nuclear family, living in our own four walls, albeit rented, and living on what was in effect a more restricted income than my parents. Grandparents still helped to make up the shortfall but not so much in terms of their daily presence.
Now I have five grandchildren experiencing, in many respects, a childhood that, materially, would have seemed unachievable fifty five years ago. Three of them have already moved home several times due to dad's job. They have flown and lived life in the sun, gone to school in three countries, become almost casual about travelling and never known life with outdoor plumbing or being in close contact with their food.
My two granddaughters have graduates for parents, a home that belongs to those parents and already know, as do their cousins, how to operate keyboards and digital this and that.
The other great change is in the fluid nature of family relationships. I lived in an extended family but the relationships were relatively simple and stable. Today, children, including my grandchildren, have to untangle the complex web of family connections where both sets of grandparents are divorced and "step-grandparents" are part of the set up. Where aunties and uncles may not stay in the same combinations.
Whose childhood is better? Materially, I suspect, theirs by miles, but having space and opportunity to indulge and develop imagination, time to consider,a lack of pressure to react and a greater degree of certainty then, maybe, mine.
The truth is that all is relative and, while I can see where their childhoods could have been bettered, they would probably regard mine as boring and restrictive in its opportunities and lack of what are now regarded as common place necessities.
Friday 21 March 2008
obsessing and exaggerating
I nearly drove myself to a stroke this morning obsessing about a potential issue that in the end didn't arise.
Unfortunately, I have this propensity to do this, along with talking things out with myself, but don't worry, I haven't got to the dangerous stage of answering myself back - Yet!
Today, I have worn several different hats at work-not literally you realise. They have ranged from the catering, medical, personal servant, administrative and marketing to counselling, hospitality and supervisory. It takes flexibility and thinking on your feet to juggle them all. There are shades of "Waiting for Godot" in more areas than one as we often spend a lot of time hunting for hats, shoes, handbags, teeth etc. and trying to match them up with their owners. I hasten to add that this isn't because of institutionalism - e.g. the old communal clothes pile or bucket of false teeth, if- it -fits -it's-yours scenario - but because people can be incredibly inventive if they decide to hide something or even just want to dispose of things temporarily.
One has to think laterally when hunting for false teeth - I have found them inside socks (still on the wearer's feet) stuffed inside cushions, other people's handbags, pushed down the owner's underwear, (upper and lower), put in the waste paper bin, you name it. Fortunately, I am not squeamish, except about snot, so digging dentures out of some one's underpants with breakfast still in situ, does not bother me. The problem is once said dentures have been cleaned then getting them back into the owner's mouth is not so easy. You know these teeth belong in this mouth but suddenly the mouth seems to have shrunk two sizes and no amount of manipulation will re-unite the two. Of course, once left to their own devices, the owner will either solve the problem themselves or find another hiding place!
The tenacity and perseverance of people, even when it's misplaced, is enormous. I remember a night when a resident spent the entire shift purposefully trying to cram her feet into shoes that were at least two and a half sizes smaller than her own. When presented with her own shoes she tossed them aside and went back to the tussle, either that or walk around in her stocking feet, until morning. The abandoned shoes, still where she had left them, were pounced upon and reclaimed with joy. Whether daylight made them look different I don't know, but suddenly she recognised them and all was well until the next night.
I think I did rather well at the marketing, despite not being prepared, but the proof will be if/when a booking eventuates. Meeting and greeting is all very well and I try to tailor my approach to the customer, but having to do it just after escorting the corpse of someone you have looked after for five years, is not so easy.
As for the exaggeration part of the title, well, sometimes staff are not happy unless they are hamming it up and their encounter with difficult Mrs.X was so much worse than anyone else's, their aches and pains are more intense, even to the staff member I met tonight who came on duty telling me that not only was it "freezin, but honestly there's a blizzard out there..." I got myself ready to come home, all wrapped up etc. and walked out to dry surfaces, a clear sky, and no sign of snow. Is it just me? Or am I turning into an ultra reactionary? They really do not seem to have any sense of degree or balance.
Unfortunately, I have this propensity to do this, along with talking things out with myself, but don't worry, I haven't got to the dangerous stage of answering myself back - Yet!
Today, I have worn several different hats at work-not literally you realise. They have ranged from the catering, medical, personal servant, administrative and marketing to counselling, hospitality and supervisory. It takes flexibility and thinking on your feet to juggle them all. There are shades of "Waiting for Godot" in more areas than one as we often spend a lot of time hunting for hats, shoes, handbags, teeth etc. and trying to match them up with their owners. I hasten to add that this isn't because of institutionalism - e.g. the old communal clothes pile or bucket of false teeth, if- it -fits -it's-yours scenario - but because people can be incredibly inventive if they decide to hide something or even just want to dispose of things temporarily.
One has to think laterally when hunting for false teeth - I have found them inside socks (still on the wearer's feet) stuffed inside cushions, other people's handbags, pushed down the owner's underwear, (upper and lower), put in the waste paper bin, you name it. Fortunately, I am not squeamish, except about snot, so digging dentures out of some one's underpants with breakfast still in situ, does not bother me. The problem is once said dentures have been cleaned then getting them back into the owner's mouth is not so easy. You know these teeth belong in this mouth but suddenly the mouth seems to have shrunk two sizes and no amount of manipulation will re-unite the two. Of course, once left to their own devices, the owner will either solve the problem themselves or find another hiding place!
The tenacity and perseverance of people, even when it's misplaced, is enormous. I remember a night when a resident spent the entire shift purposefully trying to cram her feet into shoes that were at least two and a half sizes smaller than her own. When presented with her own shoes she tossed them aside and went back to the tussle, either that or walk around in her stocking feet, until morning. The abandoned shoes, still where she had left them, were pounced upon and reclaimed with joy. Whether daylight made them look different I don't know, but suddenly she recognised them and all was well until the next night.
I think I did rather well at the marketing, despite not being prepared, but the proof will be if/when a booking eventuates. Meeting and greeting is all very well and I try to tailor my approach to the customer, but having to do it just after escorting the corpse of someone you have looked after for five years, is not so easy.
As for the exaggeration part of the title, well, sometimes staff are not happy unless they are hamming it up and their encounter with difficult Mrs.X was so much worse than anyone else's, their aches and pains are more intense, even to the staff member I met tonight who came on duty telling me that not only was it "freezin, but honestly there's a blizzard out there..." I got myself ready to come home, all wrapped up etc. and walked out to dry surfaces, a clear sky, and no sign of snow. Is it just me? Or am I turning into an ultra reactionary? They really do not seem to have any sense of degree or balance.
Tuesday 18 March 2008
I nearly forgot......
Here we are almost out of the day and I suddenly realise that with all today's activity I haven't made my blog entry. I already feel uneasy if I don't make an entry, as if some unseen hand will materialise out of the ether and zap me for my omission!
So what have I done today? It might be easier to start with what I haven't done - e.g. no washing, dusting, vacuuming, if fact I have avoided anything that comes under the heading of housework, thank goodness.
However, I haven't been entirely idle. I prised vital statistics out of my eldest grandson so that I could trawl ebay for a kilt - he's decided he wants to wear one for the Senior Prom(?).
As an anglo-scot he's entitled to but I have warned him of dire consequences if he chickens out after all my efforts. His response was to tell me to behave as "...you know me, Nan, I'll do anything..." ( I do hope not!)
So my messages requesting the length from navel to kneecap, collar and shoe size were sent via text and email.
I managed to make myself sit down with the cheque book and write one for the water company then go through the nightmare of an automated telephone payment to my clothing account. Make a choice from this menu or that, key in these numbers, remember various bits of my telephone number, just for security, and follow each step by pressing the hash key. Anyway, got that boring stuff out of the way and then set off to see my two granddaughters and their mum.
I have come to dread taxi journeys these days as the radio is invariably on and the subject of the Diana inquiry comes up. Its not a long ride but oh dear, they always ask my opinion and then subject me to a tirade if I don't respond as they think fit. I don't know what happened, I don't particularly care, so now I sit in stony silence and refuse to be drawn. These same people always preface their comments with "They won't let her rest in peace..." and then proceed to fulminate on various aspects depending on what their own private agenda is - like the Bible, Diana can be made to fit any situation.
Thankfully, today, it was a dissection of Heather Mills McCartney, et al ,and I stared out of the window and grunted in what I hope were the right places - she's another woman who will never get it right.
So to my pixies - the elf and the goblin. No, I don't mean that, but one is delicate and apparently fragile (the reality is quite different) and the other vocal and ebullient. What they both have is cuteness in obscene quantities and, with their cousins, provide me with the impetuous to soldier on.
For a few hours my balance was re-calibrated and my cynicism diluted by their energy and lust for life. Her regal majesty with an imperious look and distinctive wave allowed me in, her equally royal sister bounced and gurgled, scanned me and then got on with the really important business of cruising the floor and puking where ever she fancied. Apparently, Her Majesty continued to twirl her hand and call "Bye Nan" for a good hour and a half after I left, bless her.
So, back home, read my emails and listen to my messages. From one I learn that the company handling my debts has some good news - I have finally cleared the big debt and due to an administrative error ( we never discover whose do we? ) I have overpaid and Northern Rock need to reimburse me. I talk to a very nice man in their debt department and in a couple of days, I shall be a little better off than I expected.
And so to bed with my plastic box of carrot sticks, apple pieces, grapes, cheese cubes, olives, celery, fruit and nuts, a crossword puzzle and the melange that is freeview.
I have my dose of "Pimp my ride" which is incomprehensible and naff, (therein lies its attraction) and "Dog the Bounty Hunter" which is even more bizarre and therefore more intriguing. This is the sort of pap that helps me relax - I wonder how much bigger Mrs. Dog's breasts can get and how much tighter the lycra before it all explodes and she is smeared across the rest of the family/team. God knows what would happen if her hair and Dog's became intangled and what an odd silhouette he cuts with all his accoutrements.
Finally, as if you care, I remembered my blog and got up to fulfill my obligation to myself, if no one else.
So what have I done today? It might be easier to start with what I haven't done - e.g. no washing, dusting, vacuuming, if fact I have avoided anything that comes under the heading of housework, thank goodness.
However, I haven't been entirely idle. I prised vital statistics out of my eldest grandson so that I could trawl ebay for a kilt - he's decided he wants to wear one for the Senior Prom(?).
As an anglo-scot he's entitled to but I have warned him of dire consequences if he chickens out after all my efforts. His response was to tell me to behave as "...you know me, Nan, I'll do anything..." ( I do hope not!)
So my messages requesting the length from navel to kneecap, collar and shoe size were sent via text and email.
I managed to make myself sit down with the cheque book and write one for the water company then go through the nightmare of an automated telephone payment to my clothing account. Make a choice from this menu or that, key in these numbers, remember various bits of my telephone number, just for security, and follow each step by pressing the hash key. Anyway, got that boring stuff out of the way and then set off to see my two granddaughters and their mum.
I have come to dread taxi journeys these days as the radio is invariably on and the subject of the Diana inquiry comes up. Its not a long ride but oh dear, they always ask my opinion and then subject me to a tirade if I don't respond as they think fit. I don't know what happened, I don't particularly care, so now I sit in stony silence and refuse to be drawn. These same people always preface their comments with "They won't let her rest in peace..." and then proceed to fulminate on various aspects depending on what their own private agenda is - like the Bible, Diana can be made to fit any situation.
Thankfully, today, it was a dissection of Heather Mills McCartney, et al ,and I stared out of the window and grunted in what I hope were the right places - she's another woman who will never get it right.
So to my pixies - the elf and the goblin. No, I don't mean that, but one is delicate and apparently fragile (the reality is quite different) and the other vocal and ebullient. What they both have is cuteness in obscene quantities and, with their cousins, provide me with the impetuous to soldier on.
For a few hours my balance was re-calibrated and my cynicism diluted by their energy and lust for life. Her regal majesty with an imperious look and distinctive wave allowed me in, her equally royal sister bounced and gurgled, scanned me and then got on with the really important business of cruising the floor and puking where ever she fancied. Apparently, Her Majesty continued to twirl her hand and call "Bye Nan" for a good hour and a half after I left, bless her.
So, back home, read my emails and listen to my messages. From one I learn that the company handling my debts has some good news - I have finally cleared the big debt and due to an administrative error ( we never discover whose do we? ) I have overpaid and Northern Rock need to reimburse me. I talk to a very nice man in their debt department and in a couple of days, I shall be a little better off than I expected.
And so to bed with my plastic box of carrot sticks, apple pieces, grapes, cheese cubes, olives, celery, fruit and nuts, a crossword puzzle and the melange that is freeview.
I have my dose of "Pimp my ride" which is incomprehensible and naff, (therein lies its attraction) and "Dog the Bounty Hunter" which is even more bizarre and therefore more intriguing. This is the sort of pap that helps me relax - I wonder how much bigger Mrs. Dog's breasts can get and how much tighter the lycra before it all explodes and she is smeared across the rest of the family/team. God knows what would happen if her hair and Dog's became intangled and what an odd silhouette he cuts with all his accoutrements.
Finally, as if you care, I remembered my blog and got up to fulfill my obligation to myself, if no one else.
Sunday 16 March 2008
This is the end of an interesting week for my foray into blogging.
I actually managed to acheive my goal of an entry each day and it has been a good exercise in self discipline and developing my ability to compose at the keyboard, something I've always found difficult,preferring the portability of pen and paper - it's quicker to strike through a wrong word than delete on the laptop.
I have had to think about themes - some have come easily, others had to be delved for.
Once again, the coming shift is dominating my thinking and time. I have a sick client whose care will determine the course of the rest of the work load. This week seems to have consisted of moving one load after another and I have to confess that I feel exhausted but this job needs to be done. The problem is human loads aren't as passive and co-operative as inanimate ones and before anyone shouts health and safety I am talking about the use of hoists and other aids, in most cases. There is still considerable effort involved and anyone who presumes the elderly are necessarily light weights knows nothing about it!
I'm going now to limber up and get myself ready for the fray, mentally as well as physically.
I actually managed to acheive my goal of an entry each day and it has been a good exercise in self discipline and developing my ability to compose at the keyboard, something I've always found difficult,preferring the portability of pen and paper - it's quicker to strike through a wrong word than delete on the laptop.
I have had to think about themes - some have come easily, others had to be delved for.
Once again, the coming shift is dominating my thinking and time. I have a sick client whose care will determine the course of the rest of the work load. This week seems to have consisted of moving one load after another and I have to confess that I feel exhausted but this job needs to be done. The problem is human loads aren't as passive and co-operative as inanimate ones and before anyone shouts health and safety I am talking about the use of hoists and other aids, in most cases. There is still considerable effort involved and anyone who presumes the elderly are necessarily light weights knows nothing about it!
I'm going now to limber up and get myself ready for the fray, mentally as well as physically.
Thursday 13 March 2008
old is good but frustrating.
It occurred to me today that part of the problem for young people, in dealing with the elderly, is that they are full of pent up energy that has to be even more pent up when they are dealing with those for whom life has slowed to a snails pace (and slower). It asks a lot of both parties in terms of patience and discipline just at a point in life where, for the young, it's embryonic and needs nurturing and at the other end of the scale, it's atrophied and what's left needs conserving.
At 59 I know I'm slow- my eldest grandson, an energetic 16 year old, passes me and says "Keep up Pingu!" - and yet I in turn rein back my movements to keep pace with someone who takes 10 minutes to walk a few feet.
On one side there is realisation that another person is being held back, is mentally gritting their teeth at the painful slowness of everything, and on the other an effort to try and understand how anything could take this long. Anger can be induced on both sides. Anger that a mind and body can become so limited and limiting.
Anger that so much else needs doing and energy is draining away. Anger and guilt at the feelings of exasperation on both sides.
For me the nurturing and harvesting of patience began early - at 2 years old I was exhorted to sing rather than cry while waiting in casualty to have a fracture diagnosed. I learned to people watch and occupy myself while waiting interminably for an ambulance home. This happened many times through the years.
As a brittle bone sufferer I learned early what pain and waiting were about but, also, that they could be harnessed as tools for dealing with the future and developing hidden reservoirs within myself.
So, as we take one slow step at a time, Mrs. X and I, for her this is full stretch, a giving of all she has and for me it's a respite when I scrounge a little more breathing space and wonder what it will be like when/if my time comes.
At 59 I know I'm slow- my eldest grandson, an energetic 16 year old, passes me and says "Keep up Pingu!" - and yet I in turn rein back my movements to keep pace with someone who takes 10 minutes to walk a few feet.
On one side there is realisation that another person is being held back, is mentally gritting their teeth at the painful slowness of everything, and on the other an effort to try and understand how anything could take this long. Anger can be induced on both sides. Anger that a mind and body can become so limited and limiting.
Anger that so much else needs doing and energy is draining away. Anger and guilt at the feelings of exasperation on both sides.
For me the nurturing and harvesting of patience began early - at 2 years old I was exhorted to sing rather than cry while waiting in casualty to have a fracture diagnosed. I learned to people watch and occupy myself while waiting interminably for an ambulance home. This happened many times through the years.
As a brittle bone sufferer I learned early what pain and waiting were about but, also, that they could be harnessed as tools for dealing with the future and developing hidden reservoirs within myself.
So, as we take one slow step at a time, Mrs. X and I, for her this is full stretch, a giving of all she has and for me it's a respite when I scrounge a little more breathing space and wonder what it will be like when/if my time comes.
Wednesday 12 March 2008
Today ,when I got into work, the whole team configuration had changed from that expected. This is how it often is in care. People ring in sick, swap their shifts, or take a holiday at the last moment and as a manager I have to cope with whatever comes. It makes it difficult to plan the day's work, especially the administration.
The team mix decides what my priorities will be. With an established crew I know the work will get done, well, and on time, but with bank or agency staff, who don't know the clients or work patterns, then forget it. In that case, I have to think for everyone (and I'm not being patronising) in order that needs are not just being met but met to the nth degree. Details matter in care, the seemingly inconsequential takes on a significance beyond belief, and whether early tea is on time or not might define the whole tenor of the day.
This might seem petty-fogging but frail, vulnerable people draw their comfort and security from routine and sameness. Disruption spells anxiety and unease.
So, new staff, who need to be directed at every turn present a particular set of challenges.
It's necessary to assess their capabilities very quickly, direct them with conciseness and precision and take into account any particular hurdles such as language fluency and experience. It is easy to fall into the trap of doing everything oneself, and I do, to save time and tempers but this is misplaced, in the long run, and leads to permanent staff running themselves ragged while the temporary staff can feel excluded and inept.
Fortunately, today was a good mix with relief staff having the chance to gain new experience and reinforce skills without increasing the work load for regular staff.
As usual I held the fort, fielding queries from various quarters, wearing several hats, (sometimes all at the same time), doing jobs I love and those I hate(most specifically the coffee round!) and, trite as it may sound, all worth while when a client says "I'm glad it's you, I've missed you".
The team mix decides what my priorities will be. With an established crew I know the work will get done, well, and on time, but with bank or agency staff, who don't know the clients or work patterns, then forget it. In that case, I have to think for everyone (and I'm not being patronising) in order that needs are not just being met but met to the nth degree. Details matter in care, the seemingly inconsequential takes on a significance beyond belief, and whether early tea is on time or not might define the whole tenor of the day.
This might seem petty-fogging but frail, vulnerable people draw their comfort and security from routine and sameness. Disruption spells anxiety and unease.
So, new staff, who need to be directed at every turn present a particular set of challenges.
It's necessary to assess their capabilities very quickly, direct them with conciseness and precision and take into account any particular hurdles such as language fluency and experience. It is easy to fall into the trap of doing everything oneself, and I do, to save time and tempers but this is misplaced, in the long run, and leads to permanent staff running themselves ragged while the temporary staff can feel excluded and inept.
Fortunately, today was a good mix with relief staff having the chance to gain new experience and reinforce skills without increasing the work load for regular staff.
As usual I held the fort, fielding queries from various quarters, wearing several hats, (sometimes all at the same time), doing jobs I love and those I hate(most specifically the coffee round!) and, trite as it may sound, all worth while when a client says "I'm glad it's you, I've missed you".
Tuesday 11 March 2008
digital aids
Well, I have just returned from hospital where they have tried to solve the mystery of why
my new digital hearing aids ( or at least one of them) suddenly stopped working and why
I keep getting a noise, at certain pitches, that sounds like an out -of -tune guitar string being
strummed.
I explained that the right aid refused to work when I put it in yesterday morning, and that after
trying 4 new batteries it gave a pathetic bleep and died.
Why do technicians always assume that it must be the deaf person's fault?
"Have you got /had an ear infection? Have you got moisture inside it? How do you mean
you can't hear as well on the right side with your digital aid as you could with the analogue
one? Impossible!"
I reassured the technician that after 28years of being deaf and wearing aids, I knew when/
if my ears were infected, (it's messy and painful) and that keeping them dry was crucial.
"Well, you will get feed back if you put your hand near the microphone, dear."
Yes, but I don't walk around with my hand cupped to my ear and it still twangs.
There was still the question of not hearing as well on the right as I did with the old
analogues.
"And the tubing in that aid is rigid, how could that have happened, dear?
Are you sure you haven't got an ear infection? We'll just check shall we?"
Ok, just to keep you happy.
She shone the light of the auroscope into my ear canal and pronounced it clear.
I thought she would have apoplexy when I confessed (it did feel like that) that I had been
wearing digital in the left and analogue in the right and it was better.
"No! No! No! You can't do that. That can't be right."
Is it some sort of heresy to challenge the supremacy of new technology or to suggest that
it doesn't fit all circumstances?
When she had recovered herself she disappeared for a while.
On return she re-tubed the ear piece and produced the aid like a rabbit out of
a hat. "
You will never guess? There seemed to be some moisture in the filter hidden
away in the hook, dear. I wonder how it got there?"
Yes, I wonder - was it a convenien t get-out and of course it put the onus right back on me?
When you're deaf you are always to blame for the breakdown in communication.
It couldn't possibly be that the hearing party didn't open their mouths, annunciate, or take their
hands away from their mouths?
Well, when it's my fault I'll take responsiblity but not when it's down to laziness and ignorance.
my new digital hearing aids ( or at least one of them) suddenly stopped working and why
I keep getting a noise, at certain pitches, that sounds like an out -of -tune guitar string being
strummed.
I explained that the right aid refused to work when I put it in yesterday morning, and that after
trying 4 new batteries it gave a pathetic bleep and died.
Why do technicians always assume that it must be the deaf person's fault?
"Have you got /had an ear infection? Have you got moisture inside it? How do you mean
you can't hear as well on the right side with your digital aid as you could with the analogue
one? Impossible!"
I reassured the technician that after 28years of being deaf and wearing aids, I knew when/
if my ears were infected, (it's messy and painful) and that keeping them dry was crucial.
"Well, you will get feed back if you put your hand near the microphone, dear."
Yes, but I don't walk around with my hand cupped to my ear and it still twangs.
There was still the question of not hearing as well on the right as I did with the old
analogues.
"And the tubing in that aid is rigid, how could that have happened, dear?
Are you sure you haven't got an ear infection? We'll just check shall we?"
Ok, just to keep you happy.
She shone the light of the auroscope into my ear canal and pronounced it clear.
I thought she would have apoplexy when I confessed (it did feel like that) that I had been
wearing digital in the left and analogue in the right and it was better.
"No! No! No! You can't do that. That can't be right."
Is it some sort of heresy to challenge the supremacy of new technology or to suggest that
it doesn't fit all circumstances?
When she had recovered herself she disappeared for a while.
On return she re-tubed the ear piece and produced the aid like a rabbit out of
a hat. "
You will never guess? There seemed to be some moisture in the filter hidden
away in the hook, dear. I wonder how it got there?"
Yes, I wonder - was it a convenien t get-out and of course it put the onus right back on me?
When you're deaf you are always to blame for the breakdown in communication.
It couldn't possibly be that the hearing party didn't open their mouths, annunciate, or take their
hands away from their mouths?
Well, when it's my fault I'll take responsiblity but not when it's down to laziness and ignorance.
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