Wow, no blogposts for a month. Not quite sure how that happened. My apologies to anyone who got concerned. I am okay.
On with the excuses, well, I had a week or so at the beginning of August where I couldn't seem to phrase anything right. After that, I kept telling myself I would blog later, which never came.
Two things are notable for having NOT occurred. First, I still haven't heard anything more on the Remploy problems. They were going to investigate it internally, but then my MP stepped in via the Department of Work and Pensions (DWP) and now contact is supposed to flow via the MP and the DWP. Which it isn't. In mitigation, my MP is the "anti-fraud" minister (see "we are determined to catch those taking money that does not belong to them") which probably makes it difficult to suddenly reverse mindset to a non-claimant whose problem is that they are being offered and declining to accept money.
Second, I haven't organised that proper week away at the coast and I'm no longer convinced that I want to. There seems to be an awful lot going on at the moment and I get the strong impression that my presence would only exacerbate matters.
However, I HAVE been doing lots of things.
I've applied to Social Services for help and they have done really well - preliminary assessment over the phone same-day, a home visit from a social worker to do a full assessment the following week, a home visit for a financial assessment the week after that, then it was a home visit from somebody from the Rowan Organisation to talk me through the options for Direct Payments and whatnot, and finally a visit for assessment by an Occupational Therapist.
This level and speed of response would be pretty good even if they'd just turned around and said "no, you're not eligible for any help, care, equipment or services, and even if you were, you'd have to pay the full cost." But amazingly, and despite all the horror stories I've heard from both service users and providers, they've really come through.
The social worker has assessed me as needing 7 hours of personal care and 3 hours of social care per week. The financial assessment means this will be funded by social services. The Rowan will help me use Direct Payments to hire a PA to help me. They will help me find a suitable Personal Assistant (PA), do criminal records checks, assist me with holding interviews, and help with the paperwork (eg taxes and NI for my PA). It's all ready to go and there is just one problem - while Steve agrees with the idea of me getting the help I need, faced with the reality of it he found that he has difficulty with the idea of someone coming into his house. I don't have the balls to just go ahead with it without his consent but hopefully we'll work something out soon, as it's really quite upsetting to be struggling and going without while knowing that I don't have to.
The social worker also said we could have an emergency plan, in case Steve is hospitalised or has a family emergency or something. The "In Your Place" scheme means that if something like that happened, a temporary carer would be sent to the house to stay with me and fulfil Steve's role - not just the active personal/social care things, but also supervision, and doing the things that I can't do but am assessed as not needing help with because I live with someone who can be reasonably expected to do them, like cooking or going to the supermarket or changing the sheets on the bed (the idea is that these things aren't "care" as he would have to do them anyway if he lived alone). The temporary carer would stay with me for up to 72 hours, until either Steve was back at home, or a longer-term solution could be put in place.
The Occupational Therapist has done well for me too. A lot of the simpler bits and bobs I need, Steve or I have already purchased, but she's got me things like a swivel bath seat that helps me get into the tub safely to have my shower. She'll come back for another visit next month to see how I'm getting on and think about what else I might need. Most of the things she wanted to prescribe, I can't have, because it's a privately rented house and the landlord might object to permanent objects like grab rails and level access and a stairlift being installed. But, she's writing down officially that she thinks I should have them, which might help with the DLA appeal and will be a head-start if we ever get our own place.
On a different level, I applied for an admin job. I made it to interview entirely on merit (I made it clear that I was NOT applying under the "two ticks" scheme) and from there got onto the shortlist, but didn't get the job in the end. I'm a bit disappointed. It would have been nice, it would have suited my skills more, and I'm keen to get out from where I am at the moment. However, my current job isn't unbearable, and it's not like there'll never be another part-time admin job advertised ever again. The feedback was positive but not in a vastly useful way - apparently my application, qualifications, experience and interview was all fine, there wasn't anything that they felt I should improve upon, and I'm the second choice, so they'll call me if the first choice passes it up or can't provide references.
Of course they might have just said all that to make me feel better. Who knows. For now, it suits me to take it at face value and think yes, I was good, someone else was better, never mind.
We went to the wedding as planned, which was a total success in every sense. We caught up with a few familiar faces from the darker corners of the internet, as well as meeting a few new ones, and had an absolutely lovely time. The weather behaved itself, so the ceremony took place with gorgeous sunlight shining through the windows and making the bride look even more beautiful. It was very relaxed, and everybody was happy. Technically I caught the bouquet, but we should probably bear in mind that I was the only one trying and it was tossed directly to me from a distance of about two feet, very theatrically, for Steve's benefit. Steve, for his part, pointedly ignored the whole thing. Bah.
I got to see Pip and the Littlun, who is now The Boy as he is more than waist-high. I can't believe how much he's grown! He'll be four soon. We played with his trains and read a story, and spent a lot of time doing a sort of counting/sorting game of his own invention with little ludo pieces. Seeing Pip was good. I have missed him an awful lot since moving away. We really could have done with an hour to chat like grownups, maybe next time.
There's been other stuff too - going places, seeing people. I can't remember it all and this post already has too much variety in it. It was a good summer. Hopefully there is still a little bit more to come.
Showing posts with label littlun. Show all posts
Showing posts with label littlun. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Summer
This is definitely summer. It is scorching hot out there. I have never missed the sea breeze so much.
Going to get a little bit of sea breeze when Steve and I head for the coast at the end of August for Jiva and Munkt0n's wedding. We're really looking forward to that, with extra added squee because the first time we met in real life was when we went to their engagement bash.
That'll just be a weekender though, as Steve can't book any time off work at present. But, Pip and I have been looking into the idea of car hire (Pip took his car off the road after I left town) to enable me to have a proper week's holiday and see everyone. The idea is that Steve could take me part of the way, and hand me and my suitcase over to Pip at a halfway services station. We're thinking probably September would be best, once the kids are back at school. Littlun will be doing half-days, so we'll be able to Do Stuff for half a day without all the local facilities being overrun by Bigger Kids, and then I can rest properly while he's at school.
Until I get some seafront, though, my life has been made that bit more comfortable by work having invested in an air-conditioning unit. The room was getting really quite unbearably hot, what with the combination of (1) thousands of CD cases, flat-pack corrugated cardboard boxes, and other packing materials, also known as insulation; (2) a single barred window which only opens a few inches; (3) a computer on the go the whole time; and (4) up to three adults constantly moving around the room doing work which, while it could not be described as physically demanding, works up considerably more of a sweat than sitting around typing. I don't care that my carbon footprint probably makes the baby Jesus cry. It was getting hard to breathe in there!
And now, I think, I will get my eye-mask out of the fridge, and go upstairs to lie very very still in the hope that sleep will come.
Going to get a little bit of sea breeze when Steve and I head for the coast at the end of August for Jiva and Munkt0n's wedding. We're really looking forward to that, with extra added squee because the first time we met in real life was when we went to their engagement bash.
That'll just be a weekender though, as Steve can't book any time off work at present. But, Pip and I have been looking into the idea of car hire (Pip took his car off the road after I left town) to enable me to have a proper week's holiday and see everyone. The idea is that Steve could take me part of the way, and hand me and my suitcase over to Pip at a halfway services station. We're thinking probably September would be best, once the kids are back at school. Littlun will be doing half-days, so we'll be able to Do Stuff for half a day without all the local facilities being overrun by Bigger Kids, and then I can rest properly while he's at school.
Until I get some seafront, though, my life has been made that bit more comfortable by work having invested in an air-conditioning unit. The room was getting really quite unbearably hot, what with the combination of (1) thousands of CD cases, flat-pack corrugated cardboard boxes, and other packing materials, also known as insulation; (2) a single barred window which only opens a few inches; (3) a computer on the go the whole time; and (4) up to three adults constantly moving around the room doing work which, while it could not be described as physically demanding, works up considerably more of a sweat than sitting around typing. I don't care that my carbon footprint probably makes the baby Jesus cry. It was getting hard to breathe in there!
And now, I think, I will get my eye-mask out of the fridge, and go upstairs to lie very very still in the hope that sleep will come.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Misc
Lots of little things going on, but nothing I can make into a full-on blogpost.
The Tax Credits letter has been sent. So that doesn't need worrying about for a while again.
Steve passed his second exam with flying colours. There's two more to go.
Littlun is due to start at the kindergarten/reception type class at the school on Tuesday, doing half days, five days a week. However due to an administrative snarl-up, Pip won't know if he's doing mornings or afternoons until Monday.
Recycling has been properly introduced in this area. I am incredibly relieved - it was horrible not being able to do it any more after having really got into the habit back in Lowestoft. It's not exactly the same system as I was used to, but they've been really good about sending out the leaflets and whatnot.
What they're not so good at is dealing with queries. The helpline has been utterly swamped. According to the local paper, this is mostly by people who haven't read the leaflet with the list of collection dates, people who are complaining that the system is too complicated (let's put it this way: even I can understand it, so it can't be that hard), and people complaining that the bins are 'unsightly' so they don't want them at the front of their properties and won't give the bin-men access to the back. So, we took the path of least resistance and shelled out a whole £2.99 for a food-caddy from the supermarket rather than messing about to claim our free one.
I've totally slowed down on knitting the jumper because I have to write out longhand the row-by-row instructions for the shoulder shaping to make sure I've really understood it. The instructions in the pattern book are written to incorporate several sizes of one pattern. So for example an instruction might be written as "Cast off 2 (4, 6, 8, 10, 12) sts". If you are knitting the very small size, you cast off 2 sts. If you are knitting the biggest size, you cast off 12 sts. You see? But me, I'm medium-sized, and I keep forgetting which set of numbers I'm meant to be paying attention to and it drives me mad, so I write out the pattern instead.
The sock is coming along nicely. It is the second sock of the birthday pair, made of the stripy Regia Silk yarn I bought with my birthday money back in January. I've turned the heel and have about 10 more rows for the instep and then it's just round and round and round until I get to the toe decreases. Steve 'helpfully' offered that if I was stuck for what to knit next, he could always frog them for me so that I could do them all over again. I am pleased to report that I did NOT skewer him with a 2.5mm double pointed needle, but it was a close call.
And to round off, a Roomba Report. I still love it, I still think it's some of the best money I've ever spent, although I do regret spending the money and wouldn't have done if I'd known how things were going to pan out. But then I suppose that's the same for everyone. Anyway, yes, the Roomba, or "Bloop" as he is now affectionately known, is doing sterling work of keeping the carpets clean for me, but we did have a little incident the other day.
It involved a reel of black cotton that we are both quite sure was safely on a shelf before we pressed the button and closed the door. Perhaps the breeze from the door closing was what caused the reel to fall to the floor. Or perhaps Bloop bumped into the shelf a little bit hard. We don't know - after all, the point is, you don't have to be in the room while it's cleaning.
Thing is, if you're using a conventional vaccuum cleaner, then when you spot a cotton reel on the floor, you stop. You pick up the cotton reel and you place it somewhere safe. If the vaccuum cleaner has already sucked up the end, then you turn it off, untangle it, and only then do you attempt to continue cleaning. Not so for Bloop. He keeps going, and going, and going, and because of how he works, twisting and turning and moving all the time... eventually he had got the entire length of thread wound around his brushes, upon which, he sucked up the plastic reel as well, which finally jammed the brushes and caused him to make his "uh-oh" noise.
Black cotton thread wound tightly in a non-linear fashion onto black brushes. Oh boy. It wouldn't unwind at all. We had to try three different pairs of scissors to cut it all off without cutting the brushes themselves. It was a tricky job. But, even so, after maybe an hour of surgery, it was all sorted out and Bloop was able to do the whole room again, properly.
Steve has presented the incident as being further proof of Bloop's malevolent sentience. Not only does my robot want to join in the knitting, but he even knows better than to have a first try with any of my decent yarn.
The Tax Credits letter has been sent. So that doesn't need worrying about for a while again.
Steve passed his second exam with flying colours. There's two more to go.
Littlun is due to start at the kindergarten/reception type class at the school on Tuesday, doing half days, five days a week. However due to an administrative snarl-up, Pip won't know if he's doing mornings or afternoons until Monday.
Recycling has been properly introduced in this area. I am incredibly relieved - it was horrible not being able to do it any more after having really got into the habit back in Lowestoft. It's not exactly the same system as I was used to, but they've been really good about sending out the leaflets and whatnot.
What they're not so good at is dealing with queries. The helpline has been utterly swamped. According to the local paper, this is mostly by people who haven't read the leaflet with the list of collection dates, people who are complaining that the system is too complicated (let's put it this way: even I can understand it, so it can't be that hard), and people complaining that the bins are 'unsightly' so they don't want them at the front of their properties and won't give the bin-men access to the back. So, we took the path of least resistance and shelled out a whole £2.99 for a food-caddy from the supermarket rather than messing about to claim our free one.
I've totally slowed down on knitting the jumper because I have to write out longhand the row-by-row instructions for the shoulder shaping to make sure I've really understood it. The instructions in the pattern book are written to incorporate several sizes of one pattern. So for example an instruction might be written as "Cast off 2 (4, 6, 8, 10, 12) sts". If you are knitting the very small size, you cast off 2 sts. If you are knitting the biggest size, you cast off 12 sts. You see? But me, I'm medium-sized, and I keep forgetting which set of numbers I'm meant to be paying attention to and it drives me mad, so I write out the pattern instead.
The sock is coming along nicely. It is the second sock of the birthday pair, made of the stripy Regia Silk yarn I bought with my birthday money back in January. I've turned the heel and have about 10 more rows for the instep and then it's just round and round and round until I get to the toe decreases. Steve 'helpfully' offered that if I was stuck for what to knit next, he could always frog them for me so that I could do them all over again. I am pleased to report that I did NOT skewer him with a 2.5mm double pointed needle, but it was a close call.
And to round off, a Roomba Report. I still love it, I still think it's some of the best money I've ever spent, although I do regret spending the money and wouldn't have done if I'd known how things were going to pan out. But then I suppose that's the same for everyone. Anyway, yes, the Roomba, or "Bloop" as he is now affectionately known, is doing sterling work of keeping the carpets clean for me, but we did have a little incident the other day.
It involved a reel of black cotton that we are both quite sure was safely on a shelf before we pressed the button and closed the door. Perhaps the breeze from the door closing was what caused the reel to fall to the floor. Or perhaps Bloop bumped into the shelf a little bit hard. We don't know - after all, the point is, you don't have to be in the room while it's cleaning.
Thing is, if you're using a conventional vaccuum cleaner, then when you spot a cotton reel on the floor, you stop. You pick up the cotton reel and you place it somewhere safe. If the vaccuum cleaner has already sucked up the end, then you turn it off, untangle it, and only then do you attempt to continue cleaning. Not so for Bloop. He keeps going, and going, and going, and because of how he works, twisting and turning and moving all the time... eventually he had got the entire length of thread wound around his brushes, upon which, he sucked up the plastic reel as well, which finally jammed the brushes and caused him to make his "uh-oh" noise.
Black cotton thread wound tightly in a non-linear fashion onto black brushes. Oh boy. It wouldn't unwind at all. We had to try three different pairs of scissors to cut it all off without cutting the brushes themselves. It was a tricky job. But, even so, after maybe an hour of surgery, it was all sorted out and Bloop was able to do the whole room again, properly.
Steve has presented the incident as being further proof of Bloop's malevolent sentience. Not only does my robot want to join in the knitting, but he even knows better than to have a first try with any of my decent yarn.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Egads
First, some good knitting news: Following on from last week's trauma, I have now knitted and measured (and measured, and measured, and got Steve to measure too) the 14 inches of jumper and have made a start on the armhole decreases. There's still a way to go, but at least I know it'll be right.
Also, some Pip and Littlun news: They built a snowman at the park with some other dads and kids from their street. I saw the pics. The Boy is still cute. He starts at the nursery class at the local school next week, just mornings and no uniform for now, although there's still a sense of "no! how can he be going to the school! he's a baby!". Fingers crossed for them, although I'm sure they'll be fine.
And, the form. Oh boy, the form.
Since the tick boxes on the new DLA form are a bit 'one size fits no one'; and since the 'Additional Information' boxes are tiny; and since even if they were bigger, I don't do so well with the handwriting (that comes under question 47, 'Communication', if you're interested); and since Steve's handwriting is terrible; we just typed all my answers into a big document to print out and attach. The idea was that in and across the little boxes, we could simply write "see Additional Information, page X" making things easier all round.
Today, I printed out the document of 'Additional Information' so that I could start writing the correct page references into the little boxes on the form.
The total was 48, yes, forty-eight pages. The word-count was 26,019. That's twenty-six thousand and nineteen words. That's more than the entirety of my GCSE English Language and Literature courseworks.
Two of them are me covering my back with things like a list of the supporting evidence I am sending with the form, and an extra reiteration of the Declaration ("I declare that the information I have given is correct blah blah") just in case. The remaining 46 are all providing as clear a picture as I can of what problems I have and what help I need.
It defies stapling. We ended up with Steve hole-punching them all a few pages at a time, and me tying them together with spare yarn. It is a measure of how far I have progressed in the last year, that instead of just thinking "I'll grab whatever bit of wool is handy," I gave serious thought to the issue. I didn't want anything that would break, anything fluffy or fuzzy, or anything pink. After a moment's consideration, I instructed Steve to go downstairs to my Stash and fetch the pale blue Rowan All Seasons cotton. It is a measure of how far Steve has progressed, that he came back with not only the All Seasons cotton, but also the green Rowan Handknit Cotton as well, in case I'd prefer that, which I did. It's worked well, although we decided against listing it as a project on Ravelry.
In addition to this monster statement, and the standard DLA additional paperwork such as a list of repeat prescriptions and a report from a specialist, I am lucky enough to also be able to provide statements from:
- my mother
- my boyfriend, who I live with
- my co-worker who works with me for four hours a day
- two of my oldest friends. Uh, that's oldest as in, known me for years, not that they're old, I mean, uh...
I did ask my mum about the idea of providing a statement from the family dog too ("when Mary is on the floor, I lick her hand until she gives me a fuss, upon which I am satisfied that all is well and stand guard over her, in silence. They told me about some pup called Lassie who would have jumped about all over the place fetching people and barking, but I figured, no, some peace and quiet is what she'll want, that and an unpleasantly moist hand...") but she felt this might be over-egging the pudding somewhat.
Anyway, tomorrow I'll finish writing the Additional Information page references onto the form itself, and once that's done, I can sign and date it. Then on Wednesday, I need to find somewhere that does photocopying, because we Do Not send things to the DWP without keeping a copy, which means that hopefully I can get it posted (registered recorded whoopdedoo) by Friday, neatly inside the deadline. And I can stop fretting about it.
Also, some Pip and Littlun news: They built a snowman at the park with some other dads and kids from their street. I saw the pics. The Boy is still cute. He starts at the nursery class at the local school next week, just mornings and no uniform for now, although there's still a sense of "no! how can he be going to the school! he's a baby!". Fingers crossed for them, although I'm sure they'll be fine.
And, the form. Oh boy, the form.
Since the tick boxes on the new DLA form are a bit 'one size fits no one'; and since the 'Additional Information' boxes are tiny; and since even if they were bigger, I don't do so well with the handwriting (that comes under question 47, 'Communication', if you're interested); and since Steve's handwriting is terrible; we just typed all my answers into a big document to print out and attach. The idea was that in and across the little boxes, we could simply write "see Additional Information, page X" making things easier all round.
Today, I printed out the document of 'Additional Information' so that I could start writing the correct page references into the little boxes on the form.
The total was 48, yes, forty-eight pages. The word-count was 26,019. That's twenty-six thousand and nineteen words. That's more than the entirety of my GCSE English Language and Literature courseworks.
Two of them are me covering my back with things like a list of the supporting evidence I am sending with the form, and an extra reiteration of the Declaration ("I declare that the information I have given is correct blah blah") just in case. The remaining 46 are all providing as clear a picture as I can of what problems I have and what help I need.
It defies stapling. We ended up with Steve hole-punching them all a few pages at a time, and me tying them together with spare yarn. It is a measure of how far I have progressed in the last year, that instead of just thinking "I'll grab whatever bit of wool is handy," I gave serious thought to the issue. I didn't want anything that would break, anything fluffy or fuzzy, or anything pink. After a moment's consideration, I instructed Steve to go downstairs to my Stash and fetch the pale blue Rowan All Seasons cotton. It is a measure of how far Steve has progressed, that he came back with not only the All Seasons cotton, but also the green Rowan Handknit Cotton as well, in case I'd prefer that, which I did. It's worked well, although we decided against listing it as a project on Ravelry.
In addition to this monster statement, and the standard DLA additional paperwork such as a list of repeat prescriptions and a report from a specialist, I am lucky enough to also be able to provide statements from:
- my mother
- my boyfriend, who I live with
- my co-worker who works with me for four hours a day
- two of my oldest friends. Uh, that's oldest as in, known me for years, not that they're old, I mean, uh...
I did ask my mum about the idea of providing a statement from the family dog too ("when Mary is on the floor, I lick her hand until she gives me a fuss, upon which I am satisfied that all is well and stand guard over her, in silence. They told me about some pup called Lassie who would have jumped about all over the place fetching people and barking, but I figured, no, some peace and quiet is what she'll want, that and an unpleasantly moist hand...") but she felt this might be over-egging the pudding somewhat.
Anyway, tomorrow I'll finish writing the Additional Information page references onto the form itself, and once that's done, I can sign and date it. Then on Wednesday, I need to find somewhere that does photocopying, because we Do Not send things to the DWP without keeping a copy, which means that hopefully I can get it posted (registered recorded whoopdedoo) by Friday, neatly inside the deadline. And I can stop fretting about it.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Home
This is a long post. Waffle about home, waffle about nice people, and a waffle about knitting. Feel free to skip to whatever bit you want.
Home
I'm definitely much more settled in now than I was last time I posted. Steve and a friend went to Lowestoft to pile the rest of my stuff into a van, so now it's all here. Mum and Sister Dearest have done the finishing up at the flat - disposing of the last bits of rubbish, giving the empty flat a final once-over with the vacuum cleaner, that sort of thing - so now all that remains to be done, is for Mum to call the leccy people with the final meter reading, and then hand the keys back to the landlord's agents.
A three-bedroom house containing my boyfriend is obviously going to be a very different home to a small one-bedroom flat that was just mine. Nevertheless, a home it is. It's amazing how much difference small things can make. For instance, the bedroom here, now contains the small bin and a few framed photographs that were in my bedroom back there. My poor abused houseplant is in the lounge. My trusty kettle is in the kitchen. And because of this, it doesn't seem to matter so much that 90% of my books are still inaccessible due to being boxed up, because there's a significant amount of familiar things that are definitely mine, but have their place here. It's very reassuring. Yes, I realise this makes me horribly materialistic. I don't care.
Nice People
More proof has been asserted for my "People Are Basically Nice" theory. This time, it was in the form of our next-door neighbours and an end to the Saga Of The Sink which I think several real-life people have heard about but I don't seem to have blogged.
Precis: There was a drip under Steve's kitchen sink (it started several months ago before I lived here, so definitely HIS sink). While it was creating half a small bucketful of water every fortnight or so, it was a bit of a non-issue. When I moved in here and discovered that it had deteriorated to a point where the brimful bucket needed emptying three times a day, I started being a pain in the arse at him to either fix it or call a plumber to fix it. I also dug out a Bigger Bucket. On Saturday morning, we found that the Bigger Bucket had filled to the top during the few hours while we slept, and Steve said I could call a plumber if I wanted.
Finding a plumber in Lowestoft would have been easy. Verily we could sayeth unto Pip, or other person involved in the building trade, "what plumbers do you know who could come and fix this for me?" and yea, he declareth "Bob's a decent plumber and a nice bloke, good mate, he won't overcharge you" and lo, for Bob the Plumber doth cease the flow of water and only charge for parts, and all is good with the world.
Here, however, I have yet to develop a personal and prioritised hotline to the world of tradesmen. Nor do I have the other common plan of having used a particular firm's services once, and on the basis that they didn't steal or break anything, hanging onto the number to call them next time there's an issue. So, I decided the sensible thing to do would be to pop next door to have a word with the lovely couple who have lived there many many years, and see if they had either of these resources.
All I asked for was a phone number of a plumber they could recommend. Of course, they asked what the matter was. In an effort to reassure them that they wouldn't be affected, I told them. "But why do you need a plumber for that?" they asked. "Because we don't know how to fix it ourselves," I answered. Next thing I knew, our friendly neighbour was coming round to have a look at it. He told Steve where to find the thingy to turn the water off, and undid the bit that was broken, and sent Steve off in the car to get a new one. Steve returned with the new bit, our friendly neighbour fitted it, and ever since, no drip.
I have no idea how we can thank the man. All I'm sure of is that giving him money would mortally offend him.
(At this point I also need to say that, on his plumbing expedition, Steve got new taps, the lever type ones, which are SO much easier for me (well, for anyone really) to use. Well done Steve.)
Knitting
I finished the jumper for Littlun, just on time for Steve to take it with him to Lowestoft when he went to pick up my stuff. I finished it perfectly, but then, I panicked. I had somehow convinced myself that there was no way the bound-off edge of the collar would be big enough to go over Littlun's head. Steve tried to persuade me it would be fine, but he didn't want to be too insistent because he was more concerned about making me calm down.
So rather than taking photos of the perfect finished item, I frantically unpicked the collar seam and knitted up a triangle shape to shove in, effectively increasing the neck by one inch. It didn't exactly look right but, he's three, he's not going to be wearing it perfectly straight at the best of times, and no other knitters are likely to inspect it. I didn't have time to re-do the bodge, but at least now I knew he would be able to at least put the jumper ON.
Steve took lots of pictures for me, but here is just one of the Littlun in his new jumper.
Since then, I have been working on my adapted version of these mitts for my stepdad. Today I finished Left Mitt v1.0 which I am sending to my parents for approval. If they tell me it fits, I can get on with knitting an identical Right Mitt. If it doesn't fit, I shall make a start on v2.0, with whatever adjustments they tell me are required.
Of course the big problem with this is the postal system or more to the point, the postal strikes. If I post v1.0 tomorrow (Monday), it may well not reach them until the following week or longer. I would also guess there's a higher chance than usual of it going missing altogether.
This means I have no current projects on the needles. Which feels weird. And I don't want to start the right mitt with the v1.0 pattern only to find it won't fit. And I don't have a clue what to knit next. Ideas?
Home
I'm definitely much more settled in now than I was last time I posted. Steve and a friend went to Lowestoft to pile the rest of my stuff into a van, so now it's all here. Mum and Sister Dearest have done the finishing up at the flat - disposing of the last bits of rubbish, giving the empty flat a final once-over with the vacuum cleaner, that sort of thing - so now all that remains to be done, is for Mum to call the leccy people with the final meter reading, and then hand the keys back to the landlord's agents.
A three-bedroom house containing my boyfriend is obviously going to be a very different home to a small one-bedroom flat that was just mine. Nevertheless, a home it is. It's amazing how much difference small things can make. For instance, the bedroom here, now contains the small bin and a few framed photographs that were in my bedroom back there. My poor abused houseplant is in the lounge. My trusty kettle is in the kitchen. And because of this, it doesn't seem to matter so much that 90% of my books are still inaccessible due to being boxed up, because there's a significant amount of familiar things that are definitely mine, but have their place here. It's very reassuring. Yes, I realise this makes me horribly materialistic. I don't care.
Nice People
More proof has been asserted for my "People Are Basically Nice" theory. This time, it was in the form of our next-door neighbours and an end to the Saga Of The Sink which I think several real-life people have heard about but I don't seem to have blogged.
Precis: There was a drip under Steve's kitchen sink (it started several months ago before I lived here, so definitely HIS sink). While it was creating half a small bucketful of water every fortnight or so, it was a bit of a non-issue. When I moved in here and discovered that it had deteriorated to a point where the brimful bucket needed emptying three times a day, I started being a pain in the arse at him to either fix it or call a plumber to fix it. I also dug out a Bigger Bucket. On Saturday morning, we found that the Bigger Bucket had filled to the top during the few hours while we slept, and Steve said I could call a plumber if I wanted.
Finding a plumber in Lowestoft would have been easy. Verily we could sayeth unto Pip, or other person involved in the building trade, "what plumbers do you know who could come and fix this for me?" and yea, he declareth "Bob's a decent plumber and a nice bloke, good mate, he won't overcharge you" and lo, for Bob the Plumber doth cease the flow of water and only charge for parts, and all is good with the world.
Here, however, I have yet to develop a personal and prioritised hotline to the world of tradesmen. Nor do I have the other common plan of having used a particular firm's services once, and on the basis that they didn't steal or break anything, hanging onto the number to call them next time there's an issue. So, I decided the sensible thing to do would be to pop next door to have a word with the lovely couple who have lived there many many years, and see if they had either of these resources.
All I asked for was a phone number of a plumber they could recommend. Of course, they asked what the matter was. In an effort to reassure them that they wouldn't be affected, I told them. "But why do you need a plumber for that?" they asked. "Because we don't know how to fix it ourselves," I answered. Next thing I knew, our friendly neighbour was coming round to have a look at it. He told Steve where to find the thingy to turn the water off, and undid the bit that was broken, and sent Steve off in the car to get a new one. Steve returned with the new bit, our friendly neighbour fitted it, and ever since, no drip.
I have no idea how we can thank the man. All I'm sure of is that giving him money would mortally offend him.
(At this point I also need to say that, on his plumbing expedition, Steve got new taps, the lever type ones, which are SO much easier for me (well, for anyone really) to use. Well done Steve.)
Knitting
I finished the jumper for Littlun, just on time for Steve to take it with him to Lowestoft when he went to pick up my stuff. I finished it perfectly, but then, I panicked. I had somehow convinced myself that there was no way the bound-off edge of the collar would be big enough to go over Littlun's head. Steve tried to persuade me it would be fine, but he didn't want to be too insistent because he was more concerned about making me calm down.
So rather than taking photos of the perfect finished item, I frantically unpicked the collar seam and knitted up a triangle shape to shove in, effectively increasing the neck by one inch. It didn't exactly look right but, he's three, he's not going to be wearing it perfectly straight at the best of times, and no other knitters are likely to inspect it. I didn't have time to re-do the bodge, but at least now I knew he would be able to at least put the jumper ON.
Steve took lots of pictures for me, but here is just one of the Littlun in his new jumper.
Since then, I have been working on my adapted version of these mitts for my stepdad. Today I finished Left Mitt v1.0 which I am sending to my parents for approval. If they tell me it fits, I can get on with knitting an identical Right Mitt. If it doesn't fit, I shall make a start on v2.0, with whatever adjustments they tell me are required.
Of course the big problem with this is the postal system or more to the point, the postal strikes. If I post v1.0 tomorrow (Monday), it may well not reach them until the following week or longer. I would also guess there's a higher chance than usual of it going missing altogether.
This means I have no current projects on the needles. Which feels weird. And I don't want to start the right mitt with the v1.0 pattern only to find it won't fit. And I don't have a clue what to knit next. Ideas?
Monday, September 24, 2007
Almost done
So, today is my last full day here on my little lonesome. I have one more night with a bed all to myself, and then I become a respectably living-in-sin woman. According to The Plan, Steve should turn up here tomorrow, on Wednesday take me to the doctor and help me pack more stuff, and on Thursday (possibly Friday), whisk me away for good.
Thursday (possibly Friday) isn't actually the Official Move Date. But with the best will in the world, I am not going to be a great deal of help with shifting boxes and furniture out of a first-floor flat. So we're moving me first, with a suitcase containing the stuff I need or that is highly important to me, and then at a slightly later date, Steve is going to come here on his own with a van which my friends and family will help him load up with boxes of books, furniture, remaining clothes and stuff. My mum and stepdad will be in and out disposing of the bits and bobs that I won't be taking with me, and then at a slightly later still date (which is so late mostly because of the "one month's notice" thing) they'll return the keys to my landlord on my behalf and hopefully get my deposit back too.
It feels REALLY weird. All of it. Like, I don't exactly have hundreds of friends who I see every week here, but I have a small handful of people I would define as Real Friends. And I am going to miss each and every one of them. They're all happy for me, they're all glad things are working out and going my way, but it still felt odd to hug someone and say goodbye like I have done a hundred times before but then instead of saying "don't forget to send me a text about next weekend" or similar, saying "don't forget to email me, and good luck with [long term life plans]."
The worst one is going to be Pip. And the Littlun of course, but let's be honest, I haven't known the Littlun as long and he's not a fab conversationalist. Admittedly neither is Pip but we have best-friend telepathy. But I'm not sure how well said telepathy will work across this kind of distance.
I miss him already and I've not even gone yet.
Thursday (possibly Friday) isn't actually the Official Move Date. But with the best will in the world, I am not going to be a great deal of help with shifting boxes and furniture out of a first-floor flat. So we're moving me first, with a suitcase containing the stuff I need or that is highly important to me, and then at a slightly later date, Steve is going to come here on his own with a van which my friends and family will help him load up with boxes of books, furniture, remaining clothes and stuff. My mum and stepdad will be in and out disposing of the bits and bobs that I won't be taking with me, and then at a slightly later still date (which is so late mostly because of the "one month's notice" thing) they'll return the keys to my landlord on my behalf and hopefully get my deposit back too.
It feels REALLY weird. All of it. Like, I don't exactly have hundreds of friends who I see every week here, but I have a small handful of people I would define as Real Friends. And I am going to miss each and every one of them. They're all happy for me, they're all glad things are working out and going my way, but it still felt odd to hug someone and say goodbye like I have done a hundred times before but then instead of saying "don't forget to send me a text about next weekend" or similar, saying "don't forget to email me, and good luck with [long term life plans]."
The worst one is going to be Pip. And the Littlun of course, but let's be honest, I haven't known the Littlun as long and he's not a fab conversationalist. Admittedly neither is Pip but we have best-friend telepathy. But I'm not sure how well said telepathy will work across this kind of distance.
I miss him already and I've not even gone yet.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Haircut Trauma
Well, the Littlun has had his hair cut.
The Boy is funny about his hair, and has been for pretty much all his life. He can deal with it being washed, in the bath - but then he loves his bath, it's his favourite time of day. What he refuses to deal with is having his hair brushed, or towel-dried, or blow-dried. He even tends to get a bit funny if you stroke it when giving him a cuddle. We have no idea why.
Our haircut plan was thrown a bit off course by the usual hairdressers' place being shut for a few days. Well, I say usual, the kid has had about 5 haircuts in his life so far, but you know what I mean. Still, we found another barber's shop that would do toddlers, and in we went. Littlun was sweetness and light, watching with interest as another little boy, probably about 5 or 6 years old, had his hair cut and styled. We played counting games and face-identification ("where's your mouth? Yay! Where's Daddy's ears? Yay! What's this? That's right, it's your nose!" etc) and then the stylist brought out a kiddie-sized cape.
"What are we doing today then?" asked the stylist.
Pip explained that all that was required was less hair. He wasn't worried about a style, just about there being less of the mop getting in the boy's eyes and being a battle to brush. He explained about the Boy having a problem with having his hair brushed and advised the stylist to just try and do a rough job as quickly as possible before he kicked off. The stylist looked at Littlun, settled happily on the big seat wearing the cape and watching things in the mirror, and uttered those fateful words, "oh, I'm sure it's not that bad."
He spritzed water all over the Littlun's hair, so far so good, and then began to comb it through. Littlun started to grizzle. It's not quite crying, but the eyes go wet and the mouth goes open and down at the corners like a drama tragedy mask, and a long noise that's somewhere between a cry and a groan starts up. But he was still sitting properly like a good boy, and Pip was next to him reassuring him that he was being a good boy.
The stylist appeared to think this was as bad as it would get, because he started to faff. And I mean faff. Taking the hair at the back of Littlun's head and snipping little feathery bits into it, trying to make sure everything's exactly even, fussing. Meanwhile Pip and I could tell the grizzle was doing the equivalent of a burning fuse, and the worst of the Mop - like the bits over the ears, and the bits getting in the eyes - was still firmly in place.
Another two or three minutes were bought with an apple and grape Snack Pack, and another two by using a phone to take pictures of Pip, Littlun and me and then showing them to Littlun with a "who's that?" The drink should have got us a good five minutes except that for the first time in his life, he didn't want a drink.
Then the proper crying started. Real Tears and plenty of snot, then hiccupping sobs. He doesn't stay still when he's like that, so instead of having him in the chair, Pip had to pick him up and cuddle/hold him in front of the stylist, and the stylist finally realised that we might not have been joking about there being a problem with haircuts and started actually cutting away the hair that was the reason for this haircut rather than faffing and styling at the back.
The top, back and sides more or less done, all that remained was to try and get the bits at the nape of the neck. Oh dear. This was the point at which the full-on tantrum of a two year old boy, who is the size of a 3-4 year old, and who has been holding on and trying not to kick off for more than a quarter of an hour, really finally kicked off. Pip had to go from cuddling him to out-and-out restraining him. People walking past outside were stopping to stare in the window. People inside were giving me the Bad Mother Gaze which I always object to as I'm not a parent - but what can you do, go up to everybody and say "he's nothing to do with me"? The stylist kept trying to get the last bit that still needed to be done, and got kicked for his trouble. Eventually the stylist gave up.
Littlun, naturally, started to be quiet again as soon as he was back in his buggy*, was cheerfully waving and saying "bye-bye" through his sniffles as we left, and was un-tear-stained and happy as anything when we staggered back into Pip's house for a much-needed cup of tea. Little GIT.
We're not sure what to do. We could go through this again and again and again. We could let the boy have long hair until such time as he can participate in a reasoned verbal discussion about the difference between "having a haircut" and "being viciously bludgeoned to death", and which of these warrants the screaming heebie-jeebies. We could sneak up on him in the middle of the night with the nail scissors and hope he doesn't wake. Unfortunately he doesn't like hats either so if it went wrong, it wouldn't be so good. Or there's always chloroform... your suggestions?
*we have tried Haircut In The Buggy. It doesn't work. It's not only awkward for the person doing the cutting, but the strop is increased as Littlun realises he's been had... and of course, there isn't then an opportunity for him to shut up when he's put in the buggy.
The Boy is funny about his hair, and has been for pretty much all his life. He can deal with it being washed, in the bath - but then he loves his bath, it's his favourite time of day. What he refuses to deal with is having his hair brushed, or towel-dried, or blow-dried. He even tends to get a bit funny if you stroke it when giving him a cuddle. We have no idea why.
Our haircut plan was thrown a bit off course by the usual hairdressers' place being shut for a few days. Well, I say usual, the kid has had about 5 haircuts in his life so far, but you know what I mean. Still, we found another barber's shop that would do toddlers, and in we went. Littlun was sweetness and light, watching with interest as another little boy, probably about 5 or 6 years old, had his hair cut and styled. We played counting games and face-identification ("where's your mouth? Yay! Where's Daddy's ears? Yay! What's this? That's right, it's your nose!" etc) and then the stylist brought out a kiddie-sized cape.
"What are we doing today then?" asked the stylist.
Pip explained that all that was required was less hair. He wasn't worried about a style, just about there being less of the mop getting in the boy's eyes and being a battle to brush. He explained about the Boy having a problem with having his hair brushed and advised the stylist to just try and do a rough job as quickly as possible before he kicked off. The stylist looked at Littlun, settled happily on the big seat wearing the cape and watching things in the mirror, and uttered those fateful words, "oh, I'm sure it's not that bad."
He spritzed water all over the Littlun's hair, so far so good, and then began to comb it through. Littlun started to grizzle. It's not quite crying, but the eyes go wet and the mouth goes open and down at the corners like a drama tragedy mask, and a long noise that's somewhere between a cry and a groan starts up. But he was still sitting properly like a good boy, and Pip was next to him reassuring him that he was being a good boy.
The stylist appeared to think this was as bad as it would get, because he started to faff. And I mean faff. Taking the hair at the back of Littlun's head and snipping little feathery bits into it, trying to make sure everything's exactly even, fussing. Meanwhile Pip and I could tell the grizzle was doing the equivalent of a burning fuse, and the worst of the Mop - like the bits over the ears, and the bits getting in the eyes - was still firmly in place.
Another two or three minutes were bought with an apple and grape Snack Pack, and another two by using a phone to take pictures of Pip, Littlun and me and then showing them to Littlun with a "who's that?" The drink should have got us a good five minutes except that for the first time in his life, he didn't want a drink.
Then the proper crying started. Real Tears and plenty of snot, then hiccupping sobs. He doesn't stay still when he's like that, so instead of having him in the chair, Pip had to pick him up and cuddle/hold him in front of the stylist, and the stylist finally realised that we might not have been joking about there being a problem with haircuts and started actually cutting away the hair that was the reason for this haircut rather than faffing and styling at the back.
The top, back and sides more or less done, all that remained was to try and get the bits at the nape of the neck. Oh dear. This was the point at which the full-on tantrum of a two year old boy, who is the size of a 3-4 year old, and who has been holding on and trying not to kick off for more than a quarter of an hour, really finally kicked off. Pip had to go from cuddling him to out-and-out restraining him. People walking past outside were stopping to stare in the window. People inside were giving me the Bad Mother Gaze which I always object to as I'm not a parent - but what can you do, go up to everybody and say "he's nothing to do with me"? The stylist kept trying to get the last bit that still needed to be done, and got kicked for his trouble. Eventually the stylist gave up.
Littlun, naturally, started to be quiet again as soon as he was back in his buggy*, was cheerfully waving and saying "bye-bye" through his sniffles as we left, and was un-tear-stained and happy as anything when we staggered back into Pip's house for a much-needed cup of tea. Little GIT.
We're not sure what to do. We could go through this again and again and again. We could let the boy have long hair until such time as he can participate in a reasoned verbal discussion about the difference between "having a haircut" and "being viciously bludgeoned to death", and which of these warrants the screaming heebie-jeebies. We could sneak up on him in the middle of the night with the nail scissors and hope he doesn't wake. Unfortunately he doesn't like hats either so if it went wrong, it wouldn't be so good. Or there's always chloroform... your suggestions?
*we have tried Haircut In The Buggy. It doesn't work. It's not only awkward for the person doing the cutting, but the strop is increased as Littlun realises he's been had... and of course, there isn't then an opportunity for him to shut up when he's put in the buggy.
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