Self Check Out Hell

I went to the supermarket last night. Self Check Out, that was what finished me off. I quite fancied playing the grown up version of 'shopkeeper' with a full size check out and till, minus the plastic orange and minature box of cornflakes. Why can’t they let you choose the pre-recorded voice, somewhat like Satellite Navigation? The virtual check out assistant sounds so condescending.

‘Please scan the item’. I AM! It is not my fault the grapes are round and smaller than the barcode making it impossible to scan. ‘Please put the item in the bag’. OK. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE, I HAVE, look, it is in the bloody bag. ‘Please scan the item’ ‘Please scan the item’. I AM! Stop putting me under pressure. I am sweating in fear now. What if the assistant thinks I am trying to steal something by not scanning it? My gestures become extreme as I attempt to prove to everyone watching that I am trying to scan the item. I now resemble a playschool teacher reciting, ‘Wheels on the Bus’ with my overly exaggerated arm movements, whilst trying to look like I am in control and enjoying the whole ‘self check out’ experience. I am not. I am on a fast train to hell and there are no brakes.

‘Please enter the barcode’ WHAT! Oh struth, I can’t see it, where are my specs? Handbag! That is where they are. Putting your handbag on the scan screen is not a good idea. ‘Please scan the item’. It is my handbag, it is Italian and I refuse to pay for it, it was a present from my mother. ‘Please enter the barcode’. I am getting my specs, for gawd’s sake! Why is it that now you find the arm of your specs have broken off and that the only way of getting them to stay on is to put your head is at an angle of 45 degrees? ‘Please enter the barcode’. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a mother with two toddlers methodically working her way up and down the aisles, she is obviously shopping for the whole of Stamford. Head on one side, trying to read a 20-digit barcode, whilst holding item in one hand and typing with the other, praying broken specs, stay on nose is not a look conducive with a seasoned ‘self check out’ shopper. Three attempts later, ‘please put the item in the basket’. Yes, haven’t we been through this already? ‘Please scan the item’. The customer at the till next to me, smiles sweetly (as he is paying) ‘try wiping the screen’. I have turned into the store cleaner! I resist the urge to ask, with acidic undertones, ‘am I allowed to spit on the tissue first, it always worked with the children?’

Several items later, wonky glasses have now developed a precarious stance as they drift towards my left cheek. I am sweating as if I have just run a marathon. ‘Please wait for an assistant’. WHAT! I haven’t done anything. I look around for the assistant who is helping a 4-year-old reach the card payment machine; they obviously have a better clue than I do. ‘It says I have to wait for you’, ‘Yes dear, that is because you have alcohol, ooh are you having a party?’ ‘No, it’s been a hard day’. Look of horror quickly replaced by sympathetic glance from assistant.

All items eventually scanned and in the ‘Bag Area’, ‘How would you like to pay?’ What a daft question! Well, do you know what? I do not care. Have my credit card, here have the contents of my purse, re-mortgage my house and take the proceeds, I don’t care just let me go’.

Mother with toddlers is now passing through the exit doors with monstrous trolley full of shopping, packed and paid for. I, meanwhile, am considering returning into the supermarket to purchase a Gin and Tonic in a tin; with any luck, I could have drunk it before I reach the trolley park. Perhaps not. I am exhausted, stressed, broken out in a hot sweat and humiliated beyond belief by my own ineptitude. Sod it. I am going home. I shall grow my own food from now on; it could not be more stressful, could it?

The General Election 2010 - Runners and Riders

Gordon Brown
Evens chance of winning if his nemesis, ‘World Recession’ doesn’t threaten his position on the outside rails. Trained by Tony Blair, who had an unbeaten run of 10 years, Tony lacked staying power for the final race so opted to quit whilst ahead, hoping to avoid a Stewards Enquiry over his race fixing with George Bush. This became unavoidable when the owners of ‘Iraq Enquiry’ lodged an official complaint. This left Gordon Brown to take up the reins on hard going. Has moments of stamina, but tends to flounder when the blinkers are removed, leading to running off track and has been known to take completely the wrong course on occasions.

Will have to watch runners from his own stable who have been known to hamper a clear run at the fences. Notably the filly ‘Harriet Harman’ who would not be averse to seeing her stable mate fall at the final fence. Another insider threat ‘The Prince of Darkness’ trained by Peter Mandeleson who has fought back from 3 or 4 behind in the field previously and was the joint trainer with Tony Blair of the once bright, young filly, ‘New Labour’ who appears to have disappeared from the scene and been put out to grass.

Gordon Brown has unproven form in the General Election and it remains to be seen if he can stay the course over rough terrain. Would be well advised to avoid excessive use of 'Chief Whip' to secure a good result as this may also result in a Stewards Enquiry and a lengthy ban from future races. Unlikely to romp home as a clear winner.

Update on Chances

Fantastic News. The youngest has been offered a place at her school of choice! The Bursary awarded met with my ex husbands approval and it has been agreed that she will be able to attend.

I am not sure my openness, honesty and soul bearing had any effect on the decision. One day I may find the courage to ask, in the meantime, I am just so very relieved. The school is exceptional and has all the opportunities my daughter could ever dream of. Now it is down to her to learn, dream and live the chance she has been given.

Chances

I laid my soul out on a piece of A4 paper this week. I opened myself up for judgement (financially) by a man sitting in an office. I didn’t want to do it. I was backed into a corner. Slowly manipulated, I knew it was happening but I was powerless to stop it.

I was excruciatingly embarrassed. I felt humiliated. I felt powerless to control the outcome of my soul bearing. Deep inside there was the ember of some long burnt out fire. A message. A memory from the past. It had been stuffed into an old brown envelope and filed away into the recesses of a drawer in my head. I was fighting for my child and her right to the education I know could influence the path of her life.

At Christmas, I was told by my ex-husband's new wife that he couldn’t afford to contribute as much as necessary to send his daughter to the school she dreams of attending. I was informed, that if I was so set on her going to the school I should, ‘contribute financially’. OUCH! The kick delivered from that mule, hit the mark. I guess being a career woman, who professes to never wanting children; she doesn’t see my point of view. For ten years, in place of maintenance, my ex husband has contributed towards their education, he doesn’t pay all the fees but that is another story for another time. I gain nothing financially and never have from this arrangement.

I mucked up my education. I wasn’t a bad scholar, I was a rebel (well, in my head I was!). I didn’t enjoy education. I fought, silently, in my head against teachers, my parents, learning and the bullies who made my life a misery. I vowed from the day each of my children were born, that I would encourage my children to love learning. I have had a life of missed chances, opportunities and recognition. I don’t want that for them. I love my life, I have very few regrets but it would have been different if I had learnt to love learning at a younger age. Ironically, as soon as I left school I couldn’t learn enough; art, history, music, I devoured it.

So, a decision was made to apply for a ‘discount’ by my ex husband and the financial situation forms duly arrived for me to complete. It didn’t take long to complete them; there wasn’t much to say really. I don’t have much in financial terms, apart from our business and a mortgage!

That was when the pain kicked in. ‘It didn’t take long’ and all it did was reinforce the fact that I should have learnt to learn at school. I had gone full circle. In that circle, I had waded through a maelstrom of inadequacy, embarrassment and humiliation. I was wracked with regret for the education I scorned. I felt inadequate. I know I have a good and agile brain but my lack of proof and a marriage, that involved many moves, did nothing to help my career in the earlier years. Now I feel I am playing ‘catch up’ and the financial gains are not what they would have been had I started on my chosen journey earlier in life.

I cried with humiliation and frustration, at first they were silent tears then they became a wave of misery, a veritable tsunami. I do not want any of my children to feel these emotions. My youngest loves learning, she lives to read; novels, facts, study books and poetry. She reads an average of 2 to 3 books a week and loves writing. The final five years of her education are as important as the years that have gone before. I don’t expect her to be a genius, I just want to her continue loving words, music, art, science and the knowledge they instill. What she chooses to do with her education is for her to decide but I must do whatever necessary to give her the best chance. We will see.

Looking Inwards, Looking Outwards

Christmas came in a flurry of wrapping paper, wine, food and snow. Snow! It fell from the sky like a burst feather pillow, only a lot colder. The youngest daughter was, initially, beside herself with excitement. I fell once more, into paranoid mother mode. ‘Do not go out without waterproofs on, you will catch a chill’. ‘Don’t go so fast on that sledge, if you crash into that tree you will hurt yourself’. ‘Ring me when you arrive at work and do NOT drive above 10 miles an hour’. ‘Do not warm your fingers and toes on the fire like that you will get chilblains’. I really do need to let go a little, my youngest is 13 years old soon, the eldest two are 20 and 19 years old respectively.

I tried over Christmas to let go. The whole of the Christmas break was spent doing nothing. I became a hermit and rarely ventured out of the house and grumbled when I did! I am always telling myself; quite literally, I need to get out more. When I had the chance, I didn’t do it. I am becoming a somewhat strange, overly paranoid, recluse. My car has not left the drive in weeks and I am beginning to see trips to the supermarket as an ‘outing’. I look inwards too much.

The Haiti earthquake struck this week and suddenly the desire to stay within the confines of my little world left. I am sure everyone is moved when they see a disaster but this one seemed to stir something stronger inside me. I was very serious when I asked my, already overworked husband, if we could get out there and help get water and sanitation established. I remain serious; I have created myself a small, safe, world in my part of Rutland. Real life isn’t like that though is it? I am extremely fortunate, I ramble on fretting about the minor things but when I watched some of the news reports, worrying about a 12 year old whizzing down the garden with the snow in her face, laughing, made me realise that my worries were insignificant.

My desire to go to Haiti is very real. I can plumb (even if my skills with a blowtorch are a little rusty) my husband is extremely skilled and knowledgeable; surely our skills could be put to use. I am aware to go out now would be foolish, there is chaos out there. Haiti will not be rebuilt or regain any semblance of order for months, if not years. It is time for us to leave our safe haven and make a difference. If we can use our skills to make the difference to anyone by giving them back running water and sanitation or teaching them how to do it for themselves, surely we must make an effort. Perhaps this year’s holiday should be a trip out there, we have the choice, the people of Haiti have no choices. So if anyone out there knows if any organisations are mobilising plumbers to go out there, let me know.

Making Mince Pies, Toga's and Christmas Shopping

I am sure that Christmas will come together but currently I cannot see the Christmas tree for the holly. I am beginning to resemble a slightly deranged, bag lady. There are bags scattered around the house, badly secreted under beds, in wardrobes and the office stationary cupboard. They contain various Christmas presents or parts of Christmas presents and my mind is beginning to lose track of what is for who and where it actually is. I wake at night in a cold sweat dreaming that I have wrapped 0.2mm drawing pen and given it to the local farmer instead of a bottle of wine.

Do not start me on the Christmas tree! The buying and decorating of the tree was scheduled for Sunday past. It didn’t happen, not because I decided to have the mother of all lay ins. Oh no, I couldn’t be that lucky. I was up early frantically knitting a dress for my granddaughter in white four ply. Have you ever tried knitting four ply on a Sunday morning? My eyes felt like red-hot candy canes had poked them out.

Then I received the bombshell that my youngest HAD to go Christmas shopping for her friends, she needed to wrap and fill her Christmas shoe-box for Rumanian orphans, oh and could I find a sheet for her Roman Christmas Feast as part of her Latin studies and if I had time could I make some Mince Pies for the Mothers Coffee Morning. I went into freefall.

I put down the knitting, made the pastry and left it in the fridge (apparently this helps the pastry). We hot footed it down to Argos where I spent 20 minutes browsing with the youngest, attempting to find five Christmas presents for 12 year old girls, all of which I had set a budget of £6 each on. The budget flew out of the window. I dashed next door to pick up a chicken (dead, I hasten to add) for Sunday lunch and grab more Christmas cards. I never knew I had so many people to send cards to. Crisis! I remembered I had no mincemeat for the mince pies. Easy to find mincemeat at the local Leedaaals. Ohhh noooo it isn’t!

We dash round to Morrisons; I had forgotten to get dog food too. BIG mistake. The world and his wife had decided to park in supermarket car park and trot off into town for the Victorian Christmas Market. What are you thinking of people? Are you mad? Christmas is two weeks away and you are ambling around the local ‘Past Times’ market.

Was I the only person in town that had broken into a sweat of fear at the thought of not being able to secure the purchase of a jar of mincemeat and four tins of dog food? I manoeuvred the husbands ‘truck’ into the car park and sat, then I sat some more. Then I was overcome with car park rage. ‘RIGHT, that does it’ I yelled. ‘We are going home’. We did, minus the mincemeat and dog food. By this time, I genuinely had the mother of all Migraines and a severe case of Post Traumatic Shopping Syndrome. I got home and I had a strong coffee with a slug of brandy in it.

I helped the youngest wrap her Christmas presents and dispatched her with hubby to her riding lesson. It was 3 o’clock and not a Christmas tree in sight! I decided to cut out the mince pies ready for the arrival of the mincemeat hubby had promised to secure. The phone rings. ‘What type of mince meat do you want, figs and brandy, rum and almond, luxury or just plain cheap?’ Oh my giddy aunt! In my head I was screaming, ‘I don’t know.... ask me again.... no don’t.... I haven’t a clue, just get me anything’. My festive spirit and the brandy had worn off. ‘Cheapest you can get and lots of it’ I barked, immediately feeling sorry for him.

I made the mince pies, after borrowing extra pie tins from my neighbour. I seem to have lost two of my three tins. I suspect they are somewhere in the garden being used for ‘concocting’ some experiment by the youngest.

By the end of the day, daughter had sheet (toga), presents bought, wrapped and packed neatly into several carrier bags she had wrestled her show box into submission and packed that too. Something missing? Oh yes, the mince pies. She never did get those. For some reason although they looked relatively festive, the bottoms of the mince pies were as hard as the hobs of hell. To send them to a coffee morning where they would sit next to those made by mothers who had taken all the time and care in the world would be suicide. I sent the daughter off with the words ‘sod it, I am not going to the coffee morning anyway, they can mange without mine’. She smiled her best sympathetic smile and said, ‘never mind Mummy, no-one will notice’. Bless her, she could have told me that at 9.a.m that morning. Christmas tree is scheduled for later this week. I will keep you posted!

Finding a Cure for Chilblains

The weather is grey, interspersed with sunshine. A little like life really. My feet get cold, so cold they feel numb. My brain seems to follow the same pattern these days. Warming my feet by the fire, I risk chilblains and wonder if the constant searching for sunshine for my brain will risk me being left with chilblains on the brain! It does though, doesn’t it? With the pain, sense of loss and anger of the last few weeks I know the chilblains on my brain will heal but I also know they will leave their mark. I guess that is what makes me the person I am and the one I will become. If I give in to anger and bitterness, all is lost.

Following on from the murder of our friend, one of my girlfriends died last week, she had fought long and hard against cancer. She was so determined to live. She loved life, her young son and her husband and always had a smile on her face. The only self-doubt I ever heard her have was when we met for a drink and she took me into the Ladies and removed her hat. 'Look Mary', she said looking tearfully at her head. 'It had grown back so beautifully and now I look like a badger'. I hugged her, rubbed the patchy skull and told her it would grow back again when she had beaten this second round of treatment. I lied and deep down we both knew I had. We never talked about her dying; she told me she did not consider it an option. I will miss her; she could drink some Guinness that girl.

I have my moments when things seem futile. I am left with another layer of life heaped into my head. Having mulled things over for a few days, I know I was lucky to have known the two people who have now moved onto another place I have yet to discover. I learnt a lot from knowing them. I need to take their examples of courage, compassion, hope and kindness and use what they taught me to make a difference in my own life and the lives of my own family and friends. If I let anger, misery and bitterness wrap their icy fingers round my brain, I will never cure the chilblains in my head.