Friday 2 December 2011

Perspective Taking, or Possibly Not


Wine o’clock on Friday has arrived not a moment too soon this week. It’s been so packed full of fuckwittery that I’m struggling to get my fractious thoughts out on the page before the warm process of unfucking my brain by irresponsible drinking overcomes me. I’ve become pretty much immune to probation officers refraining from returning my calls, clients getting pissy that I’ve mislaid my magic wand and crystal ball, and the Ministry of Justice computer system saying no, in triplicate. I’m also doing my regular, end of the month, call dodging from British Gas who want me to settle my account. I have to report that my new tactic of pretending not to be me when they ring, and putting on a bad Eastern European au pair’s accent is working well so far. Winding up Indian call centre staff isn’t big or cleaver, but it allows my some respite from my straightened circumstances with a bit of a childish giggle.

What’s really got my dander well and truly elevated this week is all the nonsense in the news about the public sector workers’ strike and related issues. It seems that no one can agree to disagree, there are no shades of grey, and everyone has an opinion and is bloody well right. End of.

At the outset of the announcement that there was to be a strike I was firmly, and strangely for me, with the Government. I’m in a strange position with employment. I’m self-employed and work in the private sector: I get no sick pay, holiday pay, pension contributions or other fringe benefits. However, my income is derived from the Government as a solicitor in the criminal justice system. There has been talk in the past by politicians red, blue and orange (or is it yellow?) of nationalising criminal defence solicitors into a quasi-US public defence service and I believe there was a pilot project. Then a public servant with more than the usual quotient of
brain cells worked out that that would turn us into public servants with all the fringe benefits that accompany it, and that was the end of that.

I read around the issues, and I can understand why public service workers wish to protect their pensions, and morally the Government should not be entitled to change the arrangements. I’ve read that they contracted for those benefits, and they should therefore be written in stone. What I object to is this: since I qualified as a solicitor governments of both parties have continually imposed contracts on criminal defence solicitors, reduced remuneration rates, and most recently made us undertake certain cases for no payment at all. Forget about even a pretend, fairyland consultation period. I wonder how many teachers would get out of bed in the morning if they were told that they would only get paid for teaching the first lesson in the afternoon. I can hear you cry that none of this makes the current dispute over pensions right. I agree.

The source of my not inconsiderable wrath is this – teachers, nurses, fire fighters, police officers et al should receive what they contracted for (I have different views about probation officers and minions at the Parole Board and Ministry of Justice, but it’s probably best not to go there) and so do those of us that work in the private sector of the criminal justice system. The difference seems to be that the public service pundits and unionist that I’ve heard speak this week talk about entitlement, whereas we have to deal with the economic reality that if we refuse to accept the terms imposed on us we won’t have a job to go to.

And yes, with the “support” of our “union” we are intending to strike over the removal of a fee for representing a defendant who elects trial in the Crown Court and then pleads guilty on the first opportunity after the case has been committed. I’m underwhelmed by the coverage this has received in the media. Some solicitors don’t even want to discuss striking because they know from bitter experience that it is futile, and because we know we just have to get on with it, make the best of what we do have. I’m not an economist so I have to accept that the current pension arrangements are unsustainable, and I believe that some unionists have acknowledged this. I also wholeheartedly accept that the Government has been duplicitous in their dealings with the unions involved. Welcome to my world.

I’m not attempting to illicit sympathy: I am, after all, a member of one of the most hated professions, probably comingsecond only to bankers and, I hope, estate agents. I choose to remain this field because I still give a shit about justice. Perhaps the hallowed public service workers can gain some perspective too.

Sunday 14 August 2011

Microcosmotastic

I had a run in with my father this morning which I'm still reeling from, hence the following rant. He's known to the Little Darlings as Grumpy, strangely enough. The fact that he thinks that I don't discipline Boychild severely enough was nothing new, but today he proclaimed that I am raising a criminal. I should spend more meaningful time with him (ie, not be a working mother which is evil) and take him to more pro-social activities. I should also beat him for his transgressions. Apparently the golf lessons, tennis club and football practice don't count. I accept that I let him give up horse riding even though he was pretty good at it when Spouse called him a gayer for taking part in a girly activity once too often. In any event my badmother credentials are now official since my perfect brother and his second wife (who incidentally thinks that Jordon is a positive role model) agree that Boychild is "out of control".

Having had an hour or so to seethe and reflect while cruelly not spending time with my son as I washed, stretched back into shape, and put away newly laundered clothes, it seems to me germane that these allegations come following a week of parent bashing by the Government and other, probably childless, pundits.

Boychild has sensed some negative grandparental rumblings for a while, and he has fulfilled their proficy in ways that would impress the most eminent sociologists. He belches "Arch-Bishop" at will since it annoys Grandma, and refuses to sit still during Sunday lunch because it pisses Grumpy off. In short, he's very good at not doing as he's told, needs to learn to be seen and not heard, and would probably benefit from doing as I say and not as I do. A strikingly similar message was sent out by Mr Cameron in the Commons this week.

I feel sure that I have little, if anything to add to the debate about the causes of the breakdown of our communities. I've certainly read a number of extremely well crafted pieces in the media. What I'm struggling to express is that my sulky raction to the criticisms of my parenting abilities was to say fuck you, if it's not good enough for you, leave us alone innit, and I suspect that a similar response, in kind, will come from the inner cities.

Wednesday 29 June 2011

The Secret Diary of Jojo's Mole Aged 43 and 3/4

Today will be remembered, by me at least, as badmother's first brush with the plastic surgeon's knife. Not that you can brush with a knife because that would be silly and painful, very messy and undoubtedly against the law unless you do it to yourself. But then you would probably be sectioned so equally inadvisable. I digress.

A few weeks ago a mole that I've never been fond of started growing, and as I said to the plastic surgeon, was itchy and hurty. Having been inundated with medical advice not to ignore such symptoms I saw my GP. I made the mistake of making an appointment last thing on a Friday when the said doctor's mind was clearly concentrated on the golf course rather than the patient, so she took a quick peek at the offending blemish, said there was nothing wrong with it and if I wanted my itchy hurty mole removed I would have to pay privately. I didn't resent having to pay for the procedure as much as her insinuation that I was trying to get free plastic surgery on the NHS. I tried to put this into perspective and accept that I probably give more love and better advice to clients when I'm not it a tit-twist about having to be at the office. In fact I have been known to get a bit shouty, but don't tell the SRA.

It turned out that the mole removal procedure was covered by a medical insurance policy I have courtesy of spouse's firm since the plastic surgeon was prepared to attest that it was itchy and hurty and needed to be removed. I have to pay an excess of £150 but have no idea whether this will affect my no claims bonus. A visit to the dentist costs about this and I decided that if I had an itchy huty tooth I would probably cough up, so I booked an appointment for this afternoon. On receiving notification that my insurance company would settle the bill the surgeon offered to remove all three moles on my face. Bargain. I like a bargain and who could refuse a BOGToF deal - buy one get two free? It turned out to be cheaper and less painful than a trip to the dentist, and I wholeheartedly recommend anyone with an itchy and hurty mole to go under the knife.

I'm now saving up for the boob job. I intend to turn myself into the closest human approximation to "Trigger's broom". For those of you that didn't watch Only Fools and Horses when it seemed to be funny, Trigger claimed to have owned the same broom for thirty years during which time it only had seventeen new handles and fifteen new heads.


I appreciate that some people find the concept of plastic surgery to be wrong. I blow a raspberry in your general direction. If you don't like something on TV then switch off, and if you don't like cosmetic surgery, shut the fuck up and don't have any.

Thursday 19 May 2011

Polly Perfect and the SamCamGlam Clan

I've allowed myself to become embroiled in a dispute at the school gate. It isn't pretty. Over the course of this year a clique of mothers of a certain type has emerged. Before this I considered myself to be a friend of one of the said clique who, like me, was not adverse to a spot of irresponsible drinking, smoking and the liberal use of expletives. Then Polly Perfect got her jewel encrusted, regularly professionally manicured, nails into her. Polly changes her BMW sports cars and Chelsea Tractors about as frequently as I buy new shoes. I have wondered whether she tells her spouse when he returns from work in the Gulf States "what, this old car - I've had it for ages - you never notice me - sob" as I do to spouse when his eyes turn skyward and accuses me of buying new footwear.








In any event, I've been sufficiently irritated about giving a shit that Polly Perfect clearly doesn't consider me yummy mummy material, that I've only very recently shared my feelings with another reject. It turns out she feels exactly the same way so I consider my churlishness to be vindicated and I'm prepared to share it with you.








Polly decided recently that her charitable act of the year would be to invite some of the slummy mummies to an end of term meal at a smart restaurant in town. She probably considered the mothers that actually have to work for a fucking living don't ordinarily get to visit such establishments and would kneel down and worship at the shrine of scrummy yummy mummyness. However, she has standards to maintain, and clearly undertook a vetting procedure. The slummy mummies that have professional occupations passed, and the blue collar workers remained in exile. The clear injustice was exacerbated by the claim that the reason that only certain individuals were chosen was because Polly wanted the evening to be "more intimate". I found this as lame as a duck, and not just a metaphorical lame duck either; a duck that that's just stepped on a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.








This afternoon, with the back of another slummy mummy invitee, we rebelled and said we didn't wanna play. Instead of going out for posh nosh we're spending the said evening crawling pubs, smoking like a boy-racers first set of low profile tyres, and maybe taking in a curry before taking it out again in the back of a taxi. What really fucked me off though was that when we informed Polly Perfect that we wouldn't be joining them, she beamed her smile spa'd super straight gnashers at me. I overcame the breathtaking urge to remove them. Plastic Poo-tangs.








I've just shared the debarcle with spouse. He said: "mothers-care, fathers-don't-give-a-fuck."








I would like to acknowledge the assistance of my buddy Sam for the slummy mummy label which I wholeheartedly embrace, and Anna for Plastic Poo-tangs, cause that's what they are. xxx








Tuesday 15 February 2011

It's been a bad day which I insist on sharing with you. I have manflu, and have managed to have two encounters with traffic wardens during the course of a cold day spent in an office heated by two light bulbs the boss man considers are heaters. I toyed with the idea of coming in late, but on account of the fact that I've forgotten the colour of my desk over the last two weeks thought better of it. The law of sod dictated that the computers were down until 11.30 am. During the computer crash I had spotted a traffic warden eyeing up my badly parked car (I told my passenger he could walk to the pavement from here), and placated the warden by promising sincerely not to attempt parallel parking in future since I'm just a girl.

By the time I left the office to collect the Little Darlings from school my normal, barely adequate psychic defences were hardly monitoring on my Giveashitometer. When I rocked up customarily late at the school there were no free parking spaces parallel or otherwise on account of a nearby building site which helpfully placed no parking bollards where I normally abandon my car. Since I was anticipating a quick turnaround I parked right next to the school gates on zig-zags. I know it's a sin which has been depicted on tv ads as an invitation for children to throw themselves in the path of oncoming vehicles. It was a case of finding a legal space, being late and incurring the wrath of the Head of the Juniors, or take a chance. My Giveashitometer was, by this time, flat lining so I took the latter course of action.

Cue second Nazi in a traffic warden's uniform. Boychild came out first and ran to the car after throwing his bag at me. He came back a few moments later and told me there was a man in a hat that was writing my number plate down. I ran back around the corner to the warden, and through gritted teeth asked him politely not to give me a ticket. He said since I'd parked on zig-zags rather then double yellows he had no choice but to give me a ticket with a patronising, if a little gleeful, "more than my jobs worth" way. Jack, observing, asked me not to swear in front of his friends who were watching. I stifled my initial reaction enquire what's it like to have a job with no fucking prospects, and instead suggested that his contribution to the community would be far better served by stopping the self appointed traffic warden bully boy builders blocking a number of parking spaces that I would have otherwise utilized (even though it would have involved another crack at parallel parking). While he could be at that, he could also suggest to them that driving oversized forklift trucks at speed down a narrow road with a school on one side and a nursery on the other might be a more auspicious use of his valuable time than slapping tickets on cars. But he does't get paid commission for that now does he? The gradually rising and more hysterical tone of my voice during this one way conversation (badmother code: never let a man -especially your husband and son- get a word in edgeways if you can avoid it) had drawn a crowd, a band of similarly angered mothers. I believe he sensed he was outnumbered, and muttered ok ok ok while backing down the road to the building site.

As I was shoehorning the twins into the car he returned, and in a very manly voice, loud enough for all the mums to hear said that he had given the foreman at the building site a jolly good talking to. There's nothing more pleasing that gaining the moral high ground than evading another packing fine.

Monday 24 January 2011

Boychild and the Toilet Door

I'm going to try and revive this thing. I haven't written anything half decent in over a year and I'm missing the therapy. I'm amazed that there have been visitors during my absence, although I suspect that most visits are from people searching for the "real" badmother. I'm a fraud. But still bad, very very bad.


I find that writing helps me to keep a perspective on issues. I've recently become embroiled in a dispute at the school involving Boychild. My approach to motherhood has always been less is more in a very lazy way, but this current dispute has been challenging anything resembling a maternal instict that I may have, and my role as a lawyer in the criminal justice system. Boychild, now aged seven, stands charged with locking a toilet door, climbing over the said door leaving it locked. The punishment for this offence was, loss of privilages, namely no breaktime for a week. The evidence: Emily (his teacher's step-daughter) saw the back of the culpret's head leaving the scene of the crime and pointed the finger at Boychild.


My objections are that he has not had the opportunity of defending himself against the allegation; cross-examining the only witness; or testing the dodgy identification evidence by way of a line up of all the usual suspects. Actually, there was another witness. The head of the juniors illicited a criminal profile from the psychologist that is twin two. She gave testamony to the effect that Boychild is a pathological liar. The prosecution rests. Judge, jury and executioner then pronounced Boychild's guilt and sentenced him accordingly.


I wouldn't admit this to anyone else but the teacher concerned scares the crap out me me. We have crossed swords in the past, strangely enough about Boychild. She won. I dealt with this by bitching about her at the school gates, and was pleased to learn that most of the mothers admitted that they wouldn't have even taken her on. I took this as a moral, if phyrric, victory. On this occasion I decided to write a polite note suggesting that it was a tad unfair to inflict what can only be described as a manifestly excessive sentence on the basis of evidence that wouldn't even stand up in the kangaroo court that is the prison governor's adjudication. The sentence was suspended, and she gave me her best basilisk when I collected the kidlets. I take some pride in my abilities in the filthy look department, but this woman is a genuine basilisk in teachers, lounge-wear, clothing. I therefore decided that discretion is the better part of valour and refused to be drawn into further conflict.


Today events took a turn for the worse after the successful appeal against sentence. Twin two, no doubt feeling a tad guilty about batting for the prosecution, "had words" with Emily. I fear she overheard me talking about the matter with spouse, and I said something along the lines of "Emily needs to learn that nobody likes a grass". In any event, she received a caution for using threatening or abusive words or behaviour in the playground. I hope this marks the end of Boychild's first, though probably not last, brush with summary justice.


While Boychild continues to maintain his innocence I believe that he is in a win win situation. He has either, as a friend observed, learnt that life isn't fair, a worthy lesson, if he was wrongly convicted. Alternatively if he were guilty he has learnt the value of remaining silent. And if anyone has learnt anything about this tawdry affair, and I think we have people, it is that toilet pranks have transcended the modern age of sophisticated computer games and the like; and that teachers still struggle to see the funny side of life.