Computer says no

It was bound to happen sooner or later – an angry post about the process of moving home and miscellaneous matters. I’ve finally found someone foolish enough to buy the money pit, the abode Frank and I believed would be our last home. He was right and I was wrong. Again. In any event, Team Goddard are moving on with a mixture of excitement and sadness. Boychild is finding it hard to get his head around the idea that leaving Goddard Towers does not mean leaving his dad. It does however mean leaving the remains of more pets than I could shake a stick at, but I won’t go back there, except to report that the hamster with no name is no more. The Twinset by comparison are eagerly awaiting a small but perfectly formed home that they won’t be embarrassed to invite their friends to. You can please some of the people some of the time, and all that.

Despite what his grandparents think, Boychild is a thoughtful child, frequently questioning the world around him, but not always particularly considerate. He won’t admit it to me because he is aware of my evangelical atheism, but he seems to be toying with the idea of letting God into his life. I don’t push my beliefs, or lack thereof, on the Little Darlings and simply tell them when they’ve been around the block a few times they can make their own minds up. I’m far too lazy to do it for them. I’m a follower of the Marcus Brigstocke view of religion, and consider that children can no more be  Christians than members of the Postal Workers Union. Boychild was recently overheard saying to one of his religious friends that “I’m purer than my sisters because my mum and dad were married when they made me.” I was so proud of his mathematical ability.

In any event, after five months of running around the house madly making beds, hiding dirty underwear, and putting toilet seats down before leaving for the school run I can sit back and relax. Or that’s what I naively thought. I found a potential new base of operations for Team Goddard, persuaded grumpy to lend me the deposit, and made an appointment to see the bank manager to arrange a new mortgage. Computer says no you can’t borrow £100,000 less than you currently owe us because you don’t have signed off accounts for your first year of trading, even though you bank with us, and we know exactly what you earned over this period. You also have too much access to credit, and even though you asked us to cancel your overdraft facility, and your loan will be repaid from the proceeds of sale, the computer still says a resounding no. I say, no fucking wonder there is a banking and housing crisis. By comparison to the banker (yes I did say banker – this time) HMRC are a bunch of fluffy kittens.

The British, or at least the English have no bollocks. When anyone with any degree of authority says it has to be so, we sit back and accept it. We may write or share angry posts on our faceache pages, but deep down believe it’s futile. I may have mentioned that the Ministry of Justice, led by Mr Failing Grayling, is intending to introduce price competitive tendering into the criminal justice system. Did I mention a petition? Everyone I know that has a vested interest has informed the Ministry in every possible way that the proposals are misconceived, based on out of date costs figures, unworkable and will lead to wasted court time with defendants representing themselves, costs to the public purse for inevitable miscarriages of justice, and the unemployment of solicitors, paralegals and support staff casting their burden on the State as a consequence of the hundreds of firms that will close.

On the Today Programme on Radio Four this morning the snivelling prefect incumbent Chancellor spoke of the need for the various Ministries to make savings. Much in the same way that I know that my current mortgage is unsustainable and am trying to take steps to reduce it, I accept the Government’s need to reduce public spending. It’s not what is being said that is bothering me, it’s what is not being said. He referred to prisoners receiving legal aid to make complaints about the treatment they receive in prison when they should be using the Prison Service’s complaint’s service. The truth is that there has been no public funding available for prisoners to complain about their treatment by the Prison Service since 2008. Yes it is possible to apply for funding to help illiterate or mentally ill prisoners to navigate a complaints system which invariably ends with the Governor’s computer saying no. I once applied for funding to assist a prisoner with learning difficulties to complain about being bullied by a prison officer and the computer at the Legal Aid Agency said no. To avoid disappointment I haven’t bothered asking since. I also saw Osborne on Breakfast Beeb this morning justifying the cuts to public sector budgets by pointing to the fall in crime rates despite the cuts to the Police Service. What he neglected to mention is that the Police are not arresting or charging nearly as many people, and the CPS are not proceeding with nearly as many prosecutions. Not only has this lead to a significant reduction in claims against the legal aid fund, it is leading to the guilty going free. One of my firm's clients was recently caught fair and square on CCTV committing an assault. It should have been a fair cop – he was after all bang to rights. He would have been advised to plead guilty if the computer at the CPS hadn’t said, no, it’s not in the interests of justice to prosecute. Really? Perhaps the next time he twats someone the computer might reconsider. Perhaps the bank will be persuaded to look at the detail of my mortgage application. I’m not holding my breath.

I had intended to spend today reflecting on the fact that Frank is now six months dead to the day. I wanted to feel sad, but I'm just sad that I feel so fucking angry.

http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/48628

Dead and Buried

There’s been an unfortunate number of deaths in the Goddard household of late. Boychild’s guinea pig, Norman, died last weekend. Twin One’s guinea pig, Humphrey, popped his clogs just before Christmas. This was swiftly followed by Shakira the dwarf Chinese hamster, and the replacement miniature Russian critters are missing, presumed dead, having escaped from the wrong sort of cage. Who knew? This leaves us with two cats, Holly and Jess, Fat Elvis (surviving guinea pig), and the hamster with no name. I think Twin Two decided there’s not much point in naming a pet when it will may well croak in the foreseeable. 

When I noticed that Norman was feet up in the run on Saturday morning I swiftly put him in a shoe box in the shed in order to ensure that Boychild didn’t happen upon him. He was very fond of the little feller, and Norman tolerated Boychild taking him on trips in his Tonka trucks. I’m sorry to say that in my haste I forgot to cover Norman, and only remembered that I had left him in plain sight on Monday morning during the school run. I also remembered, with a titanic sinking feeling, that a house viewing was scheduled an hour later. I needed to get to work, so I debated whether the sight of a dead guinea pig would be off putting to a would-be buyer. I decided that it wasn’t worth leaving this to chance – there’s enough to put off potential purchasers in Casa Goddard - without stumbling upon a deceased animal. I was late for work.

I forgot to mention Mildred, a cat who adopted us, and Frank took something of a shine to without ever admitting it on account of the fact that he HATED cats. During one of my moments of rage in the days following Frank's death, and during funeral planning I considered the Cats Protection League for charitable donations: that'll learn the fucker for dying on me. He cooked her prime chicken breasts and tuna protesting that it had to be eaten or it would go off (in five days’ time). She had been a stray and was very skinny when she arrived. We assumed that the weight she was gaining was a consequence of her fine dining, but then realised that she was pregnant. She gave birth to Bob, Lady Gaga, Cheryl Cole, Richard and Napoleon Dynamite. In any event, shortly after Frank’s death and the realisation that she would eat cat food or go hungry she did one.

These recent events brought to mind an incident two years ago in the dying days of the school holidays. My neighbour called and said that there was a dead ginger cat in her garden, and thought it might be Holly. I duly identified the departed animal, wrapped it in a sheet and brought it back to our garden. I broke the news to the Little Darlings, and they sobbed in a group huddle, back in the day when the death of a pet was really upsetting. I suggested a funeral, and we picked a spot under an apple tree for Holly to rest in peace, mostly from Boychild’s nurf wars. The grave was dug, a box of Whiskers at the ready for sustenance as she went on the journey to meet her maker. As I was about to place the bundle in the grave, the Little Darlings asked if they could see Holly one last time. I pulled back the sheet and exposed the statuesque creature. The children exclaimed, in unison: “That’s not our cat!” and, as if by magic, Holly walked nonchalantly past us. Oops. 

What’s the point of this post? I’m not sure. Boychild was sad when I told him about Norman, but not very sad. Death has a curious way of putting things in perspective, and I am now a firm believer in the maxim “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I’m still fucking angry about the Government’s proposals to murder the criminal justice system, but I know Team Goddard will be well.