tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20356392530713479912024-02-07T08:24:06.590+00:00Notes from a Bad MotherI feel the need to vent my spleen from time to time on subjects I know very little about, parenting for example.Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-58906109438229403812014-10-01T19:20:00.000+01:002014-10-01T19:25:34.946+01:00Gone Fishing<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t suppose anyone has
noticed (sob) that I haven’t written anything for a while. This is due largely
to spending the last month or so wallowing in self-pity. Fortunately a dear
friend told me to shut the fuck up and do something about it. So I did. I’ve
started fishing. I was going to say that this particular brand of fishing doesn’t
involve tackle, although I’m hoping it will do at some point in the future. There
must surely be a reward for trawling through countless profiles other than
the obvious potential for poor puns. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I’m not afraid to admit that I
have joined the crazy world of Plenty of Fish. You would think that the beaches
of the South West were chock a block with forty and fifty-something single men,
the number that claim walking on the coast is amongst their favourite
activities. There are so many adrenaline junkies out there: I was previously
blissfully ignorant of the number of surfers, rock climbers and cyclists in the
South West. Having an unused gym membership does not make the claim of
possession of an “athletic physique” any closer to the truth. It’s not so much
the transparently false claims that irritate than the sheer stupidity that
these erroneous claims will be plain if any of these men actually get a date. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And they’re all genuinely
genuine. However, having a user name “wannafook” may be uncharacteristically
honest, but please, it’s not appealing. Neither is the opening gambit “Hi sexy –
r u feeling horny?” And that’s not to mention the far too liberal use of lol
which should not be employed by anyone over thirty: “Hi lol. Are you free at
the weekend? Lol”, “Are u wet? lol”. Those three little letters do not give you
permission to suggest a plethora of sexual<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>practices to a stranger. Mercifully I’ve been blocked by a distinctly
unattractive man who accused me of being rude for not replying to his messages.
I suggested that what, in fact, would be rude would be telling him that I have
no desire to fuck an obese sixty-something that can’t punctuate and has a face
like a bag full of spanners. LOL.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In summary, it’s been an eventful,
if unedifying fishing expedition so far, but at least I haven’t caught
anything...</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-65169121883742600672014-07-30T20:00:00.001+01:002014-07-30T20:00:09.976+01:00Let them eat cake
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Just
a quick one that tickled my fancy, and might tickle yours, whilst still at my
desk at 7.48 pm. Here is a note from a legal visit confirmation email I
received today:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The
following may not be brought into HMP Erlestoke:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Computers/laptops,
mobile phones, USB memory sticks, recording devices, DVD/DSs, MP3 players,
aerosols, alcohol, wax, chewing gum, wire, metal cutlery, weapons, drugs (non
HCC), magnets, toy guns, syringes, alarm clocks, matches, glue, yeast, ladders,
tin foil, clingfilm, solvents, bleach, rope, glass, vinegar, prescribed
medication, Vaseline, lipsticks/gloss/lip balm, cameras.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Seemingly
I’m permitted to take in a birthday cake with a file in it. I’ll probably not try
it tomorrow, however tempting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-35943340022607027692014-05-31T20:00:00.002+01:002014-05-31T20:00:36.107+01:00Zen and the Art of Motor Purchase
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My apologies in advance for
becoming something resembling Jeremy Clarkson. Most of my recent posts appear
to be about car trouble, and I sincerely hope that this is the last in a
significant line. After a further breakdown rendering my vehicle uneconomical
to repair I asked my father for advice about what I should do in the hope that
a loan would be forthcoming. It was, and as my brother and I discussed this
evening, we are blessed with very generous parents, but that does not mean that
there isn’t a price to pay, albeit frequent deep breathing and regular tongue
biting rather than interest. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had been feeling a tad guilty
about not involving my dad in any decision making because for him it seems
nothing is simple, but he knows much more than me about cars, so what could go
wrong? I had reached the point of not asking whether he preferred to coffee or
tea lest he make a decision in the house of Goddard, but decided to relent. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had gone it alone I would have wandered
into a dealership, told them how much I had to spend and asked them to show me
a black, navy blue or grey one. I would have then picked the prettiest car,
pulled out the plastic and the job would have been a good’n. It’s my general
approach to shoe buying, and I have very few regrets on that score. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not sure if it’s a
generational thing or a man thing or a combination of both but going car
shopping with my dad made thoughts of having my wisdom pulled out with pliers
but without anaesthetic seem appealing. Sticking pins in my eyes would have
been preferable, but I persevered firstly because I knew that his approach was
sensible whist mine was expedient and shallow, and he had a very firm grasp indeed
on the purse-strings and wasn’t afraid to remind me of this. Frequently.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went on a recci to the local
dealerships. I had hoped in vein that this would lead to a purchase which in
retrospect was naive in the extreme. After establishing what a two to three
year old five door car costs in the land of trade sales (something that could
have been established on the interweb) we re-grouped to <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>consider our position. The interweb search
followed. Telephone calls to “people that know about motors” followed that. In the
meantime, having been dropped at a bus stop after the unproductive foray in
dealership world I embarrassed Twin One who accompanied me by giving the bus
driver our address and asking him to stop at the cashpoint on the way home. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In any event I am pleased to
report progress. Today I identified a car that is economical, has low mileage
and within budget sufficiently to satisfy my lender. It’s black and pretty
enough to satisfy me and the Twinset. My brother observed that on learning that
dad was helping me with a car purchase that he had anticipated a discussion
about makes and models over Christmas lunch. That has to be a result...</span></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-55669411594898123902014-05-06T19:49:00.002+01:002014-05-06T19:49:33.615+01:00Every Cloud has a Silver Lining or Every Silver Lining has a storm cloud
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kate asked me to explain the term
“every cloud has a silver lining,” and since she is invariably of a sunny
disposition approved of the notion. Since this conversation I have attempted
its application when a cloud enters my airspace. I appreciate that relating
tales of car troubles may be tedious, but my motor vehicle has been something
of a four wheeled storm cloud of late. Last Tuesday morning <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>just as I was pulling out of a parking space
outside of Jack’s school the power steering failed, and I was stuck partially
blocking a narrow road. I went through the AA routine, and expect to become
best friends with the call centre staff shortly. It also happened to be a white
van man morning in this particular cul-de-sac, and although I had engaged the
hazards, white van men issued expletives for what they considered extremely bad
parking until I explained that the technical term for the state of my motor at
that moment was “totally fucked” They then they apologised and negotiated
around my stranded rather than abandoned vehicle which is my general method of
parking. Eliciting sympathy from men not renowned for wishing female drivers
luck was something of a silvery chink.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh, and I lied when I said
earlier that I was pulling out of a parking space. I had pulled over onto the
outside school zig zags which everyone knows makes children hurl themselves in
front of oncoming traffic, and is evil. I digress, but Jack informed me
recently that the only positive thing about paedophiles is that they always
slow down near schools. The next cloud on the horizon was a traffic warden. I
explained that I had broken down, that I hadn’t actually parked on the zig
zags, and that my child hurls himself out of my slowly moving vehicle when I
deposit him at school which means that but for the break down I hadn’t
technically parked there. Just as I was about to receive a waggy finger, and
possibly a ticket the AA man arrived, told the warden that he would move my
car, and that was the end of that.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He confirmed that the power
steering was knackered and needed replacing, but with a method I admired he
carried out a temporary fix – he bludgeoned the pump with a mallet – to enable
me to drive the car to a garage. Then he asked me which garage I use. It then occurred
to me that the last time my car has seen a mechanic was the summer before Frank
died, so almost two years ago. I found myself explaining, matter of fact, that
my late husband sorted out the car more in the hope that he didn’t think I was
a completely dippy bitch, rather than playing the dead husband card, which I
now strictly reserve for the Inland Revenue, and to be honest they’re all out
of love now if ever there was any. While the AA man drove round the block to
make sure his temporary repair would hold out I phoned a friend (50/50 and ask
the audience being unfeasible) who knows about local garages, and he booked the
car in for me. Another chink of silver appeared.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The AA man then said that he
would follow me to the garage to make sure I arrived safely, spoke to the
garage owner in much the way that a paramedic would hand over a newly arrived casualty,
and then gave me his mobile number and invited me to call him if I have any car
related questions. The kindness of this particular stranger fully lined the
morning’s cloud. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Another silver lining was the
garage loaning me a car while my motor was repaired. The cloud: it was a skoda.
The silver lining: I appreciate the quality of my car.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I managed to negotiate the
clunky old Skoda that Jack later remarked was louder on the inside then the
outside – a bit like the Tardis being bigger on the inside than the outside – I
received a call from my boss offering me five day’s urgent work that would be
worth about a grand. An unmitigated silver lining. Then the bill for the
repairs to the car arrived. Let’s call it quits.</span></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-15715891727867712342014-04-22T18:38:00.000+01:002014-04-22T18:38:25.247+01:00Another Grumble: for what it's worth
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve become sick to death reading
about threats of strike action by teachers, tube drivers, nurses, and probably
tree surgeons. Last month the Government imposed 8.75% cuts to the publicly
funded work that I do. We are remunerated with a fixed fee based on the time
spent on a case calculated on notional hourly rates. Now I have to undertake
more work to hit the so called “higher” standard fee. The hourly rates as well
as the standard fees have been reduced by 8.75%. Forgive me for not giving a
shit about those workers (particularly public servants) that are complaining
about a 1% pay rise. I’d happily take a pay freeze.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I appreciate that just because my
profession is being savaged it doesn’t justify cuts to other services, and I
agree. A dear friend and I have been accused of “teacher bashing” because we
dare to mention the fringe benefits this profession receives including long<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>holidays. When we’re not facing a 17.5% pay
cut over the course of the next two years my giveashitometer might stop
flat-lining. Almost as painful as the pay cut is the lawyer bashing mostly by
the Daily Fail, quoting the fees of the top two criminal QCs in the country
intimating that we’re all fat cats in a feeding frenzy from public funds. The
truth of the matter is that most legal aid lawyers in the criminal justice
system earn significantly less than newly qualified teachers, receive no sick
pay, holiday pay or pension contributions. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Teachers, nurses, firefighters,
and probably tree surgeons complain that because their professions are vocational
they are expected not to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>be well
remunerated. My first point is that they are. My second point is that lawyers
have been instructed by the Government to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>undertake pro-bono work. We already do, but we just don’t make a song
and dance about it. I have given serious thought to changing jobs. In fact I
considered lecturing in law, but just thinking about it lead to me experiencing
the first signs of coma. So despite the fact that this option would be better
remunerated, and I might even get paid holidays, I concluded that if my heart
isn’t in it I won’t do it.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here are a couple of the reasons
why. About a week ago a life sentence prisoner client that I have represented
for almost ten years confided in me that he had reached a point of utter
despair and was pondering the most efficient manner to despatch himself since
the powers that be, he believed, would never despatch him from prison. I have
known him long enough to know that this was not an idle threat. He wept.
Generally when client’s cry in front of me I inform them that cry babies have
no business committing crime, and that they are wasting valuable (though barely
chargeable) time. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In this instance I was in no
doubt that my client was suicidal, and I understood why. If I had been thoroughly
stitched up by my Probation Officer I would undoubtedly feel the same. He made
me promise not to tell anyone because he did not want to be placed on what is
known as an ACT (suicidal prisoners are monitored every fifteen minutes in the
hope that if they do try to top themselves there is sufficient time to prevent
death setting in, thus averting an inspection by Her Majesty’s Inspectorate).
When you’re feeling low enough to welcome death, the last thing you want is a
prison officer looking at you as often as adverts appear on prime time TV. I
agreed to say nothing, but crossed my fingers behind my back. One of the few
occasions that solicitors are permitted to breach client confidentiality is
when there is a real prospect of self harm. You can also dob them in if you are
aware they’ve committed a crime, but if a client attempts to make a clean
breast of it with me I generally stick my fingers firmly in my ears and chant LALALALALALA.
Unless the SRA are reading this, in which case I follow the Code of Conduct to
the letter.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before I left the prison I
reported my concerns to the Duty Governor. Two days later I received a call from
my client and his cousin thanking me. He had been provided with help and
support and felt better able to face the challenges ahead, and that I had been
instrumental. I did a small thing that made a big difference and it made me
feel better about myself. Priceless, as Mastercard would say. Almost as good as
when you complete a level on Candy Crush that you’ve been stuck on for months.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are other occasions when my
job just makes me laugh. I could probably write a book about the things that
prisoners should never ever say. A few years ago a career criminal was giving
evidence at a recall hearing before the Parole Board. He had been returned to
prison following police intelligence that he was dealing in class A drugs which
he denied in the strongest possible terms and wished to take to the highest
court in the land. During the course of this evidence it was put to him that he
had been observed buying £10 bags of heroin. He replied –“you’ve got to be
kidding, you can’t get a £10 bag for love nor money these days; do you have any
idea how much smack costs?... Oh shit.” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are also those moments when
cultural diversity intervenes and makes me appreciate the society I inhabit. I
have represented a Bengali national who informed the Parole Board that he could
not accept that he was guilty of assault because the victim “was my wife.”
There was a Nigerian who proclaimed – “rape?!!! – she was a woman.” I offer
advice, but am at times relieved that clients choose to ignore it. Also known
as giving them the rope to hang themselves. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve heard of many experienced
quality solicitors are planning to leave the profession. At times thoughts of
running a coffee shop or florist are attractive. But like my client with his
£20 bags, I just don’t want to give it up.</span></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-58197872939421703592014-03-18T19:18:00.000+00:002014-03-18T19:40:18.938+00:00I want a new pair of moccasins<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today has been challenging. On my
way to HM Prison Dartmoor this morning a tyre I purchased in January burst. In the
old days I would have phoned my very own fixer, the Frankster, and he would
have made a very nice man appear to change the tyre. More precisely he would
have asked his secretary to call the AA and rearrange my appointments. With the
benefit of hindsight I recognise how much I relied on Frank to sort things out.
In any event, after running out of profane exclamations I googled the AA and
telephoned them, called the legal visits officer at the prison and put my
appointments back to the afternoon, arranged afterschool childcare, and then
emptied the boot contents onto the back seat in order to investigate whether I
was the proud owner of a spare. During the latter process I discovered what has
happened to the eighteen pairs of Jack’s PE socks I have purchased since the
start of the school year and the source of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that
</i>odour. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While waiting for the AA I pondered
the very many times that Frank asked me what I would do without him. As well as
wanting to scream skyward “THIS, AS A MATTER OF FACT!” I recalled my response
was generally a warm smile, whilst muttering under my breath, I’d phone
Natasha. I am no believer in the notion that everything happens for a reason,
but today has drawn a number of diverse strands of recent thought together. It
brought to mind a strange conversation with my dad at the weekend. I asked him
if I could borrow his lawnmower, and after ensuring I was aware how inconvenient
my request was (as is his way) he agreed. He then informed me that my mum was
away for the weekend and he was on his lonesome. I ignored the inference that
he would be amenable to a dinner invitation, and instead suggested that he walk
a mile in my widowed single parent <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>moccasins. He stated that I’m happy because I
don’t need anyone. I’m generally fairly good at retorts of a sardonic or
sarcastic nature, but on this occasion i was stumped. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It occurred to me that I have been
irked that my newfound ability to bludgeon the boiler with a wrench, cobble
together flat-pack furniture, and generally overcome my fear of power tools had
apparently gone unnoticed by my parents. I wasn’t expecting them to arrange a
chorus of Halelulah, although that would have been nice, but a “well done you”
wouldn’t have gone amiss. What occurred to me at that moment was that my father
was disappointed in me for not being needy enough. It’s possibly a man thing
(cue sexist remark debate). Frank liked helping people generally, and became
animated when he was able to fix something for me or the Little Darlings,
frequently celebrating as if he had scored the winning goal in the 89<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
minute of the FA Cup Final. I suspect that if I hadn’t called on him as much as
I did he would have been equally as disappointed as my dad seems to be. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn’t need Frank’s help with
anything, but I liked the fact that he loved sorting things for me, and that I
miss. Once I’d sorted the tyre, and realising that as I had no CDs in the car
and the Jeremy Vine show was about to start on the radio I popped into Sainsburys
about bought one. It’s music that I have on my ipod, but rarely listen to these
days as the Twin Set have it away with my earphones on a regular basis: when the
boy isn’t inserting them up his nostrils that is. I’m in danger of getting a
bit soppy, but this track, which I’ve listened to many times but never heard,
made my eyes leak. </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6lKaLNZSVk"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6lKaLNZSVk</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
I didn’t need Frank, but that’s not the point. I don’t need any more pairs of
shoes either, but it doesn’t stop me wanting.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Grumpy (as he is known to the
Little Darlings) appeared, huffing and puffing I pointed to the lawn and
informed him that it wouldn’t mow itself. I believe this is the first time in a
long time that I’ve made my father happy.</span></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-63384923842687513132014-03-05T21:03:00.003+00:002014-03-05T21:03:47.791+00:00Attempting to be a good mother for a change and struggling
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I learned today that Jack has
been offered a place at the local academy school in September. I was keen to
move him from him from his current school, mostly on account of the fact that
he is the only child in his year. I did ask for an appointment with the Head to
discuss this about a month ago. Strangely enough while the secretary is
scrupulously efficient in pursuing overdue fees, she is concomitantly
inefficient in arranging appointments where difficult questions are in the
offing. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frank and I opted for this school
after the Twinset’s first year at the local primary school when it came to our
attention at the end of reception year that Kate and Eve were unable to write
their own first names. We didn’t choose monosyllabic names to ensure an easy
introduction to the written word, but having done so I anticipated more
progress than was demonstrated. I have a number of friends who are teachers,
and can therefore virtually feel the heat from their reddening cheek areas.
Frank and I could legitimately be criticised for not teaching the Twinset to
write at home after school. My view is that children go to school to learn, and
while I’ve always been prepared to help with homework, I am a bad parent and
not a teacher. If I am expected to teach my children, then their teachers can
come to my office and do some filing. Just saying. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">During the course of this academic
year I have formed the view that we do not always get what we pay for, and
concluded that the Little Darlings are likely to be better off in a good state
school than a mediocre private one. With this in mind I took the Boychild to
visit our local state school late last year and he was staggered by the options
and facilities on offer, particularly in sport: a sports hall; tennis courts;
and rugby and football pitches. One look around the woodwork and metalwork
rooms and he was asking where his signature is required.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Twinset are divided. After
their visit Kate concluded that it would be like attending Waterloo Road, the
maths teacher made her laugh rather than cry, and would move tomorrow if beaucracy
were not an issue. Her motives may not be based on securing the best education
available because high on her list of wishes ticked off were the fact that she
could wear trousers and would not have to tie her hair back. Still, I took that
as a victory. Eve on the other hand had to be dragged, literally, huffing and
puffing just to look around. She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly at
approximately seven second intervals. Since then she’s been using every weapon
in her armoury to persuade me not to send her there. I have been on the wrong
end of emotional blackmail bullshit that “this wouldn’t be happening on dad’s
watch.” She’s learning what a hard bastard I’ve become since dad’s watch prematurely
concluded, but she doesn’t like it and I’m ruining her life. The fact that I
ruin her life when I won’t let her watch Eastenders because it’s mindless drivel
and clashes with Chanel Four news which I am compelled to watch on account of
it makes me feel superior to most of my clients, means that this particular
attempt to pull at my threadbare heartstrings has, to date, failed. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t intend to cause her
needless unhappiness, but, for fear of sounding like my own parents (which let’s
face it, all parents if they’re honest promise themselves they won’t but
nevertheless <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>end up doing at some point),
I know she would be better off there. I also appreciate that adjustment will be
tough, and I will be on hand to provide as many hugs and chocolate brownies as
she can stomach, probably considerably more of the latter. I’m also prepared to
act as a punch-bag if this helps. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is the hardest thing that I’ve
embarked upon since Frank died. The bastard bank, HMRC, Sky and BT have made my
blood boil, but I don’t recall losing any sleep over it – possibly because at
the time I was medicating with repeated doses of Sauvignon Blanc. The grim
reality of making life changing decisions for the Little Darlings as a
reluctant single parent – I’m struggling to remain cliché-free (Luke) – really can
be pants: an XXL sized, over-worn and under-washed pair at that. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-21739507186451569282014-02-24T22:36:00.003+00:002014-03-01T13:08:51.766+00:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I won a bet with Frank today. The
last Parole Hearing he undertook before he died was for the first life sentence
prisoner he represented, back in 1994. It's events of this kind that the lovely Reverend that conducted Frank's funeral informs me that God is working mysteriously to look after me. For example when I met him, at his request, close to the anniversary of Frank's death, the fact Jack had a new male teacher who similarly had lost his father at Jack's age was a gift from God. I refrained from suggesting that it was probably the answer to an advert in the TES, but hey ho. Now that the teacher in question has handed in his notice, and Jack will have his third teacher during the course of his last Junior year must surely be the work of the Devil. Or not. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Struggling to get back to the point of writing this, when this client was released in early November
2012 Frank and I had a wager on how long it would be until this particular life licence was
revoked the individual would be hauled back through Her Majesty’s revolving door. Despite what
you might read, when a person receives a life sentence it is for life – the recipient’s
liberty being subject to restrictions that you and I would find problematic,
and breach meaning being returned to prison, not for committing further offences, and taking many months for the system to decide whether the recall was justified.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Frank backed six weeks while I gave him a tad
more credit and put my money on six months. In fact he proved us both wrong and managed over a year. But I was closest and I win. So there. Despite my lack of faith I have found myself looking skyward and inwardly changing "nr ner ner ner ne." Not particularly satisfying, but I have to get my kicks somehow. And there’s a pyrrhic victory
for you. I finally won a bet against Frank and the fucker is dead and can't take the punishment. I might ask the Reverand to advise on that. God's work or the Devils. Or the law of sod. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In any event the lifer telephoned me this morning requesting representation, and said
something along the lines that since Frank’s dead you’ll do. None taken, I
replied. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is precisely the exchange
that I find myself, sixteen months after his death, still making a mental note
to tell Frank. I don’t miss the big stuff as much as the little stuff. I’ve
booked a two week holiday with the Little Darlings this summer and I’m not
phased in the slightest that this year I’ll be a single parent in charge. Well
maybe a little bit. But <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can deal with
it, and the bank, the mortgage company and all the big grown up stuff. What
makes me wobble is not having the big man to chew the shit with. He made me
gaffaw (generally spitting “you can’t say that!”), and I knew what would make
him chortle. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back to the story -after the
client in question hung up I recalled a key feature of his case for release
late in 2012, before Frank was late, although he may not have pitched up on
time for the hearing, such was his laissez faire approach to judicial matters.
Parole Board hearings are based, not as the Daily Fail may have you believe on
the quality of the Panel Chairman’s breakfast on the morning of the said hearing,
or the severity of the congestion on the M5, but generally on a dossier
prepared by Probation Officers, Psychologists and intelligence (if one can be
so bold as to use this word in connection with the Prison Service) from prison
staff, and the evidence presented at the hearing itself. Please don’t confuse
the “dossier” word with the Blaire Government’s interpretation, albeit some
clients will insist on inferring similar veracity. And sometimes they are right. The client that is, not Tony Blaire.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In any event, this particular client had taken
to feeding a stray cat that voluntarily strayed into an open
prison during his time there, and release was recommended by staff strictly on
the basis that if this lifer were granted liberty, so was the mangy cat. Following his recall to prison my client is housed in a closed prison and I doubt that the cat would have been smuggled into the prison past the eyes of staff in Reception (yep, that’s what the first
department you encounter in prison is called – although no offers of a morning
paper or shoe shining service here – unless you read the Daily
Fail). The early morning call is obligatory, as is the food
you wouldn’t serve to your dog, let alone a recently liberated prison cat.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have Frank to live up to but
not to live with. Such is life and death. Not necessarily in that order. What I
am confident of is that if I succeed in securing the re-release of this life
sentence prisoner it will be on account of what Frank taught me. If I fail it
will be my failings. Such is life. Personally, I’m more concerned about the fate of the cat.</span></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-90875808703903082952013-12-31T19:07:00.001+00:002013-12-31T19:09:25.175+00:00Come on Down 2014<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I may have promised not to post
anything here until I’m a published novelist but I lied. I am however pleased to report that
after a exercising the old grey cells for weeks I have decided that Van
Morrison will perform the soundtrack, and I will be played by Gwyneth in the
movie. So the book is face about arse and I haven’t written a single word.
Details details, people. I do have a plot summary ok?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In any event there appears to be
life in the old blog yet and what with the passing of another year in the life
of a thoroughly awful and now single parent I have decided to share a few random
thoughts with you. While I refuse to resolve giving up anything simply because I
don’t want you to see me as a quitter, I have contemplated, during the course
of the coming year to wean myself off the happy pills. I’m not for a nanosecond
indicating a foray into drug free happiness: I intend to continue to imbibe
irresponsible quantities of alcohol and tobacco; oh and caffeine and tannin.
And valium because the Little Darlings find me so much more palatable after I’ve
consumed 5 mls. But apart from the alcohol, smokes, coffee, tea and diazepam my
body will be a temple in 2014. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had what I will call a “moment
of clarity” the other day. I won’t call it an epiphany because, firstly I am
aware that Twin Two and a friend of hers occasionally read this (and generally Eve
rolls her eyes whilst doing so) and they will probably assume that I’ve engaged
in sexual activity; and secondly because it wasn’t profound in the slightest.
During 2013 I have railed against all the received wisdom about grief and bereavement.
I refused to treat Frank’s first Frankless birthday or the anniversary of his
death any differently than any other day. I don’t regret that and will continue
in this vein, but I have to concede that I started this year thinking that the
phrase, time is a great healer, was toss. I was wrong. Once Christmas was out
of the way and I thought back over a pretty shitty year of dismantling my life
both physically and emotionally I could see what I had been missing possibly even
a little more than Frank – a sense of myself, my identity other than as Mrs
Frank (as I was known at his local), the Twin’s mum, or that fucking solicitor.
This might sound like Chablis induced navel gazing. It probably is but it made
complete sense the other day when I woke up for the first time in a long time
feeling comfortable in my own skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thanks for reading, but please
move along now. STEP AWAY FROM THE BLOG - I’m going back to my book now:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chapter One<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was a wet and stormy night…..</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-77571607840651458582013-11-20T21:05:00.000+00:002013-11-20T21:05:38.365+00:00Thank you for reading...<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This day last year Frank had seven and a bit days to live. I have resolved to resit the urge to write something on the anniversary of his death because it means nothing to me, and I will probably be blotting it out with a rather fine Chablis. People that I have dealings with, as opposed to friends, seem to think that once 365 days have passed everything will be fine and dandy. I will wake up on the morning of the 289h November 2013 and rejoice - It just doesn't work like that. As Twin Two said on the eve of her thirteenth birthday - I'm just a day closer to death. It's just another day in learning to live without Big G as he was affectionately known to some of his best friends. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This evening I say au revoir to everyone that has been reading and commenting on my blog. I have, I believe, identified a premise for a novel, and since I've begun working on it have decided that I'm just a tad too busy or lazy to also write here. I have to gush and let you know that my, probably unsuccessful, foray into a serious attempt at writing a book has been inspired by all the incredibly encouraging and positive comments that I've received. I love you all, but if I can't get a literary agent on board it's your fault, and I'll bring this back to life. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">In the meantime, you probably won't see any posts for a while...</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-78128915837379059082013-11-08T20:15:00.000+00:002013-11-08T20:15:35.567+00:00<div class="Publishwithline" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beneficiaries, or Not</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid #C6C6C6 1.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 2.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="underline" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="PadderBetweenControlandBody" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By complete chance I discovered that I was entitled to claim
a state benefit – widowed parent’s allowance – from reading a newspaper article
about how the Government are planning on substantially cutting it. The first
revelation was intriguing, the second was quite the opposite. It hadn’t
occurred to me that the death of a spouse (in limited circumstances) would lead
to a benefits claim. I wasn’t informed of it when I registered Frank’s death.
Again, unsurprising. Fortunately Frank held on until I reached forty-five since
this is the minimum age for a claimant. Because losing the principal household
income when you’re forty-four and three quarters isn’t financially devastating.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I submitted the claim after walking around the house
muttering, “If I were a birth/marriage/death certificate where would I be?”
Yesterday I received a letter from Job Centre Plus who are considering my
claim. They requested confirmation of certain of matters before my claim could
be assessed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">When did you discover that your late spouse had
died?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Were you divorced from your late spouse? If yes, confirm date of Decree Absolute</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Provide the names, dates of birth and
relationship to you of anyone living in your household.</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I replied as follows:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">I discovered that my late spouse had died when a
paramedic shook his head at me after applying a stethoscope to his heart
region. That’s my late spouse’s heart region, not the paramedics. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">If the shaking of the head by a stethoscope carrying
paramedic alongside an inert body does not count as being informed, the Police
Officer telling me later that evening that he was satisfied that there were no
suspicious circumstances gave me further indication that my late spouse was, in
fact late. He was late a lot, but never </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">late
</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">before. If you’re talking about formal diagnosis of lateness, the Coroner
confirmed the cause of death two days later.</span></li>
</ul>
<!--[if !supportLists]--><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">2.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">He wouldn’t be my late spouse if we were
divorced. He would be my late ex-spouse.</span></li>
</ul>
<!--[if !supportLists]--><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">I’m not shacked up with anyone other than my
children on whose behalf I am making this claim, as stated in the application
form.</span></li>
</ul>
<!--[if !supportLists]--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had been pleasantly surprised that the application form
was relatively simple, a bit like the people employed by the Jobcentre to
assess them, and that it didn’t appear to be a means tested benefit. With this
particular state hand out it would appear that the application form lulls one
into a false sense of (social) security, before the tortuous process of
correspondence begins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not yet sure how I feel about this benefit. The notion
of benefitting in any way from Frank’s death troubles me. I’m by no means too
proud to claim it. I’ve paid more than enough tax and national insurance from
working almost continuously since adulthood to claim a little back during what
are hard times. Not to mention the national insurance Frank won’t get an iota
of benefit from. It may be that, after the Q & A with Job Centre Plus has
concluded I will be deemed not to be entitled to any payment, and if this is
the case I have no sense of entitlement – there are many single parents in far
greater need than me. With the daily debates over the Governments attack on
welfare benefits I have had the greatest sympathy with people who find
themselves jobless through no fault of their own. In the so called social media
it seems that either you are opposed to the cuts, or you’re opposed to the
workshy. There are no, up to a point points being made. I have the fence shoved
well and truly up my backside on this issue. There has to be a mechanism to
make people work if they can, and to provide a real safety net for those that
can’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do have complete unadulterated sympathy for everyone - the
young, the old, the washed and unwashed alike, the able bodied and the
wheelchair bound - for having to endure any dealings whatsoever with the
benefits claims process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><w:sdt contentlocked="t" id="89512093" sdtgroup="t"><span style="font-size: 1pt;"><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr><w:sdt docpart="B7FD2D3AAE3548D9AC9120D0E610C6C7" id="89512082" showingplchdr="t" storeitemid="X_5F329CAD-B019-4FA6-9FEF-74898909AD20" text="t" title="Post Title" xpath="/ns0:BlogPostInfo/ns0:PostTitle"></w:sdt></span>
</w:sdt>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-37577002954421689712013-11-04T20:43:00.002+00:002013-11-04T20:44:29.596+00:00The People -v- Places<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With the first anniversary of
Frank’s death fast approaching the Little Darlings and I have finally made a
decision about the ashes. That’s Frank’s ashes, not the ashes that may or may
not be an old cricket bat depending on whether you think Wikipedia is reliable.
The last time I wrote about the subject I was leaning towards the golf course
but I have been counselled against it since the course or the game meant much
less to Frank than the people he cared about. For the record, even though I’m
invariably right, I do like to be told when I’m wrong, and I hold in the
highest esteem the friends that have been brave and honest and not told me what
they think I want to hear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">During this year I have realised
that places are meaningless. Memories and people matter. It’s true that when I
drive to Her Majesty’s Prison Dartmoor and pass a spot that Frank and I,
amongst others paused for lunch during the Abbots Way walk in about 1997 I feel
physically as though I’ve been gutted by a fisherman. It was a twenty-seven
mile walk from Buckfastleigh to Tavistock across the moor, I’ll have you know,
and we sponsored walked it with severe hangovers and no training back in the
day when we could. Although I couldn’t walk for about a week afterwards. Frank
can’t any more on account of being almost disposed of remains, and I have
developed an aversion to exercising anything other than my wine glass raising
arm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The physical response to a place
that evokes a memory does not make it a special place. Another spot I think of
is where Frank proposed to me. At the time we were surrounded by our closest
friends, and above us was a total eclipse of the sun (Bonny Tyler was nowhere
to be seen). It was special that day, but now it’s just a field on the coast in
the South Hams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Ministry of (in)Justice are
contemplating closing HMP Dartmoor having spent the last three years investing
your guess is as good as mine money improving it. That’s not turning it into a
holiday camp if you navigated here from The Daily Mail Online, but installing
proper flushing toilets and heating in a Victorian building with a microclimate
akin to the Arctic Circle. In any event, if the closure goes ahead – it’s hard
to predict with the number of U-turns in the Ministry of late – I won’t be
passing that spot in future. It won’t make me miss Frank less. Even though I’m
Frankless. But <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it won’t diminish my
memory of him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, if you’re still reading, the
Goddards will be making a new place special – a spot under a cherry tree, in
the garden of the Villa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-83277265637551223232013-10-21T20:23:00.002+01:002013-10-21T20:23:31.027+01:00It's my Birthday and I won't cry if I don't want to<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first year of experiences without Frank is nearing an
end, and I’m unsure how to mark it, or whether I should leave well alone. I
haven’t actually decided what to do with his ashes which is pretty shameful and
about once a month I receive a telephone call from a nice lady at the
crematorium (who incidentally sounds like a bloke) tactfully reminding me that
the remains of my husband remain. Ideally
I would like a small plot in the gardens at the Crem so that the Kidlets have
somewhere to visit, but I can hear Frank screaming at me “HOW MUCH?!” (which he
said a lot in the early days when I let him come clothes shopping with me), and
then embarking on a rant about the local authority revenue raising from
vulnerable people. I think he may come back and haunt me if I go down that
route. I discussed my dilemma with a friend this summer, and she asked if there
was a special place that ashes could be scattered. I had to concede that Frank’s
special place was the Beer Engine Pub balcony, and while the landlord and
landlady have been more than generous in donating to the memorial charity, I
doubt that they, or the balconeers would appreciate this option. The Boychild
suggested the golf course where Frank ruined a good walk now and again, and
this is, subject to permission of the owners, probably the best option. I know
it’s nearly a year since he died, but I’m still not ready to do this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s my first birthday without Frank this week. Apart from
ruination courtesy of the Legal Aid Agency sending in bean counters to check
that I’m doing my job properly - because bean counters know how to practice law - it’s not a day that I expect to enjoy. Last
year Frank bought me slippers (amongst other things) from Tesco which he wrapped in a John Lewis
bag. Kate who has an aversion to dishonesty disclosed their provenance. I was
impressed that my spouse, who generally gave flowers with the words – they were
on special offer at the garage - went to the trouble of wrapping and disguising
a present for the first time since me met.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today I overheard Kate telling Eve that she is learning “Happy
Birthday to You” on the piano. This will be a treat. She started having lessons
recently, and despite having cerebral palsy which means she has weak muscles on
her right side, has persisted with the doggedness of a really persistent dog. I
was going to say that she loves music but she’s into Celine Dion at present.
Frank loved music too. If I were a kinder person I would call his taste in
music eclectic. But I’m not. What do you call a collection of vinyl and CDs
that range from Kylie, Steps and Barry Manilow to Marillion, Black Sabbath and
Pink Floyd? Confused perhaps. No that’s still too kind. However the Little
Darlings are comfortable when I play “old music” despite the fact that they
think that the likes of Oasis, Crowded House and The Stereophonics are shit. A few
years ago I decided to educate them in a range of music whilst on the school
run. I dug out all of my favourite CDs but gave up after feeling really
offended by their request that I replace the Stone Roses with Sing Along Times
Tables. Frank chose a different tack and committed himself to keeping ahead of
the kids, and did his best to out-current the current. The rationale was that
they wouldn’t be able to claim that he was stuffy like mummy. We never did
discuss how this went, but it might explain some of the more recent musical
purchases. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I decided to give this a go, and when Kate bought the most
recent Brit Awards CD I embraced it. I have to admit that most of it was noise
not music, but I was determined to present a current mother. Happily we all
agreed to skip One Direction and Olly Murrs (perhaps I’m not giving them enough
credit). One sunny day towards the end of term, as we were approaching the
school gate Starships came on and I sang along heartily “Can’t Stop… We’re
higher than a mother-fucker…” This was too much for the Little Darlings to
bear. Eve turned the stereo off. Kate’s eyes came within a cat’s whisker of
popping out of their sockets, and Jack went into one of those uncontrollable
convulsion infused giggling fits. I was told later that hand dancing whilst
driving was irresponsible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In summary – children don’t actually like hip and trendy
parents, or whatever the current terms is. They need to be able to mock their
elders for being out of date. It worked for me when I was thirteen and if it
ain’t broke it’s invariably advisable not to fix it. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-21451700199989277452013-10-16T20:36:00.000+01:002013-10-16T20:36:40.981+01:00Love Thy Neighbour <div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of the golden rules I learned
whist training to be a solicitor was never to become embroiled in a neighbour
dispute. Sadly I’m a consummate rule breaker. Much as I love Goddard Villa,
one can’t have everything and we don’t have off-street parking, but we do have
neighbours that act as though they have off-street parking on the street. I didn’t
enjoy a particularly harmonious relationship with my neighbours at the previous
gaff, and the recent acrimony has caused me to question whether I am the
problem (I took offence at their rendered half of the party chimney stack), but
I dismissed that instantaneously because although I fully accept that my
qualities as a parent stink, I am a reasonable person generally. As long as you don’t
count my dealings with the Ministry of Justice, the National Probation Service,
traffic wardens and cold callers in which case I have a face that was made to be photographed for
a dartboard, but I wear that as a badge of honour. This list is probably not
exhaustive, but I’m exhausted from dealings with the Ministry et al today and can’t think of any more. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My
lovely new neighbour at stage left warmly introduced himself within hours of our arrival,
trimmed my bush within days (the laylandii silly) , and now I know his age,
family tree, history of the comings of goings on the road, and have received stern
advice to avoid the mad woman three doors up at any costs. Stage left is an
imposing period property in need of total refurbishment. Actually I must
digress here and pay tribute to my selling agent who is not on my shit list strangely enough,
and as a reasonable person I sent a card thanking him for flogging my imposing
property in need of total refurbishment and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>offered my sincere congratulations for being the only estate agent I’ve
met that I haven’t wanted to punch. It was reminiscent of the time that Frank
took me to a lovely hotel for a birthday weekend and he wrote in the visitor’s
book that the owners were so accommodating that he felt really guilty stealing
the towels. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Where were we? Annabel and her
feckless husband stage right. Twice yesterday I encroached on “their” bit of
the road by at least a foot, and they sought to teach me a lesson good ‘n
proper and attempted to box me in. Fortunately my car has so many dings in it
from bollards that jump out when I’m abandoning it in car parks that when last
year it was rammed by a boy-racer I was unable to identify which particular damage he’d
caused, and consequently left his no claims bonus intact. This has the
concomitant advantage that when two Chelsea tractors are seeking to impede me
driving off that I have little if any concern for the consequences. Since they
appear to be unable to communicate any difficulties except in deed, any
accidental cosmetic damage that may have innocently occurred has gone unmentioned. When
I returned from my brief foray for the kidlets bush tucker for the following
day’s lunch their cars were in situ leaving a perfect parking space adjacent to
the front of their imposing character residence in need of total refurbishment.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It may be a coincidence that when
we left for school/work this morning and I had to de-mist the windscreen with
all the windows down to aid the process you understand (and their curtains were
still drawn), Jack selected one of Frank’s Led Zeppelin CDs for aural enjoyment
on our journey. And it’s against the laws of physics to play this at less than
max. Dang that pesky early morning mist – it took a while to clear…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Coming soon: teaching Holly the
cat to use the neighbour’s cat flap and crap in a bed; lessons for Elvis the
guinea pig to howl like a lonely dog while we’re absent; and giving the
Boychild permission to lob whatever the fuck he likes over the fence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-17631179478652824272013-10-07T21:12:00.003+01:002013-10-07T21:12:43.018+01:00<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 1pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr><w:sdt docpart="5DEC994779EA4765A8324680301A84B6" id="89512082" showingplchdr="t" storeitemid="X_5F329CAD-B019-4FA6-9FEF-74898909AD20" text="t" title="Post Title" xpath="/ns0:BlogPostInfo/ns0:PostTitle"></w:sdt></span>
</div>
<div class="Publishwithline" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: grey;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="MsoPlaceholderText">[Enter Post Title
Here]</span><o:p></o:p><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr></span></span></span></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="border-color: currentColor currentColor rgb(198, 198, 198); border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 2pt; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="underline" style="border-color: currentColor currentColor rgb(198, 198, 198); border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 2pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: xx-small;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="border-color: currentColor currentColor rgb(198, 198, 198); border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 2pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Zen and the art of Televisual Maintenance </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It would appear that I’ve taken a break from the blog while
squeezing the contents of the five bedroomed Goddard Towers into a three
bedroomed semi which will henceforth be known as Goddard Villa. There were
highs and lows, surprises and questions – some more welcome than others, and
lots of tits and tears. I discovered that for reasons that died with Frank we
have been paying for BT Vision for some time but not actually using it. As part
of the new austerity regime I cancelled the Sky subscription which I had
whittled down to totally pointless. The process of cancelling was arduous and I
was ill prepared. I was asked something in the region of twenty times why I didn’t
want Sky any longer having been a customer for fifteen years. I was asked if
anyone else lived in the household and I naively answered that I have three
children. And what sort of a reaction will you get from your children when they
can’t access the wonders Sky has to offer? I mentioned that they seem to be
coping with their father’s death without any counselling so I’m anticipating a
bit of freeview won’t be an indefatigable challenge. Undeterred the Sky
representative prattled on. And on and on. When he realised I was muleishly
stubborn he asked for my telephone number. I made one up, anticipating (rightly
as it turns out) that I would receive numerous sales calls with bounteous
offers if I come back to the fold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have, as it turns out, disclosed my mobile number to Sky at
some point. Four days after cancelling I received the first call from a
troubled Sky rep, concerned about how I am coping without endless repeats of
Friends, Top Gear and a plethora of plane crashes and police chases. I tried my
best to reassure the representative that we are thriving and can actually
access the same old shit for a fraction of the price, not to mention the Twinset
are rather good at using iPlayer, thank you for your concern. The following
evening I received a further call. Drastic action was clearly called for since
both callers were able to identify the exact moment that dinner needed to be
served. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have been lucky enough to be counselled by Frank in the
art of abusing cold callers. The last one I remember followed his iPhone
purchase, and having ticked the box that he didn’t require insurance received a
flurry of calls from India. The one that brought an end to the 7pm irritation
was when he informed the caller that since he didn’t work in a call centre he
earned so much money that if he dropped the phone down the shitter he would
simply buy another one. How many times have you caused a telesales person hang
up on you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On call two when asked if I was missing Sky I said that in
fact I was. I could sense the excitement at the other end of the phone and was
informed that for a limited time only…. yawn… you get the drift. I enquired
whether the new Sky box would talk to me like the old one did. Silence. I said
that I was finding it difficult to cope without instructions from God, but that
on the other hand life was far easier not having to paint myself in white gloss
paint before watching Eastenders to ensure that MI5 can’t penetrate my mind and
see how I plan to kick off the rapture. I’ve not heard a peep out of them
since. Bob’s your Uncle and Fanny’s your aunt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What has been reassuring is that the Little Darlings haven’t
noticed the absence of Sky at Goddard Villa, and that their bad mother is
happier, healthier and nicer to know. But still a badass deep down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-53966833781599872902013-09-16T17:41:00.002+01:002013-09-16T17:45:00.050+01:00<div class="Publishwithline" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="MsoPlaceholderText">Moving On</span><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid #C6C6C6 1.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 2.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="underline" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="PadderBetweenControlandBody" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I haven’t written anything for a while, largely because life
has been humourless. The joy of exchanging contracts for the sale of Goddard Towers,
and the purchase of what people keep telling me teeth clenchingly frequently is
a fresh start, wore off with the next day’s hangover. The grim reality of the
task of disassembling eight years of life set in. I decided to face it like a
man, hired a skip and have been cracking on, with manflu, since. The Boychild
hasn’t been helping much since he doesn’t want to throw away any of Frank’s
stuff, so I’ve had to do it secretly only to find that he has raided the skip
and replaced everything. Added to this he has taken to hiding in the packing
cases Jack in a Box like. He’s also pretty miffed that next week he will be
Jack in a Box Room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am looking forward to a more streamlined life, as are the
little darlings. Goddard Towers is getting me down. It represents a monument of defeat. Frank and I really had no business buying this house due to our joint
inability to complete any DIY projects. He however did have a talent for
drinking and watching rugby with the best local tradesmen, so we did achieve a
bit. But only a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is going to be regime change in our new house come
next Monday. And I’m going all Blair and Bush-like and not seeking a mandate
before doing so. In fact it’s a secret and the kidlets won’t know what’s hit
them until the first attack. There’s no room for diplomacy here, no discussions
and certainly no votes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not going to
have a face full of Camaronesque egg. I’ve allowed the little darlings a pretty
free reign since Frank died. I like to fool myself that letting the children stay up late, watch as much tv as they like, and eat in their rooms is
benevolence on my part. But it’s just pure laziness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As of Monday 23<sup>rd</sup> September there will be no
pocket money without graft. There will be a bedtime, and if not adhered to Herr
Mother will remove the plugs from all electrical items. Except the
straighteners because I’m not that silly, and Eve is a bit scary. I’m expecting
a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>return of fire, but I hold the purse
strings, and when I set my mind to something I can be a stubborn bastard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><w:sdt contentlocked="t" id="89512093" sdtgroup="t"><span style="font-size: 1pt;"><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr><w:sdt docpart="239736311C5B4635A7F0C2ECF672E0DE" id="89512082" showingplchdr="t" storeitemid="X_5F329CAD-B019-4FA6-9FEF-74898909AD20" text="t" title="Post Title" xpath="/ns0:BlogPostInfo/ns0:PostTitle"></w:sdt></span>
</w:sdt>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So please don’t give the little darlings the heads up. This week,
of all weeks, I really don’t need a pre-emptive strike. My generally barely
adequate psychic defences are at an all time low.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-71090403831207714782013-08-22T19:44:00.001+01:002013-08-22T20:08:20.845+01:00You have the right to be economical with the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Boychild returned last weekend from a week at a PGL (Parents
Get Lost) summer camp. This was a gift from Grumpy who expressed concern that me
allowing him to play unfettered on the xbox, mostly virtually shooting zombies,
will result in him wiping out a future cinema audience with a sub-machine gun.
There are no shades of grey, and certainly not fifty, where my father is
concerned. I had no difficulty accepting the gift since it meant a week free of
three squabbling, bored children, that Jack would undoubtedly love it, and I am
a self-confessed bad parent. It was rather amusing when asked by Grumpy which
activity he enjoyed most: air rifle shooting. My father paid hard unearned
pension income training the Boychild to learn to use a real shooter, and
providing him with the knowledge to make his massacre prediction more likely.
And now, instead of incessantly pestering me for the latest xbox game he wants
his very own air rifle. Game, set and matchlock to Jack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was late delivering the would-be shooter to camp on account
of a two hour wait in A & E to have a cut in the Boychild’s pinky glued. He
had found Frank’s Swiss Army knife, and unbeknown to me was playing with it in
the back of the car. When I pulled over and couldn’t avoid the fact that the
seat looked like a crime scene, then realised that it was a crime scene on
account of Jack being in possession, not only of the age of criminal
responsibility but simultaneously a bladed article, I began my sermon on
economics and the truth. Repeat after me – the accident happened in the privacy
of our home… Whilst writing it occurs to me that a private motor vehicle may be
deemed a private place, but I wasn’t about to google Archibold for case law.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Evil Twin told Jack not to mess up. Angelic Twin’s jaw
dropped. The next sermon was that it’s ok to lie to anyone in a uniform,
especially traffic wardens. It doesn’t count. End of. Well unless you count
Judge’s robes a uniform because I would never ever lie to the Court, and every
rules has to have an exception. That’s a rule in itself. The first question from the nurse was, where
did this happen. Jack replied, on my mum’s seat, which technically wasn’t a lie
since I do own the bloodied car seat he was sitting on at the time. It is
refreshing, yet rare when my roles of badmother and lawyer coincide.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-61645239581854964662013-08-04T20:42:00.000+01:002013-08-04T20:44:55.398+01:00Venturing Forth<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Several living, breathing, thinking people have encouraged
me to try to get this blog published, and I’m starting to accept it as a
possibility, and not just friends being kind. This has led to a kind of
performance anxiety. I’ve started making notes – I have a proper little writer’s
notebook with me at all hours of night and day. I might even proof read. It’s a
pity that it’s not that simple. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Frank was not the sort of person that was phased by
anything. In the early days of my career I would feverishly prepare every time I
was in court, even if it was for a two minute bail application. This amused
Frank because he seemed to get an adrenaline rush appearing before a High Court
Judge after a mere squint at the papers. There was one moment however when he
admitted that he was capable of experiencing anxiety. While wedding planning
and discussing the future we agreed that we did want to bring new life onto the
planet. He made me promise not to tell him when I stopped taking contraceptives
because he feared, if he knew he was engaging in baby making activity it might
adversely affect his performance. You get the gist n’est pas? Since I’m really
crap at keeping my own secrets (I promise I’m ferociously protective of other
peoples) I had to stop taking the pill immediately. Hence the Twinset’s
premature arrival on more than one level. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What everyone knows about writing is you should write about
what you know. The most pertinent subject for me just now is learning to live
without Frank, and hopefully guiding the kidlets to adjust to life with a
single parent. I’m going to briefly digress here and mention how fucking
teeth-clenchingly irritating it is to hear mostly right wing pundits bang on
about the carnage that is brought forth from fatherless families. Some of us
don’t have a choice. In any event, a friend recently suggested that I should
write about grief. Here goes…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">During my twenty year relationship with Frank we got to know
each other pretty well. It reached a point that we could often predict what the
other was about to utter. This is no doubt very common. It was a huge comfort
to me in the first six months or so after Frank died that I would instinctively
know what he would have thought or felt about a news item, bit of gossip or
world changing event. He would have been completely indifferent to the latest
royal birth, unsurprised by the ongoing “revelations” about Catholic paedophilia,
and really very angry indeed about the proposed changes to legal aid. My confidence
in knowing what Frank would have said or thought is now starting to dwindle,
and I’m not sure that I like it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> I’m going to attempt
an analogy (I’ve had two glasses of rather nice Chabis so please forgive me if
it falls flat). Grief is like giving up smoking. For anyone that has done that –
I will do but don’t want
anyone to see of me as a quitter just now – I believe that you will recognise
that it is impossible to stop thinking about it. I’ve never stopped long enough
to evolve from this stage. After a couple of weeks I have a smoke and then
comes the unadulterated relief, mostly that I don’t need to think about it
every minute of every day. I’m sure that if I find the fortitude to persevere without
tobacco in my life this might happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I used to feel sad at the moments Frank missed. Sports
Personality of the Year was his most favourite show of the year. He would
predict, wrongly generally, the winners, and we would bet on it. The loser had
to clean the winner’s car. This never happened on account of some technicality.
I couldn’t watch the programme last year and don’t know whether his predictions
would have led to a myriad of rule bending that meant he won, or I would have
been extracting crisp wrappers and children’s socks from his Saab. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I said in an earlier post I think about Frank, and the
day he died every day. I want the image of finding him dead to go away, but I have
drawn great comfort from the memories of our time together, whether it’s from questioning of the little darlings, passing a place that evokes a
sweet memory, or wondering what Frank would have thought about something, and
rehearsing an imaginary conversation in my mind. Where the analogy ends is that
when I’ve forsaken the evil weed I’ve implored the day that I don’t think about
it to materialise. I fear the first day that I don’t have a thought about
Frank. It’s in the post I know. If it has to be signed for I’ll be sitting on
the bottom step refusing to open the door. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-52554993100924382282013-07-30T19:52:00.000+01:002013-07-30T19:52:36.551+01:00<div class="Publishwithline" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="MsoPlaceholderText">Good Grief</span><o:p></o:p><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid #C6C6C6 1.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 2.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="underline" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="PadderBetweenControlandBody" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’ve been kind of running with the emotions that in the
early days following Frank’s death I didn’t know I was capable of experiencing.
I spoke to my brother the day after Frank departed, and he told me that I would
be in shock for at least six months, and that I wouldn’t realise it until it
went away. He is no stranger to grief: his eldest daughter died in front of his
eyes at the age of ten. What a horribly tragic family we turned out to be. I
admire the way that he carried, and still carries his grief. I don’t know if
this is true, but I have very little memory of the weeks after Frank died, and
that wasn’t entirely wine related. Honestly. I remember and rehearse the day
that Frank died daily. It’s a day that I would prefer not to remember,
particularly because I fear the effect the 28<sup>th</sup> November 2012 has
had, and may continue to have, on the boychild. That’s not to say that I am not
concerned with the Twinset, but they weren’t there and haven’t found themselves
in a hormone charged female household without notice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I talked to each of the
kidlets about bereavement counselling. Independently they looked at me devoid
of credulousness: why would they want to talk to a stranger about what
happened? I was pressed by a very kind friend who is a trustee of a local
charity that helps children who have lost loved ones. Kate asked why would she
want to hang out with kids when the only thing they had in common was that
their dads were dead. I couldn’t fault her logic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jack does appear to be normal, whatever that epithet means.
He proved on holiday recently that he’s more than capable of driving me to
distraction when it suits him. He gets angry with me at times. While sunning
ourselves in Sardinia he asked me if dad had wanted to go to Italy, and I told
him that he did. We planned to go, but for reasons I was unable to identify, we
never did. Jack was angry with me for taking us to a destination that we should
have gone with dad. It was always my responsibility to book holidays, and although I sought approval Frank would always ask me, usually on the way to the departure gate, where is it we're going again? I pointed out to Jack that there were (gloriously for me) no
English accents pervading the beach, no karaoke, no quizzes or fish n chips,
and asked if he thought his dad would be enjoying this holiday. He replied –
no, he’d be bored shitless. I normally take issue with the Little Darlings
uttering profanity on the grounds that if they know how much I swear it means
they’ve hacked my email or facebook. On this occasion he was fucking spot on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Bugger – this was meant to be a happy holiday related post. I
wasn’t brave enough to take the kidlets abroad alone, and was lucky enough to
join forces with a friend who was taking her two daughters, friends of the
Twinset, to Sardinia. We kinda invited ourselves along. Emma proved to be first
class company. She loved supermarket shopping as much as Frank did, and
assembled some fabulous mozzarella and cold meat meals. This led to
Eve developing a mozzarella addiction – she was on three balls a day by the time
we left. Not quite a ten quid bag, but nevertheless... Happily doses of Tesco value mozzarella has been for Eve more subutex
than methadone to a smack head. It’s also handy going away with a
multi-lingual buddy who also engages in irresponsible drinking and smoking. I am
now able to order una litro casa blanco vino per fervore. As the holiday
progressed it seemed to me that Italian is largely a mixture of French and
Spanish with an “o” on the end. Being a consummate mime artist helped with
other interactions with confused locals. I am pleased to report that I won the
prize for being the most drunken and embarrassing parent. That at least was
consistent with previous family holidays. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Our local was reminiscent of home: full of gossiping middle
aged men. Every afternoon. Frank would have felt quite at home there had he
been fluent in Italian. For fear of being characterised a dirty old woman, I have
to report that there were some fabulous views of delicious young Italian men.
Emma and I were taken by how cultured they seemed. One evening we were utterly
absorbed by two men, probably in their late twenties, enjoying a meal together.
They were sharing a bowl of mussels, drinking vino and talking. We agreed that
it would be unlikely to see a similar sight in the bars of Exeter, even if anything
other than ham, egg and chips was on the menu. Then, as we were gazing, their
mains appeared, and simultaneously Emma and I said dreamily, “they’re having
another course…” I’m probably revealing too much about the sad git I’ve become.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I did wonder what the other guests made of us – two forty-something women with five children. Did they speculate whether we were a couple of lesbians that had played fast and loose with a turkey baster? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am pleased to report that another in a series of new
experiences without Frank, the Goddar</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">ds, with some much appreciated help, have
delivered once again.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><w:sdt contentlocked="t" id="89512093" sdtgroup="t"><span style="font-size: 1pt;"><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr><w:sdt docpart="EBB7E7383A4B42D48C4D73EAFA9AE16F" id="89512082" showingplchdr="t" storeitemid="X_5F329CAD-B019-4FA6-9FEF-74898909AD20" text="t" title="Post Title" xpath="/ns0:BlogPostInfo/ns0:PostTitle"></w:sdt></span>
</w:sdt>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-74578670891063941332013-06-12T20:46:00.000+01:002013-06-12T20:46:12.699+01:00Word of the day: disingenuous<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last night I medicated my frustrations with a bout of
irresponsible alcohol intake. This evening I’m trying to write it off. My sense
of utter frustration at the Ministry of Dwindling Justice’s proposals to
introduce price competitive tendering in the criminal justice system is now mirrored by the process of selling and buying a property. Both matters have been foist upon
me in quick succession. Yesterday I met up with an old friend who I haven’t
seen in person for over fifteen years. He was a pupil barrister while I was
establishing myself in the murky world of prison law. We tried briefly, over a
pint, to identify the silver cloud in my husband’s sudden death last year. The fact
that he knew nothing about it was all we could muster. The bright side of the
PCT proposals is the magnificent wit, eloquence and insight published daily on faceache
and twatter by lawyers. They make me proud to be a member of the legal
profession. For the time being. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Meanwhile, having overcome the bank’s computer refusing to
offer me a substantially lower mortgage than I have currently, I viewed a
property that I believe could prove to be a home for me, but more importantly
the boychild and twinset. According to the Daily Fail I am a fat cat lawyer on £200
per hour. Perhaps the journalist can disclose evidence of this to my bank manager because I'm buggered if I can. I naively calculated the sum I would be able to invest partly on the basis of
sums owed to Frank’s estate following his retirement from a firm of solicitors shortly before his death.
Although an agreement had been reached while Frank’s heart was still beating
that the outstanding sum would be paid in monthly installments, I rather assumed
that his former partners of over approaching thirty years, some of whom I have considered
friends over the years, would want my children to have a secure home. Wrong again. I should
have known better than to ask. I was briefly a partner of the firm having
worked for them for five years. Nearly thirteen years ago when the twinset were
born prematurely at twenty-six weeks and looked distinctly like something from
the X Files, I was informed by another partner’s wife that I would be relocated
to an office some thirty miles from my home when I returned from maternity
leave. You can feel the love, right? Because of Frank's position as an equity partner I chose not to pursue an application for constructive dismissal. I regret very little, but I now regret that.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am consequently finding it increasingly difficult
to care anymore. I still care about the effective delivery of justice, but in
all honesty I am struggling to give a shit about individual clients. It is
harder to sympathise with clients who assume that amongst my arsenal of
solicitor weaponry is a magic wand and crystal ball than it was in the past. As
a representative of mostly indeterminate prisoners, I tend to act for clients
over many years. One such client who was embarking on a mandatory life sentence
at a time I could get away with wearing tight tops and short skirts, wrote
to me recently to inform me that it was our seventeenth anniversary. During a
brief spell in the community he invited me to his wedding. A bond develops in
professional relationships that can span decades. There can't be many lawyers that have received congratulations cards on the birth of your babies, and condolences cards on the death of your spouse from murderers, rapists and the like. Oh and the Parole Board. In the face of losing my
career, I am struggling to assemble any enthusiasm for going the extra mile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today I feel defeated by disingenuousness: the falsehoods issued by Chris Grayling and Daily Fail journalists; and recalling
the correspondingly insincere “if there’s anything I can do” from the mouth of
Frank’s former managing partner at the time of his funeral. Sigh.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-6345289750213750852013-05-28T17:57:00.001+01:002013-05-28T17:57:21.472+01:00Computer says no<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.</span></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/48628"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/48628</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><w:sdt contentlocked="t" id="89512093" sdtgroup="t"><span style="font-size: 1pt;"><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr><w:sdt docpart="76E500F05B8D42D0BA0E6B778BCCC1BE" id="89512082" showingplchdr="t" storeitemid="X_5F329CAD-B019-4FA6-9FEF-74898909AD20" text="t" title="Post Title" xpath="/ns0:BlogPostInfo/ns0:PostTitle"></w:sdt></span>
</w:sdt>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-61309972079618808102013-05-03T19:53:00.001+01:002013-05-03T19:53:30.731+01:00Dead and Buried<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-70059909745819427122013-04-23T16:28:00.001+01:002013-04-23T16:28:11.683+01:00My Proposal<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the light of the PCT proposals which have been subject to
a robust impact analysis (can you feel the irony jumping out of the internet
and giving you a big sloppy kiss?), I have decided to conduct a social
experiment with the Little Darlings. This will, I trust, provide empirical
evidence for the Ministry of (dwindling) Justice if they decide to contemplate
the consequences of PCT before imposing it on us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This weekend, when it comes to doling out the household
assignments (in return for paper folding currency) I shall abandon my tried and
tested method of assigning tasks on the basis of aptitude, experience and
enthusiasm, in favour of price competitive tendering. Twin One generally elects
to do the Saturday morning Tesco run for the egg and bacon brunch. She likes
spending other people’s money, is motivated to attend to the task in good time
since she loves a bacon butty, and can simultaneously listen to pop music on
her iPod without me screeching at her to “turn it down”. Twin Two prefers less
strenuous tasks. She likes washing up. Well that is overstating the case - If
she wants money she would prefer to stand still with her hands in hot water,
achieving very little over an overly long period of time (shall we call her the
CPS?). Boychild’s preferred little earner is to take the rubbish bags out to
the back gate. This was his father’s job, and he seems to feel some pride in a
man-of-the-house activity. In any event, the Little Darlings are fairly content
with this arrangement, and generally carry out their obligations to the
household with little complaint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This weekend however I am introducing competition in order
to make savings to my purse of at least 17.5% whilst simultaneously encouraging
productivity and sustainability. I am going to ensure that the tasks are
carried out to the same standard enjoyed under the previous system: I will
scrutinise their every move and carry a big stick whilst doing so. Or perhaps I
will employ a child minder to do this for me, and deduct his or her wages from
the Little Darling’s money. I normally give them a fiver each, and Twin One
gets to keep the change from the shopping on account of, shall we call it –
travelling expenses. Some parents may think that I am rewarding them handsomely
for fairly straightforward tasks they are familiar with. I can afford it (at
present) and it seems to me fair when one takes into account the cost of
sweets, music and game downloads and sundry merchandise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m not going to tell them about my plan until it’s too late
for them to come up with a reasoned objection, alternative proposal, or to stop
bickering for long enough to unite against me. They will each be required, if
they wish to continue to receive funds, to make an offer for the task they wish
to perform. They will need to be prepared to do their jobs for at least 17.5 %
less than they are currently receiving, and if one or all of them would like to
earn more (on an economy of so called scale), they must ensure that
their bid undercuts their sibling’s best offer. And the supplement for the
Tesco run will no longer be available.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am confident that the outcome of this experiment will be
that they decide that it’s just not worth their while. There is a remote
possibility that they will give the new system a go because some money is
better than no money. Since they will be remunerated significantly less, I
doubt very much that they will put a great deal of effort into it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems more likely to me that, while the
Little Darlings will consider the good these small deeds do for the household, they
will conclude that if you can’t even afford a bar of chocolate and Taylor
Swift’s latest download, well, what’s the point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, pretty soon we'll all starve - if the rats don't eat us first - but the important thing is that the public (i.e. my) purse will look reassuringly full.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://www.epetitions.gov.uk/petitions/46828"><span style="color: #0563c1; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">www.epetitions.gov.uk/petitions/46828</span></a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-10016648291169959952013-04-22T22:25:00.002+01:002013-04-22T22:25:22.339+01:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have read with interest numerous blog posts since the so called<u> </u>“<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:User" datetime="2013-04-22T21:29">consultatio</ins></span>n” on PCT was unveiled<strike> </strike>prematurely and ill advisedly. I wholeheartedly agree
with the ponderings of fellow professionals in the criminal justice system. The
only feature of the call to arms that I depart from to some extent is the ethos
that we must emphasise the cost to justice and the public, and ignore the very
real consequences in the personal
lives of so very many solicitors and barristers. When cuts have been made in
the NHS and to benefits for the elderly and disabled, the human cost in the
quality (or otherwise) of the lives of those affected is at the forefront of
the opposition. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is of course quite
right. I feel utter horror at the implications for those on the wrong side of
the criminal justice system, and what will amount to the end of justice being even <i>seen</i> to be done<strike>,</strike> let alone <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:User" datetime="2013-04-22T21:29">actually
</ins></span><i>being</i>
done. I have read many perfectly reasoned, researched and argued pieces about
this monumental issue, and I therefore leave well alone. I don’t believe that I
can reasonably add anything of significance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do want to emphasise that solicitors and barristers have been practicing in this field have continued to do so
<span class="msoDel"><del cite="mailto:User" datetime="2013-04-22T21:29"> </del></span>not because we are self-interested money
grabbing bastards<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:User" datetime="2013-04-22T21:29">.</ins></span><span class="msoDel"><del cite="mailto:User" datetime="2013-04-22T21:29">.</del></span> It is a vocation
on the same level, I believe as teaching, nursing and caring and the like. It is unfortunate that all solicitors and barristers are thought of as swimming in the same pond. We in the criminal justice system who probably earn less than the average
primary school teacher (I know I do right now) are being judged by the same
standards as partners of international commercial law firms that are doing very
well, thank you nicely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not ashamed of saying that my first reaction at reading
the PCT document was “fuck – I’m going to lose my ability to earn a living and
support my three children, doing a job I’ve been
doing for the last seventeen years, which I mostly enjoy, and frankly am really
pretty good at.” The implications for the justice system as a whole and what it
means for the country were secondary. But there you are, I’m just a self-interested
bar steward in the eyes of the Daily Fail reading public.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is possible to be motivated by more than one
concern, but that solicitors and barristers are neglecting to point out the personal devastation that will be a consequence of PCT. We are
not the lawyers living in country estates or penthouse apartments. We – well I
– will be casting our burdens on the state. I can only speak for myself, but
I’ve had a gutsful of trying to defend the work that I do in defending the most
vulnerable in society, and earning just about enough to pay the mortgage and
take care of my little darlings.</span></span>Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2035639253071347991.post-29222100596293119072013-04-11T19:45:00.000+01:002013-04-11T19:45:01.644+01:00I guess I picked another bad day to give up drinking<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I appear to have mislaid my sense of humour and I doubt very much that I will rediscover it for some time, if ever. If this post raises the most wry of smiles my amazement will be second only to my current sense of utter despair. The joy of the news of the demise of Thatcher has now passed. I shall rejoice no more. Well perhaps a little on the day of <i>that</i> funeral.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I spent this morning reading the Criminal Legal Aid Best Value Tendering "consultation" document. I should have known better and heeded one of my partner's advice to, instead, stick my head firmly in the sand, or if none is available, up the anus of the nearest Tory politician since I'm depressed enough already. The document brought to mind the last time that BVT was mooted in 2009, I think, and the President of the Criminal Law Solicitors Association put the British criminal justice system on ebay with a reserve of £1. Honestly he did. Perhaps this inspired our incumbent Government to invite bids from criminal law practitioners to enter into a similar auction - "I'll raise you a police station interview for your two committals for sentence."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There has been no increase in legal aid rates for criminal defence work for the last fifteen years, and there have been significant cuts. Nevertheless the government expect us to pitch our bids at at least 17.5% below the current fees. This is, apparently, to ensure that criminal defence work is sustainable. I'm not sure our bank manager would agree.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I read and re-read the section on the number of contracts that we will be in a position to bid for. Then I rang a colleague who I knew had also read the document in the hope that I had misunderstood these provisions. There are currently 1600 providers of criminal defence services in England and Wales. The number of contracts that will be awarded to those that can afford to stoop to even lower profitability is 400. I hadn't misread it. In Manchester there are currently 137 providers, and this will be reduced to 37. In Devon and Cornwall, my area of practice, 10 contracts will be handed out. In Exeter alone there are currently 6 providers. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The document also encourages bids from organisations outside of the legal profession who can then subcontract the work to "real" solicitors. If we weren't such a hated profession I suspect that Tesco would put in a bid. Actually, I can see the advert: "Nicked? Every Little Helps. And it will be little help since there will be no incentive to do a good job for a client when a good reputation means absolutely nothing. It seems to me that the only possible way that most criminal defence solicitors can stay in business is to merge with other firms. This is laughable. In my firm there are four partners, and it took us at least three hours to agree on the colour of our logo. The sorry fact of the matter is that we appear to thrive on loathing other each other; exulting in other's misfortune; and luxuriating in being chosen by a prolific criminal over another firm. We are professional bitches. It is extremely sad that the divide and conquer philosophy that I believe was expounded so successfully under Thatcher, is (happily unlike her) alive and well today, and is likely to underpin the cull of numerous firms across this country and effective criminal defence for the innocent and guilty alike. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If we do somehow survive the bidding contest there will be no reason to crow about being the king cock of the Magistrates' Court since the punters will not be able to choose who represents them. I promise I'm not making this up. When an individual is arrested the case will be allocated to a solicitor on the basis of either the initial of his or her surname, or their date of birth. If the matter proceeds to trial, and solicitor and client despise each other, they are stuck together, for better or worse. Is that justice being seen to be done, one of the fundamental principles of British justice?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am not in any way expecting or attempting to illicit any sympathy. There are far more deserving cases being shat on from a great hight by Dave and his pals. When the disabled, the elderly and sick children are getting a much less fragrant end of the stick I offer the following advice: don't, above all else, get caught.</span></div>
<br />Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07262909353440591109noreply@blogger.com0