Driving Woes

So, learning to drive is going excellently.  I have used italics there to denote sarcasm, just in case you weren't sure.  It's been five full months now and although my (very lovely, patient and all round wonderful) driving instructor keeps telling me how well I'm doing, we both know that that is not true.  I am a trained teacher.  I recognise the use of praise to encourage those with Special Educational Needs when I hear it.

A clue that things were not going so well was when I was banned from using the manual car on my second lesson after a near miss with the only pole in a large car park (metal pole, not someone of Polish origin).  Things have progressed in a happier and less remedial way since I've been in the automatic, but there are still a few issues, the main ones being that I have no idea which way is left and which way is right and that I am also a bit simple.  Examples ahead to prove my point:

Difficulty with left and right:

Driving instructor: "OK, go left."
Me: "Which left?"
Driving instructor: "LEFT"
Me: "Ummmmm...."
Driving instructor: "Oh, OK, right's fine too.  Now go straight on."
Me: "Which road is straight on?"

And so on.  The woman has the patience of a saint.

The most problematic issue caused by this is my tendency to mistake the accelerator pedal for the brake and vice versa.  She thinks I've only done this once (last lesson, when I very nearly crashed into a traffic light - the woman not only has the patience of a saint but balls of steel too), but actually I've done it several times with less dramatic consequences.  Every time I've taken a corner too fast?  Foot on wrong pedal.  Every time I've slowed down on a dual carriageway?  Wrong pedal.  Whoever invented cars should not have put them so close together in my opinion.


Being a bit simple:

Driving instructor:  "Excellent.  now, if you could just move out of the cycle lane..."
Me: "Am I in a cycle lane?"

Driving instructor: "Yes. Did you not see the cycle road marking?"

Well.  For a start I assumed that the lines that marked out the cycle lane were just there to show that you had a nice bit of extra room, should you be a bit of a rubbish driver.  Disappointing.  Secondly, I had noticed the picture of a cycle painted onto the road something like this:

But, umm, I had just assumed that those nice people at Cheshire County Council had just taken it upon themselves to jazz up the roads a bit by painting pictures of things that could be on them in a jaunty fashion, and maybe a bit further up the road there might be a picture of a lorry or a car or a motorbike or something. Yes.  I'm going to need at least another year of lessons and some very good car insurance I think.

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It's Saturday night and you're going to be soooo jealous when you find out what I'm doing.

I am defrosting the freezer.  Oh yes I am.  What's more, I'm doing it in filthy tracksuit bottoms and going at it with a scrubbing brush and a sponge, and spitting great hanks of hair out of my mouth ever 30 seconds because I am so intently focussed on Sorting The Freezer Out that spending a whole minute and a half locating a hair band to scrag my hair back with seemed like a waste of precious freezer cleaning time.

It can only mean one thing: I have been hit with my bi-yearly 'why am I not a proper grown-up?' panic.  Well, OK, it could mean one of two things: either that or I forgot to take my Sertraline last night (did that a few weeks ago and the next day was gripped with the sudden need to paint the study in 2 hours by myself without moving any furniture at all or the use of any dust sheets. We're still picking paint splashes off the floor, but it does look lovely and fresh in here now and the withdrawal electric shocks in my head stopped after 48 hours).

Back to the panic.  You may have picked up on my slight lack of organisational skills.  Or...well...life skills of any kind really.  To give you an overview of the scale of the problem, I recently took a comprehensive online test to determine how many autistic traits I have.  I think it was scored out of 160, the average being around 80.  I scored zero and have a sneaking suspicion that this diagnoses me as terminally crap.  It would be right.  I don't own a watch or a diary (well, I own many diaries because I buy them with the best of intentions, use them for 3 days and then mislay them) and instead rely on someone else telling me what I'm supposed to be doing and when and random scribbled notes on bits of paper strewn around the house.  I find this system works pretty well for me, but nobody else approves and occasionally I wake up in a fit of angst about my uselessness and begin a quest to get organised.

I was already entering this phase this morning, when my husband made the mistake of telling me not to bother because "being ramshackle is all part of your charm."  That did it.  Ramshackle?  Out of all the adjectives he could pluck out of the English language to describe his wife, the love of his life, he picks ramshackle?  I do not want to be ramshackle.   Time to defrost the freezer and take a trip to Ikea.*

I don't really care that it's a Saturday night.  We were staying in anyway, and it will be worth it for the smug feeling of having done something that responsible adults do.  I have even resisted the temptation to hack at the ice with a knife so far (although I really really want to.  So much.).  I have also organised the toiletries and found two baskets for the transportation of items up and down stairs AND - get this bitches - I have BOUGHT SOME FLANNELS.  Uh-huh.  We are now a household that owns flannels.  Get in.  Now when one of us has a headache we won't have to lie in a darkened room with a damp pair of Richard's pants on our foreheads because we have the correct tool for the job.

God, I am such a brilliant grown-up today.   Had better go and scrape some defrosted prawns out of the back of the freezer now.  Maybe will even clean the microwave by cutting a lemon up and heating it up in a bowl of water.  That's how adult I am.  Time for some serious backside kissing Richard; you will rue the day you called me ramshackle.





*Trip to Ikea was total failure as I rejected all their shelves for "looking cheap" and their spice racks were out of stock.  This is a major setback.  My future organisation skills depend entirely on the existence of spice racks in my house and I'm having a bit of a panic.

How to Remove Stains

Here I am again, back with more domestic tips.  I know you can't wait and this one will revolutionise your life.

Way back when we had money, time and no child running amok, we moved into our current house.  The first room we decorated completely was our bedroom.  This was mainly because it was painted bright orange and the ceiling was falling in.  I have a before photo, but it would traumatise you, so I won't show it.  Anyway, this is what we did to it:

Obviously that photo was taken just after it was decorated.  These days it looks like a toddler has bounced up and down repeatedly on the bed whilst holding a full carton of Um Bongo*.

Take particular notice of the very expensive purple bedspread, chosen by my husband (who has quite girly taste for a man, it must be said).  Within 3 weeks of the arrival of Rory, it was covered in the sort of stains that only a baby can create.  Sort of Sudocrem mixed with regurgitated milk.  "We'll have to get this dry cleaned at some point," we said.  "But no point in getting it done until he's out of the young baby phase."

More icky stains joined the first ones.  Occasionally I've looked at it and thought about getting it cleaned, but, quite frankly, I have found it rather hard to care.

Cut to this morning when I had a brief fit of conscience and decided to finally take that big purple satin bastard to the dry cleaners.  I went up to the bedroom to stuff it all in a plastic bag and....as if by magic, the stains have all gone.  I don't quite know the science behind this - perhaps they have turned into dust with age and brushed off.  Whatever happened, the moral of this story is that if you ignore something that needs cleaning for over two and a half years, it will eventually go away.  What a result.  Hope it works on the bit of wall he decorated with eye liner when he was 14 months old.

*Yeah.  That happened.

How To Get Away With Living In Squalor

This is my specialist subject and one that I could write a book about (hear that potential publishers?  I am open to offers).

Regular readers will be well aware that I am a die hard housework dodger.  I have a million and one things to do every day like, well, eat, wrangle my toddler, go out and do stuff, work, poke about in bushes with Rory, stay in and do other stuff, bake things, make things, dance about in my pants to music, watch Gilmore Girls, critique CBeebies, tit about on the internet - that sort of thing.  Am I going to spend precious time doing housework instead of doing any of those things?  Please be serious.

Sadly, the fact remains that until I can afford a cleaner I have to be in charge of the housekeeping.  For those of you in equally disappointing circumstances, here are my TOP TIPS for doing very little and getting away with it:

1. Identify a key area in your house.  This must be a) an area that is in view soon after entering the house, b) the area that guests see most when they sit down, and c) easy to keep clean and tidy.

My fireplace is my key area:  (cue childish sniggering at mild innuendo).

Ignore Rory and I looking into a box for no specific purpose and focus on the fireplace.  Also important for this key zone is that it looks particularly nice and - listen carefully here - is ever so slightly twee (exhibit a: the bunting).  My fireplace polishes up nicely in about 30 seconds and the mantle piece can be cleared of clutter which can be dumped in another room.  the reason for the addition of twee-ness is this:  you want to give the impression to visitors that you are the sort of woman who cares about how her house looks.  You are feminine.  You are a little bit of a domestic goddess.  Added twee-ness makes this suggestion beautifully. The idea here is that people see your clean, tidy and prettily decorated key zone and it leaves a lasting impression on their brain, so that they won't notice this:

or this:

or, um, this....

Yeah.  I could go on.  The point is that the first impression is one of loveliness, which slightly eclipses the rest of the crap heap that they're about to encounter.

2.  Likewise, identify a key bedroom upstairs.  Make sure it's a small one that's easy to keep clean and tidy.  I use Rory's because all his toys are kept downstairs at the moment.  When you have guests, leave all upstairs doors shut apart from the bathroom door (we'll come to that) and the door of your key room.  Don't leave the door wide open as this screams "THE REST OF MY HOUSE IS A SHIT TIP, BUT LOOK AT THIS, WILL YOU".  No.  Be more subtle and leave the door just ajar enough to see in a bit.  Why yes visiting friends and family, all the rooms in my house are like that one.  

3. The bathroom:  Brilliant tip which I have stolen from my lovely friend Alex who blogs over here.  Alex is an OCD neat freak (but I still love her).  Her top tip is to polish your bathroom sink after every use with an old towel or flannel.  Now, I'm not going to ever be arsed to do that every time, but I'll happily do it after cleaning it or if I have visitors.  It makes it nice and shiny and gets rid of all the water marks.  Most importantly, it detracts from how crappy the rest of your bathroom is and gives the impression of excellent housekeeperly skills.  Thank you Alex.  Squirt a bit of bleach down the toilet while you're at it.

4. If you are expecting company, make use of every single hole in your house.  I'm talking cupboards, drawers, the washing machine, the dishwasher - it doesn't matter what you fling in them, just chuck it in and shut the doors.  A multitude of tat can be hidden in your kitchen sink simply by running water and squirting a bitchload of Fairy Liquid in so the bubbles disguise everything.  You're welcome.

5. Just before anyone comes over, spend 15 minutes tidying like a maniac, hoover key rooms, dust the most visible surfaces, open windows, spray something that smells nice, and as they enter your house (remember to hide the duster and try not to pant too much), welcome them in and - crucial step ahead - apologise for the mess.  Make them believe that you usually live in a much neater, tidier environment than the one you've just sweated blood to blitz.  Add weight to this by having something baking in the oven in an "oh, I just got carried away with my own domesticity and didn't have time to tidy" sort of way.  Bazinga: you are a domestic goddess.

Now my students,  go forth and be a secret slob.  Let me know how you get on.

Come back Annabel Karmel, all is forgiven.

For these reasons:

1. Rory from the sofa on which he was lounging in front of the telly yesterday:  "Can you get Daddy to order me a pizza please?"

2. Rory at playgroup during singing time, when asked what Old MacDonald has on his farm: "Burgers."

3. Rory at playgroup during singing time after I laughed off the above incident while the mum who only feeds her child wholefoods (there's always one) looked at me in horror and asked him what Old MacDonald REALLY has on his farm:  "Chicken nuggets.  And chips. And Coca Cola." *slurping sound*

So I was very pleased to hear the following from him when I picked up a cucumber and put it in our basket in Waitrose yesterday:  "YESSSSS!!! CUCUMBER!!!! I love cucumber, I LOVE IT.  YUM YUM IN MY TUM."

Oh yes, I felt smug as a smug thing as I walked past all the other parents.  "Yes, you love cucmber don't you - deeeeelicious", I said in my smuggest voice to add to the overall impression of smugdom.

There was a pause while Rory considered his reply.  Then this:

"Oh, wait.  not cucumber. I don't love cucumber. What's that other thing?  Ummmm....ummmm....CRISPS.  I love crisps."  


I should have pureed more spinach when he was a baby.  God I hate it when Karmel is right.

And this is why I'm learning to drive:

Until about 6 weeks ago I had never driven a car.  I was too busy to learn when I was 17 while all my friends started their driving lessons. (Not too busy with A-levels you understand. No, I was far too busy combining kissing unsuitable men in rock bars, working in the local pub, not eating enough and all the associated counsellors and psychologists that I had to see as a result and sitting in my room listening to John Peel, feeling misunderstood. That I passed my A-levels at all is a complete miracle).  After that, I didn't have enough money to take driving lessons.  Then I lived in town so I didn't need to.  Anyway - I didn't really mind not driving.  I like walking and it keeps me on the right side of curvy, and I am really good at public transport - catching connecting buses and hurling myself through the closing doors of a train that's about to pull out like Indiana Jones.

2.5 years ago, something happened to change my feelings towards learning to drive though.  Allow me to explain.

Person With Car Goes On Journey To Unspecified Location With Toddler:

1. Place toddler in car seat.

2. Get in car.

3. Drive to destination.

4. Be at destination.

5. Come home.

Person Without Car (Me) Goes On Journey To Unspecified Location With Toddler:


1. Two hours before needing to leave the house, start planning route with military precision.

2. Think I've got it sorted, then realise I have no change for the bus so I'm going to have to walk the 20 minutes into town to change some money before I can go anywhere else.  Swear a bit.

3. Re-plan route to take account of walking into town.

4. Get dressed.  Have crisis.  Last remaining pair of jeans have developed an indecent hole overnight, so can't wear jeans and trainers.

5. Have NO other clothes that are compatible with trainers.  Will have to wear a dress.

6. And tights because it's cold.  Last remaining pair of tights have a hole in the toe.  Ignore, ignore, put them on anyway.

7. Oh crap, have just remembered that the only pair of boots I own have high heels.  No flat shoes remain apart from trainers due to poverty.  So much walking to do today.  Feet are going to be in agony after 15 minutes.  Never mind.

8. Explain to Rory what the plan is for the day. Rory wants to leave immediately. He does not understand the concept of "in half an hour". What's more, he wants to wear only one sock and a Spiderman t-shirt and take his scooter.

9. Ponder the wisdom of taking the scooter.

10. Come to the conclusion that this would be foolhardy.

11. Oh.  He's going to want to walk isn't he? Do I let him walk and add an extra half an hour to the plan and spend all day trying to keep him out of path of steamrollers and the like or take the pushchair and risk decapitating self when trying to load it onto the bus. (flashback to horrific memory of pensioner maiming last time I attempted this).

12. Ah, feck it, we'll take the pushchair.

13. Attempt to get Rory dressed and ready. By now he's decided that he doesn't want to leave the house at all and instead will run laps of the ground floor of the house whilst sticking pieces of toast and jam to the walls.

14. Capture and dress him.

15. Haul pushchair out of the cupboard under the stairs whilst trying to avoid injury.  Kick it a bit and call it a bastard.

16. Meanwhile, Rory is gleefully unpacking the neatly packed bag in the corner.

17. Re-pack bag, strap Rory in pushchair.

18. Rory decides he needs a "just in case wee".  Unstrap him from pushchair and sit him on the potty.

19. Strap him back into the pushchair.  He wants to take a toy car with him.  Fine.  "Which toy car would you like to take, Rory?"

20. Oh, the one that you just threw into the urine filled potty. Of course.

21. Rinse off toy car and ineffectively dab with a disinfectant wipe.

22. Leave the house, frantically re-calculating route in my head as we are now too late to catch the first bus.

23. Five minutes down the road it starts to rain.  Jesus.  Put rain cover on pushchair which makes Rory shout at me as if he is being abused.  Have no hood on the coat I'm wearing so put umbrella up.  Lurch down the road like slightly lame hunchback due to having to steer pushchair with one hand and one elbow while the other holds the umbrella.  Rory kicks a hole in the rain cover then complains that he is getting wet.

24. Change money and arrive at bus stop just in time for bus.  Only the driver won't let me on because there's someone else with a pushchair already on it so no room for ours.

25. Smile politely at driver and say "not to worry" safe in the knowledge that I will track that stupid bastard cockwomble down and defecate on his doorstep. Or BURN him.  Can't decide which.

26. Re-calculate route in head again.

27. 20 minute wait for the next bus in the sort of rain that prompted Noah to build an ark.

28. Next bus arrives.  There is space for us, so I un-strap Rory and threaten him with a fate worse than death if he dares to run off while I fold up the pushchair, trapping my finger and knocking over a bin in the process.

29. Struggle onto bus with demon pushchair and similarly afflicted child.  Sit down.

30. Spend entire journey a) trying to stop Rory from repeatedly pushing the 'stop' button and b) shooting apologetic glances to every passenger that he insults. ("Oh look mummy, that man is extremely fat.", "Oh, two men getting on bus. No...no...that one's a lady.  That lady looks like a man.").  Bus gets stuck in traffic several times.

31. Get off bus taking spring loaded weapon of mass destruction (the pushchair) with me.  Rory refuses to get back into it but we have another 20 minute walk until we get to where we're going.  End up pushing empty pushchair and trying to control spring loaded weapon of mass destruction (Rory) at the same time.

32. Big toe being forced through hole in tights with every painful step. Agony.

33. Feet really really hurting now. Stupid heels.  Maybe could have worn flip-flops.  Stupid tights.

34. Still raining.  Wind picking up now.

35. Abandon umbrella, which keeps blowing inside out and resign self to getting soaked.

36. Arrive at destination looking like a bedraggled tramp. Rory very wet also and whinging.  I can see passers by looking at me like I'm an unfit mother.  Pushchair sodden.  Left the house over two hours ago. Entire journey would have taken 15 minutes door to door in a car.

37. At destination, steaming gently as we warm up.

38. Leave destination.

39. Repeat the entire process again in reverse.

40. Gin.




And that is why I am learning to drive.

The Risk Assessment

A risk assessment is a pointless thing.  I was taught how to write one when I trained to be a teacher and very swiftly realised that it had nothing whatsoever to do with keeping your pupils safe and everything to do with covering your backside, should anything untoward happen at any point.  I got marked down in a lesson observation once for failing to point out that there was a risk of pupils stabbing themselves in the eye with their pencils.  Now, I've taught some kids who have done some pretty stupid things in class before, but poking pencils in their eyes is not one of them.  Poking their fingers down their throats to see how far they could get them down there before vomiting* - now that's something I've dealt with.  Emptying the contents of a pencil sharpener into someone's ear - I've dealt with that too ("Quick, turn your head on one side and give it a bash with your Numeracy book.").  Not pencils in eyes though.

The thing I've come to realise over years of working in schools and a couple of years at home with a small child is that you can never be fully aware of all the risks.  You childproof everything only to find them scaling the curtains one day.  You remove all small and pointy objects from a grab-able height only to discover them under the computer desk clutching a dismantled ball point pen, a biro spring protruding from one nostril.

My technique these days is to worry about the big stuff - heights, poisonous things, road safety - all that jazz.  I don't panic about the little things.  Rory got hold of a box of cocktail sticks earlier.  I continued to check my emails and let him get on with it in a "Meh, he'll be fine.  He's not stupid enough to impale himself on one of them" sort of way.  And he wasn't.  He did, however, create a lovely scale model of a porcupine by sticking them all in a nice fresh turd in his potty.  Assess the risk of that, OFSTED.

*not very far, apparently.