I'm seeing a lot of articles popping up in my feeds this week about period poverty. Most of them appear to be written by people who have never actually experienced it, trying to reduce the issue to whether a single tampon works out at 5p or 50p, and it is grinding my gears.
Periods are not consistent. There is no incredible One Box of sanitary products that covers one woman's needs for one period. You have heavy days, light days. You have times when it's best to use a super plus tampon and an overnight pad both at once, and you have times when either of those products would just be amazingly uncomfortable. It also wouldn't be economical - as a rule, night pads are more expensive than "regular" pads which are in turn more expensive than panty liners, but if you tried to get through a heavy day with just regular pads you'd need to use a dozen of them. To deal with one period, you need more than one product.
Whatever products you need though, even if you only need one of each, you have to buy multipacks. This is the thing really upsetting me about the pennies-per-pad calculations. The only way you can buy one pad, or one tampon, is from vending machines in ladies' loos which, last time I had cause to use one, is £1 a time (and might be more now). In the real world, we buy packs of 14. Or 12. Or 10. Or 50. A challenge for those snide writers of articles sagely declaring that the mega value bundle from UltraPoundwiseUniverse gets it down to a penny per pad: I'll punch you in the stomach a few times, put clothespins on your nipples, and fill your pants with loo roll, raw egg whites, and food dye, and then you can take your calculator on the bus and go shopping around for the best deal, yes? And don't forget, you can't do it while you're at work, and if you're unemployed you've got to fit it around doing your compulsory job applications and you have to take your kids with you.
Don't tell me we should bulk buy ahead of time, either. If you're experiencing period poverty you're likely experiencing other forms of poverty too. Your room in the b&b "temporary housing" does not have a pantry, under-stairs cupboard, loft, basement, shed, or any other storage space. Odds are you can't store anything in the shared bathroom either, even IF it's clean enough to consider doing so (mooncup evangelists, I'm looking at you as well now).
Of course, having bought your packet of 12 pads, you probably will use the remaining 11, because on average, for most people who have periods, it's something that happens almost every month for 30-35 years, for about 6 days in every 28.
But this is where tight budgeting comes in. Let's say it's day 5 of your period, it's light flow and almost over. You need three more pads. You've got two. There is £2.47 in your purse for the next two days. A packet (remember, you can only buy a whole packet!) of regular pads costs about £1.40 at the local shop (it's cheaper at the big supermarket but not if you add the bus fare). Do you (a) spend a sizeable chunk of your remaining cash on a pack of pads when you only need one, or (b) use the two you've got and then do your best with loo roll?
Period poverty isn't just about it costing £120 over the course of a year. When you're in actual poverty a year is an unthinkably long time and even a month is too far off to be planning. All of your Cope is taken up with making it through to the next payday and things that are "only" a couple of pounds might still be a couple of pounds more than you've got.
Showing posts with label grouchy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grouchy. Show all posts
Thursday, May 31, 2018
Thursday, March 02, 2017
1 in 200
I am still breastfeeding Jamie at 18 months old. First thing in the morning, last thing at night, during the day if he requests it.
This shocks some people, because in the UK it's a very unusual thing to do. Which is odd, because it's exactly the recommended path according to the NHS and the World Health Organisation. Exclusive breastfeeding to 6 months, then breastfeeding alongside other foods and drinks, ideally until at least 2 years, longer if mother and child both want to.
And yet.
The trouble with being 1 in 200 this way is that there's 199 mums who believe you're criticising their choices. So I get all English about it and make sure to validate their choices. I nod and smile and agree that whatever difficulties they faced were insurmountable, to the point where it was barely a choice at all. I imply that in their situation I would have likely made the same choice. I make cracks about how I'm only breastfeeding because I'm too lazy to sterilise bottles.
But a bit of me rages inside. I, too, had some difficulty getting started (I recommend the NCT Breastfeeding Helpline 0300 330 0771, and remember to use a phone that you can put on loudspeaker). I, too, would like to have a day off. I'd like my partner to be able to do the bedtime routine once in a while. I've made medication choices based on breastfeeding compatibility to the detriment of my own health. I've ridden out two bouts of mastitis during which, obviously, I had to look after Jamie even while hallucinating with fever. I've been bitten, basically once per tooth. Breastfeeding might be natural but it's not the soft option. I've worked hard at it and committed to sustaining it because every resource not sponsored by a formula company says it's the best and right and correct and most beneficial thing to do for my child.
It really upsets me that I then end up having to defend that choice, that effort. I've had people suggest that I do it because I want to delay Jamie's development. Or because I'm too possessive of him and don't want to let anyone else care for him. Or because it makes me feel important. Or because I don't know any other way to calm him down. Or because I'm an exhibitionist. Then we have the people who aren't so explicit about it, the double-takes, the "you're still breastfeeding him?!?" remarks, the queries about when I'm going to stop. It all grinds me down.
I'm not expecting a cookie - the cookie is knowing I'm doing my best for Jamie, and Steve gives me a lot of encouragement too - but less criticism and incredulity would be so nice.
This shocks some people, because in the UK it's a very unusual thing to do. Which is odd, because it's exactly the recommended path according to the NHS and the World Health Organisation. Exclusive breastfeeding to 6 months, then breastfeeding alongside other foods and drinks, ideally until at least 2 years, longer if mother and child both want to.
And yet.
The trouble with being 1 in 200 this way is that there's 199 mums who believe you're criticising their choices. So I get all English about it and make sure to validate their choices. I nod and smile and agree that whatever difficulties they faced were insurmountable, to the point where it was barely a choice at all. I imply that in their situation I would have likely made the same choice. I make cracks about how I'm only breastfeeding because I'm too lazy to sterilise bottles.
But a bit of me rages inside. I, too, had some difficulty getting started (I recommend the NCT Breastfeeding Helpline 0300 330 0771, and remember to use a phone that you can put on loudspeaker). I, too, would like to have a day off. I'd like my partner to be able to do the bedtime routine once in a while. I've made medication choices based on breastfeeding compatibility to the detriment of my own health. I've ridden out two bouts of mastitis during which, obviously, I had to look after Jamie even while hallucinating with fever. I've been bitten, basically once per tooth. Breastfeeding might be natural but it's not the soft option. I've worked hard at it and committed to sustaining it because every resource not sponsored by a formula company says it's the best and right and correct and most beneficial thing to do for my child.
It really upsets me that I then end up having to defend that choice, that effort. I've had people suggest that I do it because I want to delay Jamie's development. Or because I'm too possessive of him and don't want to let anyone else care for him. Or because it makes me feel important. Or because I don't know any other way to calm him down. Or because I'm an exhibitionist. Then we have the people who aren't so explicit about it, the double-takes, the "you're still breastfeeding him?!?" remarks, the queries about when I'm going to stop. It all grinds me down.
I'm not expecting a cookie - the cookie is knowing I'm doing my best for Jamie, and Steve gives me a lot of encouragement too - but less criticism and incredulity would be so nice.
Saturday, August 20, 2016
If you were a parent you'd understand
One of the things that really irritated me as a childfree adult was being told that I could not possibly understand something - love, tiredness, forward planning, laundry, whatever - because I did not have a child.
As a parent, I'd like to reassure all childfree readers that there are only two things I "understand" now that I didn't before. These are:
1. The impulse to talk about poo. I've resisted the urge to post online about the contents of Jamie's nappies. His business is his business. On the other hand, as with all babies there are days when a particularly remarkable nappy really is the most interesting thing to have happened that day or when dealing with it without needing to nuke the site from orbit is truly an achievement, and at those times it is an effort to hold on to social proprieties.
2. The challenge of the nice cup of tea and a biscuit, an interesting combination of relaxation and stress. If you can pull it off, there's few things more restorative than a hot cuppa and a biscuit while the baby sleeps. But the tension is high, as one wrong move could wake the baby, resulting in a shortened nap, a screaming child, no biscuit and a cup of tea which, by the time the screams are quelled, has gone almost undrinkably cold. It's like the most incredibly mundane yet incredibly frustrating computer game ever.
As a parent, I'd like to reassure all childfree readers that there are only two things I "understand" now that I didn't before. These are:
1. The impulse to talk about poo. I've resisted the urge to post online about the contents of Jamie's nappies. His business is his business. On the other hand, as with all babies there are days when a particularly remarkable nappy really is the most interesting thing to have happened that day or when dealing with it without needing to nuke the site from orbit is truly an achievement, and at those times it is an effort to hold on to social proprieties.
2. The challenge of the nice cup of tea and a biscuit, an interesting combination of relaxation and stress. If you can pull it off, there's few things more restorative than a hot cuppa and a biscuit while the baby sleeps. But the tension is high, as one wrong move could wake the baby, resulting in a shortened nap, a screaming child, no biscuit and a cup of tea which, by the time the screams are quelled, has gone almost undrinkably cold. It's like the most incredibly mundane yet incredibly frustrating computer game ever.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Noises
Noises that Jamie seems to like:
- Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, etc
- The voice of the person on whose chest he is being held
- White noise (eg roomba, Ewan the Dream Sheep)
Noises that don't seem to bother Jamie:
- the doorbell or telephone ringing
- people talking in the same room
- fireworks
Noises guaranteed to wake Jamie up in URGENT and IMMEDIATE need of feeding and nappy changing and a cuddle and oh my goodness the whole world is about to explode:
- the pop of a tube of Pringles
- the scrunch of a packet of biscuits
- the click of mummy's dinner plate being placed on the table
- Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, etc
- The voice of the person on whose chest he is being held
- White noise (eg roomba, Ewan the Dream Sheep)
Noises that don't seem to bother Jamie:
- the doorbell or telephone ringing
- people talking in the same room
- fireworks
Noises guaranteed to wake Jamie up in URGENT and IMMEDIATE need of feeding and nappy changing and a cuddle and oh my goodness the whole world is about to explode:
- the pop of a tube of Pringles
- the scrunch of a packet of biscuits
- the click of mummy's dinner plate being placed on the table
Friday, April 11, 2014
Doorbell: a revision
I waited oh-so-patiently for the sugru to set. The full 24 hours, and then an extra night's sleep to be on the safe side and to share the trial run with Steve (only fair since it was him who sourced the doorbell itself and created the mp3 for it to play).
Ha.
The sugru blob I'd made - thick enough to accommodate the smiley face drawn onto it - was, when set, too thick to be flexible enough to push the doorbell-button through it with a single finger. It was also too large in diameter to press the button with it, as the whole red circle couldn't go into the casing.
I haven't explained that well, but the upshot was that the only way to press the doorbell was to hold the unit in your hand and squeeze as hard as possible. Not really practical.
In retrospect, the sugru blob needed to be smaller than the original button, or thin enough to be bendy, or both. At least, unlike with the daffodils I ruined, I know what I did wrong.
Thankfully, the folks at sugru are aware that their products may be used by the inept and hard-of-thinking and give tips on their website for how to remove it. A few minutes of running my fingernail around and around the red button loosened it enough for me to be able to peel it away.
As a happy side effect, the previously white button has taken on some of the red hue from the sugru, making it visible - which was the original aim.
I've managed to correctly spell my name, so that's something.
Ha.
The sugru blob I'd made - thick enough to accommodate the smiley face drawn onto it - was, when set, too thick to be flexible enough to push the doorbell-button through it with a single finger. It was also too large in diameter to press the button with it, as the whole red circle couldn't go into the casing.
I haven't explained that well, but the upshot was that the only way to press the doorbell was to hold the unit in your hand and squeeze as hard as possible. Not really practical.
In retrospect, the sugru blob needed to be smaller than the original button, or thin enough to be bendy, or both. At least, unlike with the daffodils I ruined, I know what I did wrong.
Thankfully, the folks at sugru are aware that their products may be used by the inept and hard-of-thinking and give tips on their website for how to remove it. A few minutes of running my fingernail around and around the red button loosened it enough for me to be able to peel it away.
As a happy side effect, the previously white button has taken on some of the red hue from the sugru, making it visible - which was the original aim.
I've managed to correctly spell my name, so that's something.
Sunday, April 06, 2014
Not the return I'd hoped for
You thought the adventures in cake were pathetic?
Ha.
It can be safely said that 2013 was a catastrophically bad year for me. Things happening to and around me that I could not influence, things I tried to do going horribly wrong despite my best efforts. I would go so far as to say that it was the worst year of my life (the previous contender being around 1998; the big difference being that now I'm in my 30s I have more and better coping strategies than my teenage self). Some of it was single events, some of it was longer-term dramas that just went from bad to worse in ways that would be dismissed by soap-opera writers as simply too implausible. Much of it is still ongoing. Most of it I prefer to keep off the internet.
Still, there were good things. There was sunshine. There was a trip to see friends and family. There were two trips to the Eden Project. There was blue hair.
And through it all, there was my blog, dusty and neglected. I kept thinking about posting but couldn't. Every time I sat down to write, it just seemed too personal or too pointless - or sometimes both.
Coping strategies, right? I should just sit down and write something. Get on with it. Worried about it being too personal? Okay, write something impersonal. Can't think of anything to write about? Well, do something you can write about, and then write about that.
Out came the daffodils, and they reminded me of a primary school "science experiment" where we put food dye in the vases of cut daffodils. The flowers pull up the coloured water, and the petals take on the colour of the dye. For the competent among you, here's the instructions.
So. This blog post was meant to be a nice, positive comeback, lots of pretty pictures, of my lovely yellow daffodils, followed by my lovely multicoloured daffodils.
Unfortunately, this week I've thrown out about a dozen daffodils that... well. If you peered closely, under a good light, you'd recognise a few streaks of colour, but before that, the word that would come to mind would be "dead". "Withered", perhaps, if you were feeling generous.
It's only a mercy that I don't have offspring to look disappointed at me and demand to know why it hasn't worked.
Ha.
It can be safely said that 2013 was a catastrophically bad year for me. Things happening to and around me that I could not influence, things I tried to do going horribly wrong despite my best efforts. I would go so far as to say that it was the worst year of my life (the previous contender being around 1998; the big difference being that now I'm in my 30s I have more and better coping strategies than my teenage self). Some of it was single events, some of it was longer-term dramas that just went from bad to worse in ways that would be dismissed by soap-opera writers as simply too implausible. Much of it is still ongoing. Most of it I prefer to keep off the internet.
Still, there were good things. There was sunshine. There was a trip to see friends and family. There were two trips to the Eden Project. There was blue hair.
And through it all, there was my blog, dusty and neglected. I kept thinking about posting but couldn't. Every time I sat down to write, it just seemed too personal or too pointless - or sometimes both.
Coping strategies, right? I should just sit down and write something. Get on with it. Worried about it being too personal? Okay, write something impersonal. Can't think of anything to write about? Well, do something you can write about, and then write about that.
Out came the daffodils, and they reminded me of a primary school "science experiment" where we put food dye in the vases of cut daffodils. The flowers pull up the coloured water, and the petals take on the colour of the dye. For the competent among you, here's the instructions.
So. This blog post was meant to be a nice, positive comeback, lots of pretty pictures, of my lovely yellow daffodils, followed by my lovely multicoloured daffodils.
Unfortunately, this week I've thrown out about a dozen daffodils that... well. If you peered closely, under a good light, you'd recognise a few streaks of colour, but before that, the word that would come to mind would be "dead". "Withered", perhaps, if you were feeling generous.
It's only a mercy that I don't have offspring to look disappointed at me and demand to know why it hasn't worked.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Loop
Problem: In pain.
Solution: Take painkillers.
Problem: Cannot take painkillers on empty stomach.
Solution: Eat something.
Problem: Cannot prepare meal, even microwave meal, while in this kind of pain.
Solution: Eat something small that does not require preparation - a couple of biscuits, a bag of crisps, a slice of bread.
Problem: That is not a balanced diet, and if you don't eat the 'proper' food in the fridge, it will go off and you will be wasting money and killing the planet and what about the Starving Children In Africa.
Solution: Eat 'proper' meals as well, including meat/protein, fruit/vegetables, dairy products, and rice/pasta/potatoes.
Problem: Eating more calories than I burn. Cannot afford to buy whole new wardrobe.
Solution: Cut out snacking between meals.
Problem: Cannot take painkillers on empty stomach.
It annoys me that after six years I still get stuck in this loop on such a regular basis.
Solution: Take painkillers.
Problem: Cannot take painkillers on empty stomach.
Solution: Eat something.
Problem: Cannot prepare meal, even microwave meal, while in this kind of pain.
Solution: Eat something small that does not require preparation - a couple of biscuits, a bag of crisps, a slice of bread.
Problem: That is not a balanced diet, and if you don't eat the 'proper' food in the fridge, it will go off and you will be wasting money and killing the planet and what about the Starving Children In Africa.
Solution: Eat 'proper' meals as well, including meat/protein, fruit/vegetables, dairy products, and rice/pasta/potatoes.
Problem: Eating more calories than I burn. Cannot afford to buy whole new wardrobe.
Solution: Cut out snacking between meals.
Problem: Cannot take painkillers on empty stomach.
It annoys me that after six years I still get stuck in this loop on such a regular basis.
Monday, February 02, 2009
On being a bear with a sore head
"And the angel clothéd all in white opened the Iron Book, and a fifth rider appeared in a chariot of burning ice, and there was a snapping of laws and a breaking of bonds and the multitude cried "Oh God, we're in trouble now!"
Book Of Om, Prophecies of Tobrun: Chapter 2, verse 7.
From the first edition (since rescinded).*
Oh yes, I am not the bunny who is happy today. I've grouched in the morning and I've grouched in the evening and I daresay I'll grouch at suppertime too for good measure. I am grouchy to the left and grouchy to the right and grouchy everywhere in between. Fear my grouchiness.
The reason for the Grouch is the Pain and the reason for the Pain is the Cold and the Snow. I don't do well with cold and snow. Every muscle is tightened, every joint is throbbing with white-hot pain. Dealing with the pain makes me exhausted and being exhausted makes it more difficult to deal with the pain. Always and in everything this sodding pain as a consistent acid-laced thread and I have had ENOUGH.
During the course of today I have had far too many immediate and disproportionate mental responses to the tiniest of transgressions. Generally it has involved a fervent wish for something extremely uncomfortable to be shoved in a distinctly unpleasant orifice belonging to whichever unfortunate mortal has been foolish enough to cross my path.
I think any minute now I may cross that line between 'being a bit prickly' and 'being a bit of a prick'. So I'm typing up this blogpost to try and avoid doing that in public or to someone who doesn't deserve it.
Thank you for your patience.
* as detailed in Thief of Time by Terry Pratchett.
Book Of Om, Prophecies of Tobrun: Chapter 2, verse 7.
From the first edition (since rescinded).*
Oh yes, I am not the bunny who is happy today. I've grouched in the morning and I've grouched in the evening and I daresay I'll grouch at suppertime too for good measure. I am grouchy to the left and grouchy to the right and grouchy everywhere in between. Fear my grouchiness.
The reason for the Grouch is the Pain and the reason for the Pain is the Cold and the Snow. I don't do well with cold and snow. Every muscle is tightened, every joint is throbbing with white-hot pain. Dealing with the pain makes me exhausted and being exhausted makes it more difficult to deal with the pain. Always and in everything this sodding pain as a consistent acid-laced thread and I have had ENOUGH.
During the course of today I have had far too many immediate and disproportionate mental responses to the tiniest of transgressions. Generally it has involved a fervent wish for something extremely uncomfortable to be shoved in a distinctly unpleasant orifice belonging to whichever unfortunate mortal has been foolish enough to cross my path.
I think any minute now I may cross that line between 'being a bit prickly' and 'being a bit of a prick'. So I'm typing up this blogpost to try and avoid doing that in public or to someone who doesn't deserve it.
Thank you for your patience.
* as detailed in Thief of Time by Terry Pratchett.
Monday, December 01, 2008
IKEA
This weekend, Steve and I have mostly been nest-building.
It started with someone giving us their old TV, and the unit it sat on. It was nothing spectacular but it was an improvement on what we had. This caused us to cast a critical eye over the rest of the lounge with a view to upgrading. The most important thing was sorting out the sofa - which is in fact a cheap sofa-bed that has been, um, well-used for almost a decade and was getting to be less than comfortable, to the extent where certain friends had taken to turning up at our house for an evening carrying their own cushions. Steve ordered a new futon mattress for it which we went to collect on Saturday.
The new mattress is a vast improvement. It's about six inches thick and is an actual multi-layered mattress rather than the previous cheap 'slab of foam' option. It looks a lot nicer too, being covered with clean black cotton rather than an slightly battered old duvet cover. But that was where we ran into a slight hiccup, namely that all of a sudden the seventeenth-hand pale floral-print cushions we'd inherited from who-knows-where, which were quite innocuous on the old duvet cover, suddenly looked very silly indeed.
And so we decided, three years into our relationship and one year into our cohabitation, that it was finally time to take that step and Go To Ikea.
It was never going to be easy. We started off badly, with Steve exuding his "I Do Not Want To Do This" vibes before we'd even left the house. In an effort to be considerate to him, I decided that rather than asking him to put my wheelchair into the car (his car isn't quite big enough for the chair unless we either fold down the back seats, or remove the parcel shelf and have the chair sticking up slightly obscuring the rear window), I would use one of the store's customer wheelchairs. This was not the master plan I had hoped it would be.
We arrived at the "Ikea Plaza" and instead of going into the dedicated Ikea multi-storey car park, Steve chose to park in the Plaza car park. I asked him to check whether the car park we were in had free parking for Blue Badge holders or whether we needed a ticket. Next thing I knew he was coming back to the car holding a one-hour ticket on the basis that he didn't have enough change for more than that. I do not know why he didn't ask me for change. I do not know why he thought that one hour would be enough to get around such an enormous shop. I do not know why he did not want to go into the multi-storey car park that offered free parking for people shopping in Ikea. However by this point the I Do Not Want To Do This vibe had become an almost visible aura so I kept my mouth shut.
There were no staff on the ground floor and precious few directions other than an instruction to start shopping on Level Six. Steve's stress and anger levels were by this point heating the air to a four-foot radius around him and small children were running away in fear. Nevertheless we found the wheelchairs, snared a staff member to check that it was okay for us to just grab one, and started shopping.
Or we tried to, anyway. Twenty metres in it was apparent what an incredibly bad idea this whole thing had been. The wheelchair was practically falling apart, with footplates which wanted to scrape on the floor and a tyre which was gradually shaving itself away against the arm-rest. I wanted to get out, turn around and go back to the car, but the little entry gates had closed behind us, and some display rooms containing many likely-looking cushions were enticingly ahead. We pressed on.
Quick guide to IKEA shopping: Do not bother with the catalogue while in the store, it'll only confuse matters. Treat the first level of the shop as a sort of three-dimensional catalogue. You see something you like, you pick it up, look at the tag, and make a note of its name, size, colour and whereabouts in the store the versions of it that aren't the display model can actually be found. Except that there are some things that you have to go find, and some things that you just pick up. Accept that you will have to travel several miles around the store in order to escape again.
We didn't know any of that. I was gazing at the information on the labels wondering what was important and what wasn't, and whether we really had to (a) write down the details for every cushion that I sort-of liked or (b) go round the store twice, once to look and once to get details written down. Trying to combine getting my head round the system plus a Steve increasingly close to explosion, plus an uncomfortable wheelchair which the NHS would have rejected, multiplied by having no option to abandon the whole escapade, drop everything and leave the shop, meant I was tense and stressed and aargh...
Nevertheless, there's some nice-looking stuff in Ikea, and it was definitely the right place to go, as before long we had found suitable cushions (three of a sort that you physically picked up then and there and two that you went to collect on a different floor) and also our If We Happen To See A Nice One Bonus Item of lap trays. But this was where the clash of shopping styles really took its toll.
The way Ikea want you to shop, is to meander around the store with a trolley or a bag, picking up interesting looking things as you hunt for the thing you are actually seeking. The store layout is such that in order to get to the exit a customer has to walk right around at least two levels of the store in a sort of repeating "S" pattern, with actual walls blocking the direct routes. In this way you are forced to walk past 17,000 products you don't want in the hope that you will impulse-buy at least one or two.
This clashes with the way Steve wants to shop, which is to locate the section for the specific item(s) he is there to buy, choose one, and make for the checkouts. Although that said, he is usually willing to take his time and allow me to browse through anything that catches my interest.
It also clashes with the way I want to shop. I'm all for meandering amongst interesting things and for this I am lucky in that I can walk or self-propel over very short distances. However, despite the provision of wheelchairs, there's no wheelchair-trolleys (or at least not that we could find). There are big yellow bags, for shoppers who are determined that they won't need a trolley, but no way of hanging these on the back of the chair. So when we found the three cushions that we were meant to pick up then and there, they ended up in a yellow bag on my lap with me peeking over the top. That in turn meant that I could not meander by self propelling, because my arms were occupied with the bag, and also that I could not periodically get out of the (uncomfortable) chair to meander with my stick, because my legs were pinned.
I was stuck in the chair, the chair was wherever Steve pushed it, and because of the aforementioned dodginess of the chair including self-shaving tyres, the chair was extremely difficult for Steve to push.
Add in the factor of the rapidly-running-out parking ticket, and now there's Steve all stressed because he's getting sore and tired and he's having to hike around this entire store so slowly when all he wants to do is pay and leave, I'm all stressed because I'm also sore and tired and I'm going so fast past this entire storeful of shiny and intriguing things that I want to investigate, and anyone who impeded us probably got stressed as they keeled over from the sheer force of Steve's Laser Death Stare With Muttered Cursing.
It was a relief to get out.
However. We did get out, so that's a win. We still love each other and although we were both a little snappy and stressed we didn't have the Ikea Row which I understand to be traditional. We went a little over our one-hour of parking, but we didn't get clamped or ticketed. And, more importantly, we accomplished cushions. Three black cottony ones which match the futon mattress, two massive flame-coloured red-orange soft felty ones which provide a lovely warm contrast, and two cushioned lap-trays suitable for laptops, books, writing or dinner.
(Oh, I also stole a pencil, but Steve says it doesn't count because I didn't mean to - I'd jammed it into my ponytail, which is my standard way of holding on to pens and pencils because they fall out from behind my ear, and then I'd forgotten about it.)
I am extremely comfortable now. But if there's a next time it will involve my own wheelchair, at least one more person, and at least two more hours. Oh, and I'll be frisking Steve for sharp implements and matches.
It started with someone giving us their old TV, and the unit it sat on. It was nothing spectacular but it was an improvement on what we had. This caused us to cast a critical eye over the rest of the lounge with a view to upgrading. The most important thing was sorting out the sofa - which is in fact a cheap sofa-bed that has been, um, well-used for almost a decade and was getting to be less than comfortable, to the extent where certain friends had taken to turning up at our house for an evening carrying their own cushions. Steve ordered a new futon mattress for it which we went to collect on Saturday.
The new mattress is a vast improvement. It's about six inches thick and is an actual multi-layered mattress rather than the previous cheap 'slab of foam' option. It looks a lot nicer too, being covered with clean black cotton rather than an slightly battered old duvet cover. But that was where we ran into a slight hiccup, namely that all of a sudden the seventeenth-hand pale floral-print cushions we'd inherited from who-knows-where, which were quite innocuous on the old duvet cover, suddenly looked very silly indeed.
And so we decided, three years into our relationship and one year into our cohabitation, that it was finally time to take that step and Go To Ikea.
It was never going to be easy. We started off badly, with Steve exuding his "I Do Not Want To Do This" vibes before we'd even left the house. In an effort to be considerate to him, I decided that rather than asking him to put my wheelchair into the car (his car isn't quite big enough for the chair unless we either fold down the back seats, or remove the parcel shelf and have the chair sticking up slightly obscuring the rear window), I would use one of the store's customer wheelchairs. This was not the master plan I had hoped it would be.
We arrived at the "Ikea Plaza" and instead of going into the dedicated Ikea multi-storey car park, Steve chose to park in the Plaza car park. I asked him to check whether the car park we were in had free parking for Blue Badge holders or whether we needed a ticket. Next thing I knew he was coming back to the car holding a one-hour ticket on the basis that he didn't have enough change for more than that. I do not know why he didn't ask me for change. I do not know why he thought that one hour would be enough to get around such an enormous shop. I do not know why he did not want to go into the multi-storey car park that offered free parking for people shopping in Ikea. However by this point the I Do Not Want To Do This vibe had become an almost visible aura so I kept my mouth shut.
There were no staff on the ground floor and precious few directions other than an instruction to start shopping on Level Six. Steve's stress and anger levels were by this point heating the air to a four-foot radius around him and small children were running away in fear. Nevertheless we found the wheelchairs, snared a staff member to check that it was okay for us to just grab one, and started shopping.
Or we tried to, anyway. Twenty metres in it was apparent what an incredibly bad idea this whole thing had been. The wheelchair was practically falling apart, with footplates which wanted to scrape on the floor and a tyre which was gradually shaving itself away against the arm-rest. I wanted to get out, turn around and go back to the car, but the little entry gates had closed behind us, and some display rooms containing many likely-looking cushions were enticingly ahead. We pressed on.
Quick guide to IKEA shopping: Do not bother with the catalogue while in the store, it'll only confuse matters. Treat the first level of the shop as a sort of three-dimensional catalogue. You see something you like, you pick it up, look at the tag, and make a note of its name, size, colour and whereabouts in the store the versions of it that aren't the display model can actually be found. Except that there are some things that you have to go find, and some things that you just pick up. Accept that you will have to travel several miles around the store in order to escape again.
We didn't know any of that. I was gazing at the information on the labels wondering what was important and what wasn't, and whether we really had to (a) write down the details for every cushion that I sort-of liked or (b) go round the store twice, once to look and once to get details written down. Trying to combine getting my head round the system plus a Steve increasingly close to explosion, plus an uncomfortable wheelchair which the NHS would have rejected, multiplied by having no option to abandon the whole escapade, drop everything and leave the shop, meant I was tense and stressed and aargh...
Nevertheless, there's some nice-looking stuff in Ikea, and it was definitely the right place to go, as before long we had found suitable cushions (three of a sort that you physically picked up then and there and two that you went to collect on a different floor) and also our If We Happen To See A Nice One Bonus Item of lap trays. But this was where the clash of shopping styles really took its toll.
The way Ikea want you to shop, is to meander around the store with a trolley or a bag, picking up interesting looking things as you hunt for the thing you are actually seeking. The store layout is such that in order to get to the exit a customer has to walk right around at least two levels of the store in a sort of repeating "S" pattern, with actual walls blocking the direct routes. In this way you are forced to walk past 17,000 products you don't want in the hope that you will impulse-buy at least one or two.
This clashes with the way Steve wants to shop, which is to locate the section for the specific item(s) he is there to buy, choose one, and make for the checkouts. Although that said, he is usually willing to take his time and allow me to browse through anything that catches my interest.
It also clashes with the way I want to shop. I'm all for meandering amongst interesting things and for this I am lucky in that I can walk or self-propel over very short distances. However, despite the provision of wheelchairs, there's no wheelchair-trolleys (or at least not that we could find). There are big yellow bags, for shoppers who are determined that they won't need a trolley, but no way of hanging these on the back of the chair. So when we found the three cushions that we were meant to pick up then and there, they ended up in a yellow bag on my lap with me peeking over the top. That in turn meant that I could not meander by self propelling, because my arms were occupied with the bag, and also that I could not periodically get out of the (uncomfortable) chair to meander with my stick, because my legs were pinned.
I was stuck in the chair, the chair was wherever Steve pushed it, and because of the aforementioned dodginess of the chair including self-shaving tyres, the chair was extremely difficult for Steve to push.
Add in the factor of the rapidly-running-out parking ticket, and now there's Steve all stressed because he's getting sore and tired and he's having to hike around this entire store so slowly when all he wants to do is pay and leave, I'm all stressed because I'm also sore and tired and I'm going so fast past this entire storeful of shiny and intriguing things that I want to investigate, and anyone who impeded us probably got stressed as they keeled over from the sheer force of Steve's Laser Death Stare With Muttered Cursing.
It was a relief to get out.
However. We did get out, so that's a win. We still love each other and although we were both a little snappy and stressed we didn't have the Ikea Row which I understand to be traditional. We went a little over our one-hour of parking, but we didn't get clamped or ticketed. And, more importantly, we accomplished cushions. Three black cottony ones which match the futon mattress, two massive flame-coloured red-orange soft felty ones which provide a lovely warm contrast, and two cushioned lap-trays suitable for laptops, books, writing or dinner.
(Oh, I also stole a pencil, but Steve says it doesn't count because I didn't mean to - I'd jammed it into my ponytail, which is my standard way of holding on to pens and pencils because they fall out from behind my ear, and then I'd forgotten about it.)
I am extremely comfortable now. But if there's a next time it will involve my own wheelchair, at least one more person, and at least two more hours. Oh, and I'll be frisking Steve for sharp implements and matches.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Still going...
... but struggling a little bit right now. It is very difficult to maintain a positive mental attitude, and use relaxation and pain-management techniques, when thinking and writing in detail about how painful/difficult/physically impossible any number of normal daily tasks are.
So far I am about half-way through the DLA form and have typed 21 standard A4 pages of 12-point Times New Roman about the physical and cognitive difficulties I have with various things. It's not fun reading.
On Thursday I was sent home sick from work. Went back in on Monday, not fully recovered but not sick enough to warrant being at home. On Tuesday my co-worker went off sick with what sounds like the same thing.
Adding to this not-nice-ness, we are in the middle of an unforseen cashflow crisis that we do not have the means to deal with (and have been since the beginning of the year, in case you hadn't guessed that was what was going on) as my earnings only cover half of our joint essential expenses. It's not immediately dire - both Steve and myself have the capacity to get loans and the suchlike when it becomes really necessary - and it will probably be sorted out in a few months once Steve has passed his exams and gets a job again. It's just distinctly unpleasant At The Moment. Neither of us have been in debt before.
To make matters worse, I suspect that I shall run out of yarny before this cashflow crisis resolves itself. I have a horrible vision of a scarf made of end-of-ball bits from the stash, just so that I have something to do with my hands to relax.
On the plus side, though, my wardrobe will be up by one pair of handknit socks and one soft and snuggly jumper.
Also, I have found out that in October, I will get a pay-rise.
Predictably, this is not based on my skills, but on an increase in the National Minimum Wage. Still, it counts...
So far I am about half-way through the DLA form and have typed 21 standard A4 pages of 12-point Times New Roman about the physical and cognitive difficulties I have with various things. It's not fun reading.
On Thursday I was sent home sick from work. Went back in on Monday, not fully recovered but not sick enough to warrant being at home. On Tuesday my co-worker went off sick with what sounds like the same thing.
Adding to this not-nice-ness, we are in the middle of an unforseen cashflow crisis that we do not have the means to deal with (and have been since the beginning of the year, in case you hadn't guessed that was what was going on) as my earnings only cover half of our joint essential expenses. It's not immediately dire - both Steve and myself have the capacity to get loans and the suchlike when it becomes really necessary - and it will probably be sorted out in a few months once Steve has passed his exams and gets a job again. It's just distinctly unpleasant At The Moment. Neither of us have been in debt before.
To make matters worse, I suspect that I shall run out of yarny before this cashflow crisis resolves itself. I have a horrible vision of a scarf made of end-of-ball bits from the stash, just so that I have something to do with my hands to relax.
On the plus side, though, my wardrobe will be up by one pair of handknit socks and one soft and snuggly jumper.
Also, I have found out that in October, I will get a pay-rise.
Predictably, this is not based on my skills, but on an increase in the National Minimum Wage. Still, it counts...
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Earthquake
Sorry this post is hardly original.
So yes, at 1am on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning depending on how you look at it, there was an earthquake in the UK.
For me and Steve, in the Midlands, it was enough to wake us up, with the bed shaking and the wardrobe doors rattling, but there's no actual damage.
I am not proud of my reaction, but I suppose it should be documented here...
- I woke up.
- Steve woke up.
- bit of sleepy "WTF?"
- shaking stops.
- Steve decides to go downstairs to check things over, make sure there's no disturbing smells of gas or anything.
- I tell Steve I love him very much. Thought process: There may be a gas leak or aliens might be invading or something and we might all die a fiery death. I wouldn't want him to die without definitely knowing. I wouldn't want to die without having told him. But I'm warm and cosy and I'm stuffed if I'm getting out of this bed. If I die, I die comfy.
Let's hear it for priorities!
In other news, my DLA form has arrived. I would be working on it right now, but I had a broken night's sleep and feel like I've been scraped off the pavement with a pressure-washer.
But, a big big thank you to everyone, on and offline, who has offered to help. You are all very ace.
So yes, at 1am on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning depending on how you look at it, there was an earthquake in the UK.
For me and Steve, in the Midlands, it was enough to wake us up, with the bed shaking and the wardrobe doors rattling, but there's no actual damage.
I am not proud of my reaction, but I suppose it should be documented here...
- I woke up.
- Steve woke up.
- bit of sleepy "WTF?"
- shaking stops.
- Steve decides to go downstairs to check things over, make sure there's no disturbing smells of gas or anything.
- I tell Steve I love him very much. Thought process: There may be a gas leak or aliens might be invading or something and we might all die a fiery death. I wouldn't want him to die without definitely knowing. I wouldn't want to die without having told him. But I'm warm and cosy and I'm stuffed if I'm getting out of this bed. If I die, I die comfy.
Let's hear it for priorities!
In other news, my DLA form has arrived. I would be working on it right now, but I had a broken night's sleep and feel like I've been scraped off the pavement with a pressure-washer.
But, a big big thank you to everyone, on and offline, who has offered to help. You are all very ace.
Monday, February 18, 2008
I Demand A Recount
Friday: felt ok. Came back from work a bit sore, a bit tired, a bit glad it was the weekend, but nothing out of my ordinary.
COLD SNAP
Saturday: spent it in bed. A couple of hours propped up on pillows with the lappie, but mostly, snoozing.
Sunday: a bit better than Saturday, but still confined to the upstairs floor of the house. In the evening, a sudden downturn.
Monday: Almost back to my normal. I even fixed my own breakfast.
REALISATION: I'll be going to work today. I feel ripped off of my weekend. There should be rules about having a non-weekend due to sickness.
DISCLAIMER: Yes, I'm complaining about going to work. Rest assured that if I feel awful again later today, or tomorrow, and I have to call in sick, I'll probably complain about NOT going to work.
I bet you're grouchy too when you're this sore.
I will try and post something a bit more thoughtful over the next week.
COLD SNAP
Saturday: spent it in bed. A couple of hours propped up on pillows with the lappie, but mostly, snoozing.
Sunday: a bit better than Saturday, but still confined to the upstairs floor of the house. In the evening, a sudden downturn.
Monday: Almost back to my normal. I even fixed my own breakfast.
REALISATION: I'll be going to work today. I feel ripped off of my weekend. There should be rules about having a non-weekend due to sickness.
DISCLAIMER: Yes, I'm complaining about going to work. Rest assured that if I feel awful again later today, or tomorrow, and I have to call in sick, I'll probably complain about NOT going to work.
I bet you're grouchy too when you're this sore.
I will try and post something a bit more thoughtful over the next week.
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