That explains a lot

I had a doctor's appointment the other day, and happily, it was Dr W, my GP of many years, just back from her maternity leave. The whole DLA, GP on leave, locum doctor who wouldn't listen to me thing has finally become much, much more clear.

(Brief recap for any new readers: earlier this year I got turned down for half my disability benefit largely on the basis of a report by Dr M, a locum who was covering the maternity leave of Dr W. This baffled and upset me as Dr W has always supported my benefit claim - it was her who insisted I stop work. Dr M reported that I suffer from depression, and that I have no difficulty doing many everyday tasks. This is inaccurate.)

It boils down to: Dr W is an extremely good GP. However, she would be a rubbish data entry clerk.

If you were to read the actual notes that Dr W has written about me over the last couple of years, they are covered in terms like "ME", "Chronic Fatigue Syndrome", "Post-Viral Fatigue Syndrome" and so on. They describe problems I have and how I overcome them, medications that have been tried and the effects they had, how I got on at the specialist ME/CFS clinic, everything you could want to know. You would see copies of the sicknotes with "Chronic Fatigue Syndrome" written large and clear, right up to the date when the DWP decided I didn't need to submit sicknotes any more.

If, however, you were only to glance at the front page of my computerised medical notes, you would have seen:

"Current ongoing conditions: none"

You would also see a note from the late 1990s suggesting I should be monitored for symptoms of depression and anxiety. The significantly more recent psychiatrist's letter giving me a mental health all-clear, is jumbled up with the reports from every other investigation into the possible causes of my illness that I underwent at that time - psychiatrist, neurologist, physiotherapist, and probably the butcher, baker and candlestick maker for good measure. You wouldn't see it unless you hunted for it.

Add to this, that I am not one of "those" patients, who marches off to the doctor every couple of weeks clutching an article about some revolutionary new cure or treatment or research. Since the Incapacity Benefit people decided I didn't have to provide sicknotes any more, I haven't actually been to see my GP about the whole ME thing, I've just turned up when I start oozing. Okay, so my tendency to get the sort of tonsillitis or ear infection that makes a practised GP recoil in horror and begin writing the scrip for antibiotics before they've even sat back down is because of the ME, but that's beside the point. If you look at the summaries of my recent visits on the notes, they're nothing to do with the ME.

So, let's look at my encounters with Dr M from a more sympathetic point of view.

A patient wobbles slowly into the consulting room, leaning on a walking stick and pulling faces. She gasps as she sits down, and explains she has come to see you about an ear infection. You look in her ear and sure enough, it's gunky. You look at her throat and that doesn't look too healthy either. You ask about other symptoms and she says that although she's having a bit more difficulty with certain things, it's just like an extra helping of her normal symptoms.

You quickly look at the notes on the screen. No ongoing conditions, the last thing she was here for was a throat infection, what's going on? What "normal symptoms"? What's with the stick? You ask what she means and she looks at you a bit funny before saying "the ME, or CFS, or whatever you want to call it." You spot a flag telling you to monitor her for mental health problems. Gently you ask a couple more questions. The patient says she's been like this for a couple of years, and no longer has a job. You can't quite make up your mind whether she's actually ill, or if she's a benefit scrounger, or if she's under some kind of delusion that she suffers a physical illness - she seems quite certain that it should be on her notes somewhere - but right now it's not terribly important. She has come here with an ear infection, she very obviously HAS an ear infection, so let's treat that and leave the rest for another day. Then, when you think you're home free, she tells you her benefit is being reviewed and that you may get a letter through asking for a GP's report. Great.


This also explains why Dr M was kind of obstructive when I asked to see my medical records. It could be psychologically damaging for a delusional person to read that their family GP thinks that they are delusional...

Dr W has of course apologised and corrected the front page. She's also made sure to put in plenty of information in the notes for our recent consultation a couple of days ago that might be important for whatever new doctor I get in Leamington - basically making sure the relevant details are at the top for a new GP. Yes, I realise there is a possibility that I am delusional and she is humouring me, or that I hallucinated the whole thing. But that just gets too metaphysical. I shall stick with the logic that, if the psychiatrists don't want to try and treat me, or even put me on a waiting list, and I'm not on psychiatric medication, and I'm not crying all the time, then I'm okay in that respect.


In other news... Stage One of the move has gone well. I will write more about it another time. For now, suffice to say that I am in one piece, partially unpacked, and very happy.

Almost done

So, today is my last full day here on my little lonesome. I have one more night with a bed all to myself, and then I become a respectably living-in-sin woman. According to The Plan, Steve should turn up here tomorrow, on Wednesday take me to the doctor and help me pack more stuff, and on Thursday (possibly Friday), whisk me away for good.

Thursday (possibly Friday) isn't actually the Official Move Date. But with the best will in the world, I am not going to be a great deal of help with shifting boxes and furniture out of a first-floor flat. So we're moving me first, with a suitcase containing the stuff I need or that is highly important to me, and then at a slightly later date, Steve is going to come here on his own with a van which my friends and family will help him load up with boxes of books, furniture, remaining clothes and stuff. My mum and stepdad will be in and out disposing of the bits and bobs that I won't be taking with me, and then at a slightly later still date (which is so late mostly because of the "one month's notice" thing) they'll return the keys to my landlord on my behalf and hopefully get my deposit back too.

It feels REALLY weird. All of it. Like, I don't exactly have hundreds of friends who I see every week here, but I have a small handful of people I would define as Real Friends. And I am going to miss each and every one of them. They're all happy for me, they're all glad things are working out and going my way, but it still felt odd to hug someone and say goodbye like I have done a hundred times before but then instead of saying "don't forget to send me a text about next weekend" or similar, saying "don't forget to email me, and good luck with [long term life plans]."

The worst one is going to be Pip. And the Littlun of course, but let's be honest, I haven't known the Littlun as long and he's not a fab conversationalist. Admittedly neither is Pip but we have best-friend telepathy. But I'm not sure how well said telepathy will work across this kind of distance.

I miss him already and I've not even gone yet.

Processing

Today, I've been doing a lot of the admin side of moving. This has involved listening to far too much hold-music, negotiating with automated systems, speaking to people with assorted flavours of so-broad-it's-barely-understandable accents from around the globe, and silent swearing when my mobile started to ring *just* as the people at the JobCentre said "Good afternoon, can I take your national insurance number?"

I started my day by sorting out some letters with the date that Steve and I have defined as the Official Moving Date. There's a letter to the landlord, and two to Waveney District Council - one for the Council Tax department and one for the Housing and Council Tax Benefit department (Waveney District Council rarely if ever answer their phones). I emailed the document to myself and went to mum's to print it out. Well, that was the plan. In real life, we discovered mum's printer had run out of ink (magenta ink to be precise, are there any b3tans with a confession to make?). I couldn't easily find a way to convince it that being out of magenta ink did not preclude printing a black and white text-only document, so I let her have the fun of reordering the cartridges while I went to the internet cafe a couple of doors down to print my stuff off there.

Home, a bit of lunch, a bit of a rest, and then I got on the phone, and in the case of TV licensing, the internet, because their automated voice-recognition system is beyond crap. Now it's half past four, and I've decided I'm finished for the phone for the day. My arms and shoulders ache from holding the handset up to my head, and my speech has gone completely, I simply don't make sense any more.

But I'm still not finished for sorting out this move. Let's recap.

DONE:
Notice to Landlord
Council Tax notification
Housing and Council Tax Benefit notification
TV license
Water (supply)
Water (sewerage) (these have to be separate here)
Phone (calls)
Phone (line rental)
Internet
Incapacity Benefit (except, I have to call them again once I've arranged a new GP at the other end)

CAN'T BE DONE YET:
Electricity (need a final meter reading five days before Official Move Date)

TO DO TOMORROW:
Bank
Building Society
Credit Card
Insurance
South Warwickshire PCT (for GP, dentist, etc. Still not entirely sure how this will work)


Can anyone think of anything I've missed? Gas isn't on the list because this is an electric-only flat, and I don't have a car or pet or gun license... ideas welcome.

This afternoon has reassured me that I still have a certain level of job skills, but reminded me that I mustn't get ahead of myself and apply for jobs where I'll have to concentrate for more than an hour or so at a time.

An Announcement

I am rather excited right now.

Steve and I decided we were going to move in together quite some time ago, but there's always been something that's a reason not to. I've had a big hospital appointment coming up. He's been overworked. I've been messing about with a benefit renewal and don't want to move in the middle of it. He wants to get his exams done first. There's a holiday/birthday/other miscellaneous event going on. Whatever.

This month, though, we decided we were just going to go ahead and do it (this is why I have been cleaning under my bed). And today, we put a definite if slightly imprecise schedule on it. Due to the sizeable distance between us, the issues of merging two fully equipped and furnished households into one, and the challenges imposed by my limited capabilities, it's going to be a bit trickier than it might otherwise have been. However, we've developed a plan for moving me and my stuff over a period of a couple of weeks which seems like it'll work. A few minor details need sorting out - friends need to be enlisted at each end to help shift stuff, a van needs to be hired, that sort of thing - but we aim to start the move about two weeks from now, and have it completed within about two weeks of that.

I am so excited I can't even describe it.

Discoveries

For various reasons, it's seemed like a good idea to start tidying up the flat a bit this week. It's not UN-tidy as such - day to day things like the dishes and the laundry and making sure there's no new life-forms in the fridge are well under control - but there's some less urgent stuff that wanted doing, like pruning my wardrobe and vacuuming under the bed.

This morning I had a wardrobe full of clothes and Nothing To Wear. Now I have five bags of clothes for my sister to go through and a wardrobe that's about a third full of everyday clothes which (with only one or two exceptions such as my one Smart Suit) I have worn and washed at least once in the last twelve months. I think this is an improvement.

I also found at least half a dozen pairs of black tights (I have kept two pairs which were still on the cardboard), a couple of bits of lacy underwear which had hidden behind my socks and still had the tags in, and three or four rather small tops which I used to wear when I was very fit and went out to dance for several hours at least once a week. I'm not even going to try to try them on, I don't think I could deal with that kind of trauma. Sister Dearest will love them though.

Having got over that little blast from the past, I started to tackle the depths of under my bed. At first it wasn't too bad, it was all stuff I knew was there. A plastic box containing my spare duvet. A pair of wings and a halo from a fancy dress competition in the aforementioned going-out-and-dancing days (*sniff*) that someone borrowed last year. A large sports bag which I have lugged around more train stations than I care to remember while on weekend jaunts to see various internet people. I could even run up and down stairs while carrying it and never missed a connection...
*sniff*
*sneezes from dust*

This didn't put me in the right frame of mind to hit The Paperwork.

There was a period, when I first got sick, where I didn't really realise what was going on and thought I just had a couple of nasty bugs and would get over it. This wasn't a happy time. When I look back now, I realise I was being ridiculous, but at the time, I thought I was making sense.

So there were a number of incidents to do with me fainting but refusing to go to hospital because I was running late for work and had clients to see and "it's just a bit of flu or something". There were also a number of times when I walked into the building where I worked and someone from another organisation took one look at me and pretty much forcibly ushered me into their car and drove me straight back home.

In these circumstances, paperwork wasn't top of my priorities. I would come in the front door, pick up my post, go up the stairs to my flat, and lie down on my bed and go to sleep, complete with my handful of post, my glasses, my coat, my bag, my shoes, everything. Stuff on the bed got pushed off the bed, and eventually underneath it.

Which is why today's discoveries were lurking there to upset me. I'm not sure what's worse. There's the stuff I do remember - handouts from work-based training I did and meetings I went to, printouts of emails, a magazine, some train tickets - which remind me of the life I used to have. And then, there's the stuff I don't remember, and it scares me a little that I don't remember it. Like, a tesco clubcard and two key fobs, still stuck to the letter they came with. The name is mine, the address is here, but I can't remember applying for it - and how can I have been too knackered to sign the card and stick it in my purse? Or an invite to a party I'm fairly certain I didn't go to. I hope I at least phoned to apologise.

I'm feeling very angry and I can't put my finger on exactly why. It's not that I want my old life back. I mean, it would be nice to not be in pain, or confined to bed so much (and it would be nice to be a size 10 again). But if giving up the pain and malaise (and excess flab) also meant giving up the friends I've made, the relationship with Steve, the steadiness I've acquired, and picking up at age 23 again, I would not do it.

I think the anger might be because the shift in pace and circumstances was not my choice. I didn't want to become unemployed, and I didn't "deserve" to get ill or do anything that made me ill. It was all completely out of my control and I hate that.

Carrying on from that, I think it's also affected by Sister Dearest. She's currently the same age I was when it all fell apart, and she *is* in control of her life, she *has* chosen to leave her job, she actively says and does things to steer her life in the direction she *wants* it to go.

Nah. I think it's mostly because I have done too much physically today. Also I have been inhaling two-year-old dust and that can't be good for you. Here's hoping I feel perkier tomorrow and that Sister Dearest enjoys my castoffs.

Oh, and good news. I have a routine doctor's appointment coming up in two weeks, and I've just found out that it will be with my actual proper GP, the lovely Dr W, rather than the smegging bloody Locum who cocked up my DLA. Hurrah!

First Pair Of Socks

Socks on feet!
Originally uploaded by girl_of_bats

So, here we are, second sock completed.

In a wonderful piece of timing, the weather clouded over and got chilly just as I finished taking these photographs, so while I then got cold hands and nose, I did not get cold feetses because they were all happy in snuggly hand-knit socks.

I have to acknowledge that I didn't do these all by myself. There was much help deciphering instructions from internet people like Carie and also, Jiva did a row or two (can't remember) on sock #1 the night we went to the Cider Shed. But, I still have a great sense of personal achievement.

That is good, because really, I needed something to boost me today. Pip still hasn't got his car sorted, so I haven't seen him in quite a while, and phone conversations tend to get interrupted by the Littlun.

I have seen my mother, but she's rather preoccupied with my sister at the moment, who quit her job at the beginning of the week. I spent half an hour by the clock this morning hearing about how wonderful she is and how proud mum is of her. I don't dispute that my sister was capable of doing her job properly (working in a shoe shop) or that this is a good thing. I just don't think it's the best thing since the feeding of the five thousand, I feel that shoe-shop skills are a bit useless once you've quit your shoe-shop-job, and there's a limit to how much cheerleading about a Person Not Present I can listen to before I want to stab DPNs through my ears. Thirty minutes in one go was a bit much.

Okay, so there was a little teensy-weensy bit of me (only, like 85% or something) thinking "hey! Where's the parental pride in MY skills?" but it shouldn't come as a surprise to learn that I didn't actually have the guts to come out and say that.

And anyway, I have Socks.

As regular readers know, I have a neighbour, S, who has a drug problem. I'm calling it a problem because things like this happen. That's a problem. I don't consider telling you this to be a breach of confidentiality as she herself tells most people within thirty seconds of meeting them.

The thing is, S is a nice girl. I'm calling her a nice girl because of things like this. We have cups of tea and chats and occasionally go to the seafront for an ice cream together or something. I would go so far as to call her a friend, albeit not a friend I would lend £20.

S's habit and attendant mental health problems mean that she is classed as a disabled person by the benefits system and social services and as such she has help coming out of her ears - not just family and friends, but also plenty of money and more home-visiting social workers and community health workers and 24/7 helplines than you could shake a stick at. Then there's a plethora of voluntary and religious groups such as the Salvation Army offering her cooked meals, secondhand furnishings for her flat, company and friendship, and the salvation of her eternal soul. So the last thing she needs is me trying to "help" her, because really? Drop, meet ocean. Everyone she meets wants to "help" her.

But. She's my neighbour, she's a friend, and as such, I do worry about her sometimes. I want to make sure that I'm not saying stupid things or being counter-productive to her therapy. There's also been a couple of times when I've seen her and she's scared me - semi-conscious and white as a sheet, unable to open her eyes properly or speak in complete sentences. Is that what people usually look like when they've been using heroin, or is there a major problem? I don't so much want to know how to "help", as how to avert potential disaster and Not Cock Things Up. You understand where I'm coming from? It's sort of a case of, do I want to save her, get her back on her feet, look after her? No. But do I want to make her problems worse? No. Do I want her to die in front of me because I didn't know what to do or when to do it? Really not.

How would one find these things out? Well, I have the whole internet at my fingertips and I figured a good place to start would be NORCAS, the main drugs and alcohol charity in East Anglia. From the front page of their website (my emphasis):

"Our mission statement is 'To reduce the harm to individuals, and thereby to society at large, from the misuse of drugs and alcohol'. We are here to work with anyone experiencing problems with alcohol, drugs, tranquillisers or solvents, including families and carers."

Marvellous. I was a little disappointed that the website contained not much apart from a list of websites and the disclaimer "These websites may contain views which are not supported by NORCAS", but it did have contact details so I emailed asking for specific help. I outlined the situation and asked:

"I need to know at which point I should get worried or call for help, and who I should call; I need to know if I should be talking about it with her, or trying to keep conversations completely off it; I need to know how to make sure I'm not being counter-productive to [the rehab/therapy bunch]'s approach."

Today I finally got a reply.

"For your own information and to further support your friend, there are various organisations offering advice and information that can be found on the web and via telephone..."

So not you lot, then? And if I email them, will they just give me addresses for other people I can email? Talk about buck-passing. Your mission statement says you'll help, not just "signpost". So far you've given me no more help than Google.

"It would do no harm to encourage your friend to seek support from an agency such as NORCAS and if she is already doing so, supporting her in this. It may also be supportive for her to know that she can talk to you."

No. I don't want to be yet another counsellor. I want to know what tack I should take in order to not put my foot in it.

"If you are concerned about your friend at any time and believe that there is a need for medical intervention, I can only advise that you contact the ambulance service immediately."

Right. I'll also get the kettle on for Tom's colleagues so that they won't get too frustrated having been hauled out to tell me "this is what heroin users always look like, there's nothing wrong with her and nothing we can do, you are wasting our time."

Paul Allum of NORCAS, you are as much use as a chocolate teapot. I'm not sure why you get paid and I can only hope that the help your organisation offers the addicts themselves far exceeds the so-called help you've offered me.

Okay, so I'm not actually going to send that as a reply. But I'm tempted (and I kind of hope he googles himself and finds this). Any suggestions on a more polite response, or should I just leave it?

Oh, and a quick knitting update - I'm on the home stretch of the second sock and hope to have a finished pair within the week.

Hooray!

Hooray!
Originally uploaded by girl_of_bats

finished sock, a la la la la la la la la I finished a sock, I did it I did it I did it, wheeeeee!

Slightly happy about this.

Just a little.

This afternoon, I start the Second Sock.

Haircut Trauma

Well, the Littlun has had his hair cut.

The Boy is funny about his hair, and has been for pretty much all his life. He can deal with it being washed, in the bath - but then he loves his bath, it's his favourite time of day. What he refuses to deal with is having his hair brushed, or towel-dried, or blow-dried. He even tends to get a bit funny if you stroke it when giving him a cuddle. We have no idea why.

Our haircut plan was thrown a bit off course by the usual hairdressers' place being shut for a few days. Well, I say usual, the kid has had about 5 haircuts in his life so far, but you know what I mean. Still, we found another barber's shop that would do toddlers, and in we went. Littlun was sweetness and light, watching with interest as another little boy, probably about 5 or 6 years old, had his hair cut and styled. We played counting games and face-identification ("where's your mouth? Yay! Where's Daddy's ears? Yay! What's this? That's right, it's your nose!" etc) and then the stylist brought out a kiddie-sized cape.

"What are we doing today then?" asked the stylist.

Pip explained that all that was required was less hair. He wasn't worried about a style, just about there being less of the mop getting in the boy's eyes and being a battle to brush. He explained about the Boy having a problem with having his hair brushed and advised the stylist to just try and do a rough job as quickly as possible before he kicked off. The stylist looked at Littlun, settled happily on the big seat wearing the cape and watching things in the mirror, and uttered those fateful words, "oh, I'm sure it's not that bad."

He spritzed water all over the Littlun's hair, so far so good, and then began to comb it through. Littlun started to grizzle. It's not quite crying, but the eyes go wet and the mouth goes open and down at the corners like a drama tragedy mask, and a long noise that's somewhere between a cry and a groan starts up. But he was still sitting properly like a good boy, and Pip was next to him reassuring him that he was being a good boy.

The stylist appeared to think this was as bad as it would get, because he started to faff. And I mean faff. Taking the hair at the back of Littlun's head and snipping little feathery bits into it, trying to make sure everything's exactly even, fussing. Meanwhile Pip and I could tell the grizzle was doing the equivalent of a burning fuse, and the worst of the Mop - like the bits over the ears, and the bits getting in the eyes - was still firmly in place.

Another two or three minutes were bought with an apple and grape Snack Pack, and another two by using a phone to take pictures of Pip, Littlun and me and then showing them to Littlun with a "who's that?" The drink should have got us a good five minutes except that for the first time in his life, he didn't want a drink.

Then the proper crying started. Real Tears and plenty of snot, then hiccupping sobs. He doesn't stay still when he's like that, so instead of having him in the chair, Pip had to pick him up and cuddle/hold him in front of the stylist, and the stylist finally realised that we might not have been joking about there being a problem with haircuts and started actually cutting away the hair that was the reason for this haircut rather than faffing and styling at the back.

The top, back and sides more or less done, all that remained was to try and get the bits at the nape of the neck. Oh dear. This was the point at which the full-on tantrum of a two year old boy, who is the size of a 3-4 year old, and who has been holding on and trying not to kick off for more than a quarter of an hour, really finally kicked off. Pip had to go from cuddling him to out-and-out restraining him. People walking past outside were stopping to stare in the window. People inside were giving me the Bad Mother Gaze which I always object to as I'm not a parent - but what can you do, go up to everybody and say "he's nothing to do with me"? The stylist kept trying to get the last bit that still needed to be done, and got kicked for his trouble. Eventually the stylist gave up.

Littlun, naturally, started to be quiet again as soon as he was back in his buggy*, was cheerfully waving and saying "bye-bye" through his sniffles as we left, and was un-tear-stained and happy as anything when we staggered back into Pip's house for a much-needed cup of tea. Little GIT.

We're not sure what to do. We could go through this again and again and again. We could let the boy have long hair until such time as he can participate in a reasoned verbal discussion about the difference between "having a haircut" and "being viciously bludgeoned to death", and which of these warrants the screaming heebie-jeebies. We could sneak up on him in the middle of the night with the nail scissors and hope he doesn't wake. Unfortunately he doesn't like hats either so if it went wrong, it wouldn't be so good. Or there's always chloroform... your suggestions?


*we have tried Haircut In The Buggy. It doesn't work. It's not only awkward for the person doing the cutting, but the strop is increased as Littlun realises he's been had... and of course, there isn't then an opportunity for him to shut up when he's put in the buggy.

Moron Moment

Yesterday, I made a very very stupid sock-related cock-up.

Flushed with success after having negotiated my way through the heel shaping, I picked up the stitches from the sides of the heel flap with no problem at all and forged ahead with the shaping of the instep.

And then I ballsed it up. And the mistake I made was so simple, so stupid, so... so bloody typical of me, that I'm still angry now.

The first row I was supposed to do was kind of complicated (by "I am Mary knitting in the round for the first time" standards). If I'd made a mistake on this row, I would not have minded. It would have been upsetting but not unexpected. So I paid as much attention as I could and very carefully dealt with the slips and decreases and stitch markers and so on. I counted like I was auditioning for Sesame Street and felt very pleased with myself. "Repeat these rows until X stitches remain" said my pattern. Marvellous, I thought, and steamed through another eight of these complicated rows before my brain finally realised what it was saying.

"Repeat these rows until X stitches remain"

"these rows"

Rows plural. I've been doing the same row, over and over again. I examined the pattern again, and nestling underneath all the gibber gibber ssk2tog hokey cokey and turn around, was the innocuous line:

"2nd Round: Knit."

Somehow, my enthusiastic brain had skipped this little instruction.

In non-knitter terms:
I should have gone complicated, plain, complicated, plain, complicated, plain, complicated, plain, etc.
Instead I went complicated, complicated, complicated, complicated, complicated, complicated, complicated, complica - oh BUGGER.

So I had to do this. Right back to where I was the night before.

Happily, I've picked up okay and am now back on the complicated/plain bit, having used up almost all of the wiggly wool. There's also been a bit more progress on the jumper for Littlun (which I would photograph, but it's dark blue stocking stitch, so there doesn't seem much point). I've just about finished the first ball of yarn, there's six more to go in total. So he may well get his jumper while he still fits it and in time for the cold weather.

Today Pip and I are taking Littlun for a haircut. Last time we did this, it was spur of the moment - we'd just had lunch and saw a hairdressers with no queue. Littlun was tired and had been sitting still for his lunch and wasn't sure what was going on, except he was sure he didn't like what was going on, and so he screamed himself sick - yep, screamed until he actually vomited all over the cape and the chair and the floor.

This time, we have a plan. We're going in the morning - so Littlun will be awake, happier, and we can bribe him with foods, rather than full, unbribable, and wanting his nap. Pip is making sure there's assorted treats, toys, and a drink in the bag, and we may try having the hairdresser cut Pip's hair first with Littlun on his lap, to show him it's not scary and Daddy likes it and what have you. Here's hoping.

Help needed

Help needed
Originally uploaded by girl_of_bats

This morning, I saw Carie's confirmation that I'd got the right idea for how to follow the instructions for the heel flap and verily I did rejoice, because Carie knows her sockage.

Alas, as my knitting speed increases, my sense of accomplishment becomes short-lived. It's taken less than a day to reach the end of that set of instructions and now I am perplexed.

The pattern does have a copyright bit on it, which I respect and I promise I am trying to not type out the whole thing in daily instalments on my blog. The trouble is that I have nobody in a 15-mile radius who I know who can do socks. The local yarn store is beyond rubbish. The nearest knitting group is Norwich (or, as I keep getting told everywhere I enquire, there is a cross-stitch group once a month in Beccles (ten miles from here and about 2 buses a year) which I might enjoy - however I doubt they know socks either). So I must ask internet peoples for help. But, in order for internet peoples to help me, internet peoples must know what it is I am actually trying to do.

Instructions are as follows:
1st Row: Slip first st, P16 (half stitches plus 2 on right needle), P2tog, P1, turn.
2nd Row: Slip first st, K5, ssk2tog, K1, turn.
3rd Row: Slip first st, P6, P2tog, P1, turn.
4th Row: Slip first st, K7, ssk2tog, K1, turn.
Continue in this way taking in one more stitch each row until all the heel flap stitches have been included.

Looking at the photo... Needle 1 is empty. Needle 2 has 30 sts on it. Needles 3 and 4 each have 15 sts on them. Total, 60 sts. If you click the photo, you'll go to it in my flickr stream where it is labelled with notes. Feel free to add to those notes.

I do not even begin to understand. Well, I understand "k" and "p" and "slip," and I even understand "P2tog" and "ssk2tog", more or less. But I can't seem to put it in any sort of context. Where do I start? Which needle? Which direction? How does one "include" the heel flap stitches? Does "heel flap stitches" mean the 30 sts on needle 2, or the stitches going down the sides of the heel flap, or the stitches on needles 3 and 4, or what?

The upside of all of this is that the jumper - the nice, simple, chunky yarn, chunky needles, small person sized jumper - is coming along nicely even if it does dye my hands blue.

edited 21/08/07 to add tags

Not what I've expected

After a lovely week, as detailed in my last post, I waved goodbye to Steve (gone home to do more studying) and spent Sunday afternoon sat on the front doorstep with my neighbour S (of mousey-fire fame) with a nice cool drink watching the carnival go by.

The carnival was headed by a fire engine. This caused a certain amount of embarassment on S's part. She has assured me it won't happen again.

It was a very strange carnival. There would be, for example, a samba band playing really upbeat, carnival-ey music, and a group of a dozen or so enthusiastic dancers in bright costumes with lots of feathers, jumping and clapping like they meant it, and then a decorated float with non-dancers giving it a good effort and having a good time... and then a trailer with a boring, unadorned logo on each side for a local business, no more than a mobile advertisement and not a very good one at that, followed by a half-arsed effort at a float with a bunch of people in almost-fancy-dress sitting on it chatting or worse yet, looking bored. In particular, the Lowestoft Sea Cadets were the most depressed, bored-looking, unhappy group of people I have ever laid eyes upon even outside of a carnival setting. But then, after the scowls and immobile people, would be another bunch who were enjoying it. I would go so far as to say it was a bipolar carnival. Very confusing.

By 5pm, the roads were reopened and the drizzle had started. I looked forward to having an early night, and then on Monday, getting things straightened out at the flat - you know, getting some food shopping done, doing some dishes, attending to Mt Laundry and the suchlike.

This sterling plan was knocked right off course when I woke up on Monday with what I can only describe as a violent stomach upset. At first it wasn't too awful. There have to be some bonuses to being long-term ill, and one of them is that you're used to feeling awful. So if you're having a good spell, and then get a little short-term illness, you can deal with the feeling-awful-ness easier than those around you, because it's not much worse than your usual kind of Bad Day, even if it does take a little longer to shake off.

By 11am, however, I was full-on sweating, shivering, and curled up on the sofa cuddling a big bowl. I was trying to have little sips of water to rehydrate, but it was an effort to keep them down. I wanted some painkillers, but keeping those inside me was out of the question. This was the point at which S turned up at my door. She'd not had a good night herself - she'd been at the hospital for reasons of her own - but as soon as she saw the state I was in, she started trying to look after me, making sure I had a drink, asking if I needed anything, offering to go to the shops, asking if I wanted her to hang about or if I'd rather be left to it. After a few minutes she went home, having promised to check on me again in the afternoon.

To be totally honest, I wasn't expecting her to come back in the afternoon. S often has trouble with what day it is and with remembering what she should be doing if it isn't written down. But she did. She even remembered that I'd had no cold drinks in the flat and had brought me a bottle of squash "in case you want something that isn't plain water". I think I owe her some chocolate.

After about 4pm I started to pick up a bit. I spent an hour eating a slice of toast and then, joy of joys, I had a painkiller. The next slice of toast took just half an hour, and then I microwaved some rice for dinner.

Today I'm very nearly back to normal. Well, normal by my standards. S came up again this afternoon and we were each relieved to see that the other was looking considerably better. I've done most of my washing-up and hopefully tomorrow I'll get some shopping done.

I've also done quite a lot of knitting today. I am very glad that I have the bits I need to work on the jumper for Littlun because I have run up against an obstacle with the sock. I'll consult mum on the matter tomorrow but I don't know if she can do socks or not... here's what's happening. I've gone round and round and round, 60sts divided between 3 needles, first ribbing, and then plain knit-every-round for the ankle part of the sock (so it looks the same as stocking stitch, knit a row, purl a row, on regular knitting needles). Ok? This is boring simple easy plain sock. Now: how do I do this next bit?

K15 and turn
If I've got this right, I start from my marker for "beginning of round", and knit 15 sts, and then, I turn my knitting around, so that the last stitch I completed, the 15th knit stitch I just did, is now in my left hand?)

1st Row: Slip first st, P29, turn (30sts on this needle) Slide other 30sts onto spare needles.
If I've got this right, this means that I should be looking at the 15 knit stitches I just did, and going back across them (as if I was doing back-and-forth knitting rather than round-and-round knitting). I should slip the first one and purl the next 14. I should then continue purling, onto the same needle, the next 15 stitches. The other 30 stitches, the ones I haven't done anything with, these get put onto the other needles to keep them safe while I'm buggering about with just these 30?

What do I do with my cute little marker that tells me where the beginning of the round is? Do I keep it where it is, or discard it, or put it somewhere else?

*sigh* I speak more Knittingese than I did six months ago, but really, I sometimes wonder if these patterns will ever cease to confuse the hell out of me.

Incredibly active week

Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's Steve, I don't know, but I'm feeling better the last week or so than I have in months if not years. So I'm taking full advantage and have been (by my standards) exceptionally busy. I've done something most days, and even when I've woken up going *pop* *crunch* *yelp* "oh god, that was stupid, when will I learn when to stop" I haven't actually regretted overdoing things. The ever-lovely Steve has helped by making sure I haven't had to use up my energy on anything like washing-up or cooking or grocery-shopping or cleaning the bathroom, it's just been a holiday from all of that, a week of energy expenditure almost purely on enjoyable things.

Following the pizza and the cookie crumble from my last blog on Friday, plus the joy of the postman turning up with a package of Sock Kit, we packed my suitcase and zoomed vaguely westwards to Chateau Evilstevie.

On Saturday afternoon, we went to the B3ta Birmingham Bash. We managed to stay for about two hours which was good. Gorgeous weather meant that smokers and non-smokers were all happy sitting outside by the canal watching the world go by.

On Sunday afternoon, with me insisting that tired or otherwise the weather was too good to waste, we decided to go to the park for ice cream, relaxation, knittings and photography. On the way to the park, we stopped at the house of a couple of friends, where we were invited in to join them for a barbecued beefburger. Yum.

On Monday, we went into Leamington to have tea and scones at the Victoria Coffee Shop.

On Tuesday, all that was planned was me going to the knitting group in the evening. Unfortunately Steve made the mistake of mentioning that there's a big Hotel Chocolat in Dudley's Merry Hill shopping centre. Off to Dudley we did vrooooom. After dribbling in Hotel Chocolat, we got some lunch and then I decided I wanted a haircut. Well... I've needed a haircut for some time, but I never get round to it - it's not the sort of thing I plan in advance, you know? So the last haircut I had was for my mum's wedding last September. Oops. The first EMPTY hairdressers we went into told us they couldn't possibly manage to do my hair as a walk-in, so we wandered along to the next one, where they took me in and then Steve went to amuse himself elsewhere for an hour.

Tuesday evening was the knitting group, same as always, very enjoyable. I shouldn't have gone out during the day though, cos I was SPACED. I just couldn't follow a conversation. But, I was given a couple of very useful hints and tips on the Sock, and I've got a new project as well. I'm doing a jumper for Littlun. It seems kind of tricky to find patterns for kids that age/size, probably because they grow so much that it seems a little futile to put many pounds and many hours into creating a beautiful garment that they will get to wear (read: spill ice cream and/or ribena all over) about four or five times before they've grown out of it again. But, it will make Pip happy. The pattern book I got was Miss Bea's Seaside. I'll be doing the "Breeze Sweater" (5th pic down on that page), nice and simple, although the ribbing for the cuffs is a bit different. Instead of the usual knit-two-purl-two, it's RS K5: P1, K5, P1, K5 etc and WS P4: K1, P1, K1, P3, K1, P1, K1, P3 etc, looks like this.

Wednesday, we went back to the Victoria for another cup of tea and scones. I went into Monsoon (70% sale!) and bought BARGAINS. Steve was extremely patient, following me around the store and holding the things I wanted to try on as I revelled in being able to have one hand on my stick to prop me up and the other hand to rummage through the racks - one of the most difficult parts of shopping for me is running out of hands.

In the evening we met up with a friend for dinner and Steve got TOYS. (note from Steve here: Toys=PC and diskless terminal which were going to be skipped as the company's being dissolved. Obtained with other bits by a mate who used to work there for "a nominal fee" - £2 apparently. Pizza exchanged for the toys :)

(Mary regains control of laptop) Thank you darling.

Thursday, was packing of suitcase and heading off home. The A14 was/is a nightmare, as half of it is closed. It took us almost twice as long as usual to get back. We had to stop for an extra break at Billingford Windmill which looked lovely in the sunset. Only Steve took photos though. I was too busy hanging out of the open passenger door with my head between my knees (the usual attitude of prayer to the gods of Pharma, accompanied by an under-the-breath chant of "please let these painkillers work soon") scaring the locals. No, really. A nice lady actually came out of her house to come over and ask if I was okay, did I want a glass of water, if you go for a little walk about a hundred yards that-way, there's a little bridge where you can just relax and it doesn't smell so much of cow dung... which was nice of her. I don't like it when people fuss, but it is nice when people (1) show concern for fellow human being in obvious distress or difficulties and (2) are friendly.

Friday we went to meet some assorted friends in Norwich at the Cider Shed. It's a nice place, really relaxed. My stepdad plays there sometimes. We were sat outside as there was an under-14 in our group and they aren't allowed in the main bar, so it was a bit chilly. Chilliness was easily combatted by my ordering a nice cup of tea (and it was a nice cup of tea), so just to add to that "Friday night out" feeling, I got the Sock out as well. Socks are a very portable form of knitting.

This picture contains many elements of today's blog so far.

Saturday, I started writing this, but there was a bit too much for me to finish! We went and had lunch with Pip and the Littlun. This was a bad idea, as they're getting over ILL and so Littlun's temper and appetite are not as they should be. He ate about one small slice of kids' pizza, half a carrot stick, and a few grapes, in between grizzles and grumps. So we went to the beach, the boys dug a big hole, and we put the boy in it. Many jokes about "they sent me down t'pit when I wa but two year old..." and so on. It was fun.

Steve goes back home by himself this morning - definitely this morning, as this afternoon is Lowestoft Carnival so the roads are either closed for the afternoon, or jammed up. I am going to miss him very much. The only reason I'm typing this rather than having a cuddle is because he's asleep and it's important to be well-rested before tackling the A14, but I may have to go wake him soon.

Much niceness

I have been slightly unexpectedly Evilstevied this week.

This is very definitely a good thing. However, I haven't quite recovered from the airshow, and it's really hard to stick to pacing when you're excited about seeing a boyfriend you've been missing for about a month and a half. So this morning, he is still in bed, and I am typing this, because I'm too sore to be able to lie still and don't want to keep him awake.

He'll be here a couple of days, probably. After that we're not sure what happens. He wants to be back here again for a party in a week's time, but definitely has to go home first, so we're toying with two options. Option one is that he goes home alone, then in a week he comes back on the bike, nice long ride for him on his own, and we hope that I will be feeling okay enough to go from my flat to the party on the bike with him. I'd say there's about a 40% chance of me being able to manage that, and I would definitely enjoy it. Option two is that I go back with him and spend a week at his, before the two of us come back here in the car. Unfortunately it has to be the car because there is no way on this earth that I could even dream of managing the several hours it takes to get from his to mine sitting up and hanging on the back of a motorbike. Snoozing on a bike is not recommended...

Of the two, my personal and absolutely selfish preference is for me to go to his for a week and come back in the car. I would get to say hi to the people at the knitting group, and catch up with other friends, and go for tea and scones, and so on, it would be fantastic. However, I strongly suspect that Evilstevie could do with a nice long summer ride on his bike. Plus, he is supposed to be studying, and I can be a bit of a distraction from that, whereas if I'm not there, he only gets distracted by, well, everybody else he knows, plus the internet and assorted Shiny Things. Um. Remind me again why I'm staying away?

I am eagerly awaiting delivery of a Sock Kit from Web Of Wool. I was a little concerned that it would arrive simultaneously with Steve, but it didn't. This is good because it means when it does arrive, I can be very excited, rather than splitting my "excited about things on the doorstep" capacity between the two. You know, like birthdays, when you have lots of presents, and you don't have enough "wow, that's fantastic!" to go around. Sense?

The yarn I've chosen is a plain lilac one. I could have had any amount of self-patterning yarns, but I figured, first attempt, don't want to get confused and muck it up, just keep it simple and basic. Boring? Yes. But a higher likelihood of success, too.

Mum doesn't get why I (or anyone else) would want to knit socks. Her take on it is that I can go out and buy socks, about 3 pairs for a fiver, so why would I want to spend the same kind of money for just one pair of socks that I have to make myself? I argued that the same is true of most knitting - it's hardly a way of providing budget clothing for your family any more. She agreed, but said that a hat or a jumper or a bag or similar is at least something people see. Which is a fair point. But they probably assume it was shop-bought anyway. The only people who look at a garment and are impressed by how loveleyly (vocab) it's been done and pay attention to the detail, are the knitter, and possibly the recipient. Everyone else is sort of beside the point.

Mostly, however, I just want to see if I can. I like finding out I can do things.

Today, I think I am going to see if Steve wants to go and have lunch at the Pizza and Pancake Co in Lowestoft. It's a really nice place. They do pizzas, sweet and savoury pancakes, and pasta. They have this lunchtime deal where you get any small pizza or small pasta dish and a visit to the salad bar for about £6. And they do gorgeous desserts. My personal favourite, and the one I've got a hankering for today, is the Cookie Crumble - a big sundae glass with loads of chocolate sauce, cream, vanilla and chocolate ice cream, and chunks of broken choc-chip cookies throughout. It is a thing of beauty.

Perhaps I should have breakfast first.

Airshow 2007

More planes
Originally uploaded by girl_of_bats

Warning: This is likely to be an appalling post, even by my standards, because I am broken.

So, the Airshow. It's actually a longer event than usual this year. We had planes on Thursday and Friday, then today (Saturday) is powerboat racing, and tomorrow (Sunday) is the Eastern Lights motorbike event.

Thursday the weather was crap, I wasn't feeling too good, and Pip had only managed to get about 3 hours sleep so he wasn't really up for managing awful traffic followed by Littlun in a big crowd. So I spent the whole day in the flat, taking it easy in anticipation of the better weather predicted for the Friday, which as you can see in this photo, we got.

The flight path must have been changed, because the planes weren't anywhere near as noisy as usual. Most years, there's several performances that physically rattle the windows of local residences, but this year, I had the windows open and could hear the tannoy from the beach, but although I could hear the planes, they were no more disruptive than, say, heavy traffic outside.

A couple of planes, the older ones, couldn't make it because of the high winds. I couldn't tell you which ones though. I don't even know what planes are in this photograph. I can identify the Red Arrows but that's about it. A planespotter is not me.

I saw a lot of extremely soggy people scurrying for their homes/cars/guesthouses in the afternoon from the safety of my flat window. This included no less than three children wearing one waterproof between them, which put me in mind of the three-headed giant from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. But shorter. Um.

Anyway, Friday was much better, Friday was when I took this photo. Pip came to mine with Littlun and a couple of friends and parked the car in my handy locked off-street parking space that comes with the flat. We suncreamed up - a procedure which Littlun detests, but that's just tough - and set off to the beach.

Lowestoft Airshow is run off money yoinked from wherever the organisers can beg, steal or borrow it from. This includes fees for stall pitches on the seafront area, sponsorship from the larger local businesses, sales of any amount of tat like tshirts, badges, caps, programmes etc, and a voluntary donation scheme. There's this big thing about keeping the show free, but at every entrance to the seafront area they have a bunch of volunteers with collection buckets and stickers. The suggested donation is £1 per adult, which is hardly bank-breaking, and then you get a sticker and can feel morally superior. A lot more people were wearing the badges this year than last year, or so it seemed.

There's also a very effective scheme for lost kiddies. The collection guys direct you to the stalls where you can get a heavy-duty plasticised card wristband clamped onto your kid. Littlun didn't manage to get his off, so they must be pretty damn durable. The wristband has the parent's mobile phone number on it. Any kid found unaccompanied just has to be herded to the nearest stall or Airshow official (and there are hundreds of these, from various voluntary groups in the town). Rather than mess about taking the kid to a central point, the officials all have mobile phones and immediately call the parent directly. In this way most kids are reunited with their parents in less than ten minutes with a minimum of fuss.

We spent a while having a look-round, and we watched the Red Arrows, which was fun - Littlun quickly picked up on pointing and shouting "WOW!" Then Pip made sure I got back up to my flat safely and they went back while I had a sleep.

Later in the afternoon, I went to join them again, down on the actual beach. By this point Littlun had gone through all the clothes Pip had brought for him (two pairs of trousers, two tshirts, a pair of shorts and a jumper) with an assortment of Ribena, ice cream, sea-water (fell over full-length while paddling) and, uh, "misc". He's two, it happens. He ended up wearing Pip's t-shirt which looked incredibly cute (click the picture for my flickr stream).

They were with a bunch of friends who'd come down with a large pack of beer, a radio, a windbreaker and the suchlike. It was really nice sitting on the sand, watching the occasional planes, playing with the kid, having a chatter, relaxing in the sunshine. A couple of the gents dug a big hole for Littlun to play in (we filled it in before we left) which he thought was fantastic. It also had the advantage that we could all sit down without someone having to be poised to dash after him...

I'm paying for it today, obviously, but then I'm not too bothered about Powerboats and it was worth it. Next week most of the tourists should have gone home again and then we can resume normal life.

Edited 17:30 to add tags

I Aten't Dead

... but apparently I do a pretty good impression of it, or I did last night.

Last night, the young woman in the flat directly below mine, let's call her S, started a fire. Inside her flat. A couple of metres from my sleeping self.

This rather disturbing news came to me this afternoon courtesy of another resident of the flat-block who we shall call V. I bumped into V in the corridor and exchanged the usual pleasantries, upon which he said "and what about last night, eh?" My blank look led him to expand upon this with the words "the fire?" at which point I managed to articulate that I had no idea what he was on about. He related the story as follows:

Late last night, V heard a commotion outside and went downstairs to see what was going on. He encountered some firemen and found S sitting in the middle of the road outside, crying. He physically pulled her onto the kerb and sat and had a cigarette with her and asked what was going on. S claimed that she had seen a mouse, which had run into a paper bag, and that she had then picked up the paper bag, shoved it into the bin, and set fire to the bin in an effort to kill the mouse. Then she had called the fire brigade. She didn't proffer an explanation for the sitting in the road.

I feel quite relieved that the fire station isn't far away.

I feel a bit disturbed that, now I think about it, there's no fire escape here. The front door is reached only by going past the downstairs flats. I don't like my chances of physically managing to climb out of a window, and I really don't like my chances of landing safely on the concrete some 15-20 feet below.

I feel quite annoyed that she called the fire brigade but didn't, oh, just as an example, start shouting "FIRE! FIRE!" or banging on doors to wake the people she'd put at risk.

I feel quite scared that I slept through the firemen turning up and coming in and putting out the fire. On the one hand, okay, they don't use the sirens at night unless there's a big need to, but surely I should have heard the doors banging and stuff? I will take my night-time tablets tonight but it does bother me a little.

And I also feel a little suspicious about the mouse story. I don't know about you, but if I saw a mouse in my flat running into a paper bag, I would probably throw said bag out of the window. If I DID put the bag into the bin, I would then hold the lid of the bin closed and take it outside. I wouldn't hunt around for a lighter and then attempt to ignite the bin. If I was really desperate to set fire to the thing, I'd at least get it the hell out of my flat first...

But, I don't know how S's mind works. She has a lot of problems, including a Class A drugs habit. Maybe there was a mouse. Maybe she hallucinated it. Maybe the pixies told her to start the fire. Maybe she was in the road hoping the fire engine, in its haste to answer the call, would run her over. Maybe it was a cry for help. Maybe it was boredom. I haven't the faintest idea.

I desperately hope that this was a one-off.

Rejected, again.

At the beginning of June, I found out that the Department of Work and Pensions had turned down my application to renew my Disability Living Allowance.

My condition and the way it affects me hasn't changed in the least, so by my logic, the amount of DLA I am legally entitled to shouldn't have changed either.

After a bit of a panic and a lot of support from friends, family and other bloggers, I started the process of asking for an explanation of the decision and a reconsideration. I assembled every scrap of additional evidence I could get my hands on and wrote a detailed refutation of the "explanation" they gave me for their decision. If you want to have a browse through my blog archives for the last two months you will get an idea of how much this took out of me.

Today I got their decision. It's actually some four weeks earlier than expected, so yay them, they get to tick an efficiency target. However, in their words, "we have not changed our original decision". I can't walk to the bus stop, I can't cook a proper meal on my own, I can't do or I have difficulty doing a hundred other everyday things and I fall over a lot... but they have decided I have no care or mobility needs.

I am stunned.

I'm not a fraud or a faker. I told them the honest truth and described the difficulties I have and the help which I need, no more, no less. Two years ago, the facts I told them resulted in me being given the middle level of DLA Care component and the higher level of the Mobility component. Today, those same facts result in zero. How can this be right? How does this make any sort of sense at all?

I have the right to appeal to an Independent Tribunal.

What I do not have, is the capacity to appeal to an Independent Tribunal.

I simply cannot do it. Jumping through hoops and visiting their doctors and fighting That Bloody Locum and dealing with legalese and trying to find someone who can represent me and all of this, while coping on a very much more restricted income, and knowing that there's still a good chance of them turning me down yet again... no.

This mess has already done me more harm than good. If I am prepared to lean a bit more heavily on the support offered by my friends and family, then I can get by with just the Incapcity Benefit. But I can't fight battles at the same time. It makes me feel sick to be giving up like this, and it makes me angry that someone in the same position as me but without the friends and family would be so utterly stuck.

Pip (and Littlun, of course) has looked after me today. Many cups of tea have been applied and both shoulders utterly soaked by a sobbing Mary. I'm sure it's not the day he had in mind, poor git. Steve has also been lovely, in a long-distance kind of way, listening to the tears and saying all the right things. I've also had a brief but reassuring phone chat with my mum. The consensus is that it's not right, and it's not fair, but it's also not the end of the world and we've got through much worse than this before.

On the positive side - and there is one - my condition may improve a bit now, because a certain amount of stress has been tossed overboard. I can get on and enjoy the summer rather than back-and-forthing with the DWP. I can sit outside in the sunshine without thinking "ooh, I must save my energy for filling out reams of paperwork". I won't have to worry, every time I have a good day, that someone might notice I'm moving a bit easier or not leaning on the stick as much, and report my one-off good day as me being "better". And I don't have to listen to the DLA unit's hold music, a bonus which is almost worth the money on its own.

In other news, the Lowestoft Airshow is almost upon us - this coming Thursday and Friday. God only knows what the weather will do, and as such, plans are near impossible to make. I'm going to start in much the same way as last year - rest up beforehand, buy plenty of milk/juice/etc before the tourists descend, and generally arrange things so that there is nothing I *need* to do. Those of you I know in real life, are any of you planning on being round this way?

More Fun With Benefits

Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce a new contender in the Great Benefits Cock-Up... Waveney District Council!

Regular readers may recall that a couple of weeks ago I was feeling quite relieved that I had finished dealing with the benefits stuff and that "all" I had to do was contact the council, who manage the housing benefit, to change the designation on my file from "Disabled - in receipt of DLA" to "Disabled - in receipt of long-term Incapacity Benefit". After taking soundings from blog commenters, family, and real-world friends, I went for the double safety of writing a clear letter explaining the situation, but taking it into the offices in person and getting a receipt as well.

A letter arrived from Waveney District Council today, a surprise in itself as today is not a Saturday. It informed me that due to my change in circumstances, my housing benefit would be suspended as of the first week in August. It asked me to provide additional information (such as bank statements) and to please fill out the enclosed form and return it within fourteen days.

First Cock-Up: I thoroughly searched the envelope and both sides of the letter and found nothing at all resembling the alleged "enclosed form".

Luckily my stepdad was able to offer me a lift to the Council offices to try and sort things out. I got signed in at reception and was given a number. Then I sat down in the waiting area with my knitting, which incidentally is a great ice-breaker in a setting like that.

Second Cock-Up: They forgot me. I sat quietly and knitted for about an hour before deciding to go up to the desk and check that I had got my number right.
Me: I think I'm number 36 but my brain's not up to much, could you check?
Her: What's your name?
Me: Mary.
Her: Yes, you're 36. Oh dear. We seem to have forgotten you.

After reminding them of my existence, I was seen quite quickly and given a form. A whole new application form. Seems that they can't just change my designation, they need to renew my claim.

Back home and filling in the form, I got to the Third Thing, which in fairness wasn't so much a Waveney District Council thing as a JobcentrePlus thing. The Form requires an exact breakdown of my income, and I don't have handy the precise amount of Incapacity Benefit that I get. So, I decided to phone up and ask.

Third Cock-Up: The computer systems for Incapacity Benefit at the DWP were down and had been for most of the day. So no one could log in to check. Apparently I should try again tomorrow.

I've completed pretty much all of the form now, and hopefully I will be able to get that last bit of information and take it back to them either tomorrow or the next day. I feel utterly drained though.

Awake

Forgive the lack of blogging.

Having dealt with the benefits paperwork and reached the point where there is nothing left to do but wait, whatever was keeping me going this month kind of fell down and I don't seem able to pick it up again.

An apology to the owners of the various blogs I've left comments on this week. I'm just not properly coherent. Think of them less as constructive comments and more as freeform stream of consciousness verbal art. Or a load of old bollocks, whichever you feel is more appropriate.

The current Knitting In Progress is the hat for Sister Dearest - the yarn, Rowan 4ply Soft 100% Merino wool in the shade "Sooty" from Web Of Wool arrived in the post a few days ago. It's the plainest of plain hats possible - 19cm x 155sts of stocking stitch and then about 20 rows with decreasey bits to form the crown. But at the moment, that's about the limit of my capacity.

I really, really want to learn socks. Really basic, boring, do-it-in-your-sleep socks perhaps made a bit more interesting by using multicoloured yarn.

I also want some bungs to go on the ends of my needles, as the problem with a knitted knitting needle case is that the points can rather poke through. Ideally I'd find a range of sizes so that not only would they protect the needles and stop stitches falling off needles-in-use, but also I could keep my needles-not-in-use in pairs. I have a very clear picture in my head of what I want and I feel sure it must be available somewhere but I have no idea what search terms to use.

It's ridiculously late to be blogging. Unfortunately this afternoon and evening I don't seem to have a right leg. Below the knee I simply can't feel at all, and above the knee all the way to the hip is like a very heavy chunk of cold pain, sort of like a brain-freeze sensation but in the muscle of my leg and it's not bloody well going away. It's added considerably to my Lurch Factor while I tried to fix dinner, and it's also stopping me from sleeping. So lucky you, you get the late-night outpourings of my addled little mind.

A large part of the aforementioned mind is taken up with thoughts of moving. I have been promised by Steve that we will definitely get me moved before the year is out. I am excited, nervous, hopeful, trying not to get my hopes up because plans have a tendency to backfire, all sorts of things. It resolves into:

1) the fact of being moved - all the things, good and bad, that are going to be different once I live in Steve's house in a different part of the country and with Steve, rather than on my own in the town where I've lived my whole life and where my friends and family are.

2) the act of moving - the sheer logistics of shifting me and all my stuff is something I'm finding pretty daunting. I moved all my stuff into this flat and got everything set up and unpacked, with the help of Pip, mum and Sister Dearest, within one day. But that was when I was in a position to run up and down stairs bearing items of flatpack furniture. And I only moved a few blocks, as opposed to a couple of counties.

3) the timing or more to the point, the lack thereof. I have no idea if I should be starting to box stuff away now or if I'll be wanting my creature comforts for the next six months. I don't know if I should send my Christmas decorations to Steve's or if I should hang onto them here. There are a couple of things I'd like to buy for the flat - they'll be worth it if I'm here for another four months, but a bit of a pointless waste of money if I'm only here another four weeks.

And now, it's tomorrow, and I am going to take as many painkillers as I'm allowed in the hope of a few hours' blessed oblivion. I do hope this post is at least partially coherent. Good night.

Cooking

I got myself a new cookery book the other day. It's called Just like mother used to make and it's by a guy called Tom Norrington-Davies. On the back are a couple of quotes from reviews, and the one from The Times says that "the recipes are simple to follow and comfortingly delicious to eat." Marvellous, thunked Mary. This is the book I need.

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear.

I should have looked at the name, really. This book is written by a man, who has access to many varied London shops, and above all, can afford a dishwasher. This is speculation, of course, but if he washes all his own dishes I will be very surprised.

I'm on page 82 now and I am stunned with the amount of faffery this guy suggests. It's the sort of cooking that's probably fun a couple of times a week if you're the sort of person who enjoys cooking and gets a kick out of accomplishing a meal (and you have a dishwasher).

A particular area where Tom and I have fallen out is over the issue of soup. He describes several "comfort soups" which according to him are "low maintenance" and "great food for those times when we are under the weather." Under the weather, that's me, let's take a look. Tomato soup, great.

First, he wants me to peel and chop onions, garlic (actually this should be "bruised" whatever the hell that means), a leek, and some carrots. Washing-up count so far, at least one sharp knife and chopping board, and a bowl to put the chopped veg in, plus it's taken me four hours due to keeping needing to sit down, the odds are I've cut my fingers, and we've not even got to the recipe instructions yet. You're then meant to stand at the cooker for ten minutes "keeping an eye on" the veg while they sweat in a little oil in a covered saucepan (washing-up count: saucepan, lid, wooden spoon). Next, we add some sugar and some tinned tomatoes (tinned? Tom, I'm shocked, you mean I don't have to grow them myself?), whack the heat up, and stand at the cooker for at least five minutes, "stirring constantly". Add some water (he prefers stock but he can stick that up his jumper) and allow to simmer, uncovered, for about an hour, because I always wanted to turn my flat into a tomato-scented sauna. Finally, we chuck it through the blender (washing up count: one blender which he doesn't tell you must be washed before the soup sets on the blades - handwashing blenders is Not Good) and add milk, salt and faff to taste. Serve (washing up count: bowl, spoon, and he also wants nice fresh bread but we're just not going to go there).

Total washing-up: two bowls, one spoon, one wooden spoon, blender, saucepan and lid, sharp knife(s), chopping board(s), and I bet the work surfaces and cooker hob got splattered too.

Tom. Mate. If you ever feel really under the weather, here's what you do.

Get the bowl you intend to eat from, the spoon you intend to eat with, a tin-opener (I know you have one because of those tinned tomatoes) and a can of Heinz Cream of Tomato soup. Open the can and empty it into the bowl. Put the bowl into the microwave and nuke it for one minute. During this minute, assuming you recycle, peel the label off the can and rinse the can under the tap before chucking it in the appropriate bin. Rinse the tin-opener too and leave it on the draining board to air-dry. Get the soup from the microwave, stir it with the spoon, and then put it back in for another minute. Have a little sit-down. The microwave will beep but don't get excited, just in your own time get up and get the soup. The bowl will be hot, be careful. Give it another stir and eat. If it makes you feel better you can put a sprig of freshly plucked basil on top, or an artistic little swirl of cream.

Total washing-up: one bowl, one spoon.

I'm not even going to talk about what he expects me to do about mashed potatoes. Still, I have another 106 pages to read and hopefully there will be some genuinely simple and easy thing that I can serve up with microwave mash and instant gravy.

I don't want to be a domestic goddess, I just want simple easy food!