"Access" to work

I had my appointment with the Disability Employment Adviser (DEA) at the Jobcentre yesterday. We spent about an hour talking about what I would like to do, what my limitations are, what help I want, and the various rules about work and Incapacity Benefit. So that's pretty much the same conversation I had with the IB adviser last week, except the DEA seemed to know a bit more about the IB/work rules, or maybe she just felt more inclined to show off her knowledge.

The upshot is that I've been referred (surprise!) to Remploy, who hopefully will get in contact soon. I remain unsure about exactly who they will refer me to what they will do for me.

Remploy or otherwise, the DEA thinks I should be eligible for an Access to Work grant for my transport, assuming I can get my doctor to confirm, in writing, that I do need the exact physical help that I am requesting.

I have registered at the local surgery, and I've had a kind of introductory appointment with the nurse, so that if I turn up because I'm oozing disturbingly, the system won't just throw up a blank - they have my height, weight, blood pressure, brief family history, that sort of thing. But I can't have a routine appointment with a doctor until my notes arrive from Lowestoft. This could take some weeks. When they arrive, the surgery will contact me and then I can make a routine appointment to see my named GP.

Then I get a ten-minute appointment slot to try and persuade said GP - who may or may not pay attention to my previous GP's notes, and whose standpoint on the veracity of my symptoms may well be unsympathetic - to write a letter saying "Mary can't actually walk very far at all and is unfit to drive". I'm trying not to think about that bit. Let's assume I'm successful.

This letter combined with the geographical fact of the house being some distance from the nearest bus route, should persuade the AtW gatekeepers that I am eligible for their scheme. After that I'm on my own until I have obtained a secure job offer to show them, and then the DEA will do the paperwork to apply for the grant for...

*curls up and sobs* Can someone tell me again why it is that I am doing this instead of simply being Steve's housewife?

Anyway. Once I have a GP's letter, I will finally be able to apply for jobs while feeling about 80% certain that when I begin a job I will be able to get to and from the workplace while remaining in profit.

Here's the rules:

1. If I do voluntary work for less than 16 hours a week, I must tell the Jobcentre, but it doesn't affect anything much - mostly it just covers my back if someone tries to report me for fraud saying "she works at [charity]!" I can get my expenses reimbursed by the voluntary-employer, but must not be paid for my work.

2. If I do paid work earning up to £20 a week, I must tell the Jobcentre, but I can keep the money and keep my benefit.

3. If I do paid work for less than 16 hours a week, earning up to about £80 a week, I must tell the Jobcentre, but I can keep the money and my benefit, for either 6 months or 12 months** depending on what my support status is deemed to be. After that time I must choose to (a) give up my benefit or (b) give up the job and not work again for a year.*

4. If I do paid work for more than 16 hours a week... well, that's all irrelevant really, there is not a snowball's chance in hell of me being able to do that any time in the forseeable future.

5. If I earn more than the aforementioned £80 a week... this is probably irrelevant too although I suppose it could happen. If it does, I'm simply telling the Jobcentre to stick it where the sun doesn't shine, as I wouldn't have a problem with taxi fares.

*Incapacity Benefit is about £80 a week. Wages for ten hours work at £5 an hour is £50 a week. So basically, I would have to decide whether to work my backside off for £50 a week plus my personal pride, or sacrifice my pride and sit on aforementioned backside for £80 a week**. What would you do?

**The idea of the time limit is that it forces encourages claimants to increase their hours to more than they can handle, sending them crashing back onto full-time benefit again more than 16 hours per week, and claim Working Tax Credits instead. Believe me when I say that the Tax Credits system is even more of a nightmare than the Jobcentre system, and that I would sooner work in the sex industry and live on the streets, than attempt to deal with Tax Credits again.

Seeking gainful employment

The time has come to search for a job. I am settled in one place, with a partner who earns, so I don't have to deal with the &%#£ing Tax Credits level of Dante's Inferno department to make sure I can still afford to pay my bills. And, the new living conditions mean that I am no longer using most of my precious "up-time" just on essential things like keeping my housework done and my fridge stocked.

Of course, I still have certain limitations. The obvious physical symptoms of my illness rule out quite a lot of things, especially in terms of the usual easy-to-get minimum-wage flexible-hours jobs. I don't think I'm in any way 'above' cleaning toilets or serving fast-food or collecting trolleys from a supermarket carpark, but I would do such an ineffective job of those tasks that really, another person would have to be employed just to pick up my slack.

The other big barriers are transport and hours, which sort of link together. I certainly won't be able to manage a full-time job. I think I can probably work 10 hours a week, but it will have to be spread over several days rather than one ten-hour day once a week. I just don't have that much uptime all at once.

There's the field narrowed quite a bit already. But then there's the transport issue.

I can't walk or cycle to work, or even to the nearest bus stop. The mobility scooter provides a lot of freedom but is somewhat weather-dependent - it's in no one's interests for me to short-out in the rain halfway between work and home and need rescuing. I can't drive, and it would be unsafe for me to learn - it's one thing to get woozy as a pedestrian, even on the scooter, and stop and move to the side of the pavement until it passes, but quite another to get suddenly woozy at the wheel and semi-consciously pilot a ton and a half of metal automobile up the pavement into a wandering mums and toddlers group. It wouldn't be good. The remaining option is taxis. The taxi fare from my house to the town centre is about £6 or £7 each way. So if I'm working three hours at a time, at £5 an hour... then after transport costs I will have about £2.50 left to show for each day I knacker myself out. If I have to buy work clothes too - which I probably will - then we're looking at months of work before I so much as break even on this deal.

So really, I need some kind of scheme, some kind of assistance, to help me access work. Luckily, there is such a scheme, run by Jobcentre Plus, called Access to Work. How handy.

With this in mind, I traipsed into the local Jobcentre Plus, and after some considerable effort and negotiation (see last post) I was offered a seat and told that the Incapacity Benefit advisor, C, would be with me shortly...

As several readers know, my job used to be helping disabled people into work (although not for JC+), and I really wanted C to help me, so I figured I would try to come across as the sort of client that would have made me do the "getting this person a job will be a piece of cake" grin. As C walked into the waiting area I put my walking stick in my left hand, and when she called my name, I stood up, made eye contact, smiled, stepped towards her, confidently introduced myself as "hi, I'm Mary, you must be C, nice to meet you" and held out my right hand.

Oh dear. I've had better handshakes from half-used balls of yarn. I'd thrown her completely off balance with my impression of an incredibly confident and totally employable person and now she didn't know what to do. (A cruel person might suggest she didn't know what to do in the first place, but I am lovely and suggesting no such thing.)

Our encounter went from bad to worse when she asked what sort of work I used to do. I put it as gently and nicely as I could, cushioned with lots of "obviously I'm not up to date like you are with the current rules and legislation," and "I only know what was available two years ago in Lowestoft, I have no idea what's available locally here in 2007 except what I've gleaned off the web," but it didn't help. The terror shining in her eyes was somewhere between wondering if she was being tested, and wondering how she'd feel if it was her who had suddenly landed on the other side of the desk.

Anyway. The upshot is, she has referred me to the Disability Employment Adviser (DEA). I got the standard patronising letter from the DEA today. An appointment has been arranged for me at the end of the month.

"The main purpose will be to find out more about your current situation, your job goals and to see if I can give any additional advice that may help you to move into employment. Please bring with you a current CV or details of past employment..." I have done my best with my CV. Unfortunately it still effectively reads "I used to do what you're doing now," which will make it even more obvious that I am less interested in her advice and more interested in accessing the practical help that I know is available. I am hoping against hope that she will be able to deal with that.

My back-up plan, if the Jobcentre continue making me despair, is to get in touch with volunteer groups in the area. OK, so financial gain is nil, but expenses are generally paid, work hours are flexible, and I will get a reference and the gap on my CV covered over, so I can apply for jobs that pay *more* than minimum wage and thus the transport costs won't be such a scary percentage of my earnings.

The temptation to be "just" a housewife is quite strong at the moment, I'm not so scared of working but I really, really HATE dealing with the bloody Jobcentre.

Yet more moving faff

...but first, a knitting update. I have embarked on my first adult-sized jumper. The yarn (Colinette "Cadenza" 100% merino wool in "slate") is gorgeous, the colours are beautiful. It's mostly blue tones, but with patches of rainbows. Meanwhile, Left Mitt v1.0 has been tried on, the only adjustment needed is for the fingers-bit to be a little longer. So I've done that, and have nearly completed the matching Right Mitt too. After that, will be another identical pair for when this pair are in the wash (or lost), and a similar but smaller pair for my mum. Basically I'm reckoning that at any given time for the rest of the year I will have one project on regular needles (the jumper) and one on DPNs (the mitts).

Now. Today being the first working day after my Official Move Date, a certain number of things had to be done. I had to go to my bank and my building society to update my details (understandably enough, these institutions won't let you do that over the phone), and I wanted to go to the Jobcentre in order to check that everything was as it should be with my benefit (I still get the same amount of Incapacity Benefit but it has to come from a different regional pot) and find out about help available for disabled jobseekers in the area.

The mission started off quite well, really. Steve drove us into town, and then, fortified with tea/coffee and scones, we went to my Building Society, which I would be naming here to praise their good customer service to all and sundry, except I'm not sure how sensible it would be to put any of my financial details on the internet, so let's just call them my Building Society and I promise to email them direct.

Stepped up to the reception desk, queued for about a minute while the person ahead of us was dealt with, then was greeted by a friendly, smiling member of staff, the conversation went thus:

HER: Can I help you?
ME: Yes, I've just moved house and I'd like to update my address details for my account.
HER: (fishing sheet of paper on a clipboard out of a drawer) No problem, have you filled in one of these change of address forms yet?
ME: Um, no.
HER: Is the account a joint one, or just yours?
ME: Just me.
HER: Then you only need this one form. Would you like to fill it in now, or take it away and come back another time?
ME: (taking form and noting it is a single side of A4) Um, now is fine, we're not in a rush.
HER: Okay, here's a pen, there's seats round here, oh, or there's a desk over there if you'd like to use it, just bring me the form once you're done, and I'll be here if you need anything.
ME: Marvellous, thank you.

Sat at the desk, filled out the not-too-complicated form, queued again for a minute or so, gave form and pen back to smiling lady who thanked me, assured me it would get sorted out today, and we left.

At that point I felt wonderfully positive. So I kissed Steve and sent him off to the local park to take photos of ducks while I attended to my Bank and dropped in at the Jobcentre.

Ha.

At my Bank, I was waiting for what seemed like ages (by the clock, probably not much over five minutes, but when standing is agony, your sense of time gets skewed) while a woman about my age grumpily dealt with the two or three customers ahead of me in the queue for reception, including going and having a rather unprofessional argument with one of the tellers behind the cashier windows. Eventually it was my turn, and she glanced up at me and opened proceedings with an abrupt "Yes?"

ME: Um, hi, yes, I've just moved house and I need to update my address details.
HER: Have you got ID?
ME: Yes, (opens foolscap folder) I wasn't sure what you'd need so I've brought all the ID I've got.
HER: Driver's licence or passport.
ME: I don't have either of those. (leafing through folder) I've got a full birth certificate, and my marriage and divorce certificates, several recent utility bills in my name, a bank statement, National Insurance card, P60...
HER: We only take driver's licence or passport.
ME: I can't drive and I haven't travelled abroad in years. To the best of my knowledge, neither of these things preclude me from having a bank account, or an address.

At this point she made a noise I'm more accustomed to hearing from Sister Dearest when she's in a moodypants. However, she finally deigned to poke my assorted paperwork and put my details into her computer.

Don't get me wrong, I'm hardly sweetness and light 24/7, but then, I don't work in customer service.

Onwards to the Jobcentre, where no less than three advisors were standing about by reception - fair enough as there was no queue. I started with "I've just moved to the area and I want to double-check my incapacity benefit has moved with me," but before I'd finished, one of the advisors had moved to a phone kiosk on the wall, picked up the phone, and was impatiently holding it out to me. Confused, I took it. It was the all too familiar sound of the standard Jobcentre helpline, inviting me to press 1 for income support, or 2 for Jobseekers Allowance... I pressed 3 for Incapacity Benefit and a couple of minutes later, a friendly voice at the end of the phone was making sure that the "push", as they term it, was happening. I checked and re-checked that this meant there is nothing else I need to do and the friendly voice confirmed that yes, everything is fine, there is nothing else I need to do. Grand. I thanked her and hung up.

Back to the Three Stooges Advisors, interrupting their chat to ask about local provision for helping disabled people to access work, training, services, etc. The person who wordlessly shoved the phone at me before, stomped to the wall of leaflets and wordlessly shoved the generic national leaflet for Access To Work at me. By now I was quite cheesed off, so I flipped open the leaflet and said "you see here where it suggests that I contact my nearest Jobcentre? That is what I am doing. I have come here, to my nearest Jobcentre, to ask about what specific help there is available in this specific town, yes? I've already read this leaflet, it's in every other Jobcentre in the country and online too."

I immediately felt bad about being so snappy, but Wordless Guy didn't seem to give a monkeys and one of his colleagues had decided to join us. As Wordless Guy wandered off, Colleague asked if I'd like to speak to the Incapacity Benefit advisor, C, who might know more about the sort of services I was after. He ushered me to a seat and said he'd find out if C was available now or if I needed an appointment. A moment later he was back to tell me that C would be with me shortly, but that's another blogpost.

Home

This is a long post. Waffle about home, waffle about nice people, and a waffle about knitting. Feel free to skip to whatever bit you want.

Home

I'm definitely much more settled in now than I was last time I posted. Steve and a friend went to Lowestoft to pile the rest of my stuff into a van, so now it's all here. Mum and Sister Dearest have done the finishing up at the flat - disposing of the last bits of rubbish, giving the empty flat a final once-over with the vacuum cleaner, that sort of thing - so now all that remains to be done, is for Mum to call the leccy people with the final meter reading, and then hand the keys back to the landlord's agents.

A three-bedroom house containing my boyfriend is obviously going to be a very different home to a small one-bedroom flat that was just mine. Nevertheless, a home it is. It's amazing how much difference small things can make. For instance, the bedroom here, now contains the small bin and a few framed photographs that were in my bedroom back there. My poor abused houseplant is in the lounge. My trusty kettle is in the kitchen. And because of this, it doesn't seem to matter so much that 90% of my books are still inaccessible due to being boxed up, because there's a significant amount of familiar things that are definitely mine, but have their place here. It's very reassuring. Yes, I realise this makes me horribly materialistic. I don't care.

Nice People

More proof has been asserted for my "People Are Basically Nice" theory. This time, it was in the form of our next-door neighbours and an end to the Saga Of The Sink which I think several real-life people have heard about but I don't seem to have blogged.

Precis: There was a drip under Steve's kitchen sink (it started several months ago before I lived here, so definitely HIS sink). While it was creating half a small bucketful of water every fortnight or so, it was a bit of a non-issue. When I moved in here and discovered that it had deteriorated to a point where the brimful bucket needed emptying three times a day, I started being a pain in the arse at him to either fix it or call a plumber to fix it. I also dug out a Bigger Bucket. On Saturday morning, we found that the Bigger Bucket had filled to the top during the few hours while we slept, and Steve said I could call a plumber if I wanted.

Finding a plumber in Lowestoft would have been easy. Verily we could sayeth unto Pip, or other person involved in the building trade, "what plumbers do you know who could come and fix this for me?" and yea, he declareth "Bob's a decent plumber and a nice bloke, good mate, he won't overcharge you" and lo, for Bob the Plumber doth cease the flow of water and only charge for parts, and all is good with the world.

Here, however, I have yet to develop a personal and prioritised hotline to the world of tradesmen. Nor do I have the other common plan of having used a particular firm's services once, and on the basis that they didn't steal or break anything, hanging onto the number to call them next time there's an issue. So, I decided the sensible thing to do would be to pop next door to have a word with the lovely couple who have lived there many many years, and see if they had either of these resources.

All I asked for was a phone number of a plumber they could recommend. Of course, they asked what the matter was. In an effort to reassure them that they wouldn't be affected, I told them. "But why do you need a plumber for that?" they asked. "Because we don't know how to fix it ourselves," I answered. Next thing I knew, our friendly neighbour was coming round to have a look at it. He told Steve where to find the thingy to turn the water off, and undid the bit that was broken, and sent Steve off in the car to get a new one. Steve returned with the new bit, our friendly neighbour fitted it, and ever since, no drip.

I have no idea how we can thank the man. All I'm sure of is that giving him money would mortally offend him.

(At this point I also need to say that, on his plumbing expedition, Steve got new taps, the lever type ones, which are SO much easier for me (well, for anyone really) to use. Well done Steve.)

Knitting

I finished the jumper for Littlun, just on time for Steve to take it with him to Lowestoft when he went to pick up my stuff. I finished it perfectly, but then, I panicked. I had somehow convinced myself that there was no way the bound-off edge of the collar would be big enough to go over Littlun's head. Steve tried to persuade me it would be fine, but he didn't want to be too insistent because he was more concerned about making me calm down.

So rather than taking photos of the perfect finished item, I frantically unpicked the collar seam and knitted up a triangle shape to shove in, effectively increasing the neck by one inch. It didn't exactly look right but, he's three, he's not going to be wearing it perfectly straight at the best of times, and no other knitters are likely to inspect it. I didn't have time to re-do the bodge, but at least now I knew he would be able to at least put the jumper ON.

Steve took lots of pictures for me, but here is just one of the Littlun in his new jumper.

Since then, I have been working on my adapted version of these mitts for my stepdad. Today I finished Left Mitt v1.0 which I am sending to my parents for approval. If they tell me it fits, I can get on with knitting an identical Right Mitt. If it doesn't fit, I shall make a start on v2.0, with whatever adjustments they tell me are required.

Of course the big problem with this is the postal system or more to the point, the postal strikes. If I post v1.0 tomorrow (Monday), it may well not reach them until the following week or longer. I would also guess there's a higher chance than usual of it going missing altogether.

This means I have no current projects on the needles. Which feels weird. And I don't want to start the right mitt with the v1.0 pattern only to find it won't fit. And I don't have a clue what to knit next. Ideas?

Settling In

So, I've been here at Steve's house for about a week now. Technically it is also my home too now, but I'm still having trouble getting my head around that. My clothes are all hung and folded in my designated wardrobe, my makeup and toiletries are on the dressing table, a couple of my family photos are stuck to the fridge, my shoes are lined up by the door, I've even had one or two bits of post arrive addressed to me here. But it still feels very much like Steve's House. If all of my stuff was removed from it, the difference would not be noticeable.

Next week, Steve and his friend should be going in a van to get the rest of my stuff from the flat, like my bed, my sofa, my boxes of books and so on. I'm hoping that having my things here might make Steve's House feel more like My Home too, but at the moment there's nowhere to put any of it. Hopefully by next week we'll have cleared enough space at one end of the lounge so that we can stack up my stuff indoors where at least it won't get rained on... but to me there doesn't seem much difference between having my bits and pieces packed up in a load of boxes at one end of one room in the same house I sleep in, and having my bits and pieces packed up in a load of boxes a couple of hundred miles away. I want books on shelves and ornaments on windowsills, you know?

Sorry this post sounds so negative. I am happy, I am glad I've moved, and I am sure everything will get sorted out. I'm just also intensely tired and sore, which in turn is making me irritable. I'm at that point that most readers will probably identify with from their own long or short-term spells of illness: the bit where there's SO much that needs to be done, but you have to push and push and push yourself just to cover the minimum activities, and pushing yourself becomes an exhausting activity in itself. But there's so much that's important so you keep pushing just as long as you can stand on two legs and when you fall, you rest on the floor, as you are, trying to figure out what things you can usefully do while crawling... On top of which, the "minimum" here and now is very different to the minimum, say, a month ago at the flat. There are a number of things that have to be sorted out ASAP, some mountainous things which need to be chipped away at steadily if any sort of dent is to be made, and other things which aren't that urgent or daunting but are accumulating at an alarming rate.

Happily, one of the things which I have classified as "important" is an attempt at a social life. I went to see my friend Carie on Sunday, and I went to the knitting group at Web of Wool on Tuesday. I had a great time on both these occasions. I have finally finished giving myself blue fingers with Littlun's Jumper (just waiting for that to dry so that I can finish sewing it together) and I've made a start on my next project, which is this lovely pair of mitts, slightly modified for my stepdad. Everyone was very helpful as usual - especially Carie, for suggesting and discussing how to modify the particular pattern, and the ever-patient Anna (who owns Web of Wool) who rescued me when I had a brain-blank and gazed at my cast-on stitches for the mitt for several minutes before saying in a small voice "I've forgotten how to knit in the round." Not a laugh, not a snigger, just a gentle reminder and then my brain clicked in again and everything was fine.

Okay. Not a dazzling social calendar there. But it's still Getting Out and Seeing People and Doing Things, and in my own right rather than as Steve's hanger-on.

Also on the plus side, I am enjoying Cuddles On Tap, as well as copious provision of tea and chocolate. It's also really nice having all of my clothes in one place, rather than opening the wardrobe and realising that the top I want to wear is in a different county.

I'm sure things will get a lot more normal soon enough.

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