From Blogger With Love...

Dear All,

I have defected to Wordpress. This means that my next blog on Femme Fontanelle will be at:

femmefontanelle.wordpress.com

Thank you so much for reading me...(including my lurkers in the UK!) see you on Wordpress!
(same blog, different address!)

Oh, and don't forget to change it in your bookmarks/on your links page!

Love Femme (Vinny) x

Why I am Blogging at 4.15 in the afternoon

2.15pm I am attending L Junior's "Mother's Day" performance and Afternoon Tea. Which is exceptionally Twee and equally Wonderful. L Junior's (brilliant) teacher has put a lot of work into it all and the classroom looks particularly inviting. L Junior, however, obviously think it is Utter Shite and refuses to sing the songs; he favours instead to roll his eyes and yank his lower lids so far down his face that Other Mothers seem worried that one of his eyeballs may pop out and land on one of their well behaved and nicely mannered singing offspring.
2.30pm Hanging from a peg with other sheets of paper criss crossing the classroom, there is an A2 piece of artwork with L Junior's name on it. I am reading L Junior's words "About Mummy" next to an alien drawing of someone with alarming amounts of hair (me). He says "Mummy has a Big Head"*. Um, thanks Pumpkin.
3.00pm I am trying to Wrangle L Junior and Baby J into the car (also known as The Fun Bus**) in order to collect the Older Boys. They are having none of it. I am working up quite a heat, trying to get straps and belts on, and a sweat moustache is forming on my top lip. Nice.
3.10pm Having finally found a parking space outside The Big School and found myself to be not late, I have settled in to Child Spotting as is my chore each day at this time, as swarms of Children wearing the same clothes as my own children make their way across the tarmac to the school gate. The trick is to catch them and get them into The Fun Bus with doors closed and engine running, before they spot any of their friends that they have not seen since, uh, lunchtime, that they need to have a half an hour "catch up" with.
3.28pm I am still waiting.
3.30pm C is (finally) in the car and is lamenting my Bitch like qualities for not allowing him to walk home on his own, totally unsupervised. Yup, I really am a terrible mother, him being a grand old eight years old and all. L is swinging upside down from some Monkey Bars, some way off.
3.40pm We arrive home and I announce that we are going to clean out The Fun Bus as there is a strange smell in there. This idea is met with resistance. A LOT of resistance. My Children apparently "hate me". Brilliant. This is now a matter of principle and we ARE going to clean out the Fun Bus. I clear the School Bags; lunchboxes; Gas Bills (hey, I didn't actually say it was all THEIR mess); random legs of toys long forgotten etc and dump them unceremoniously on the driveway. I retrieve the vacuum cleaner from it's hideout and drag it out to the Fun Bus. Slightly out of puff, from the exertion of it all,I announce "Mummy has done the hard bit, I'd like you to vacuum please." I return to the house.
3.50pm The Vacuum (still silent) flies past the front door. There is a scream; followed by some shouting. Then comes the sound of a siren, which turns out to be my six year old, crying. I wait.
3.55pm I have calmed L (six year old); retrieved vacuum; asked the rest of the boys to please be nice to one another or stay AWAY from one another.
4.00pm Are they nice to each other? Are they bollocks. There is more shouting.
4.05pm I find Bread, Jam, Milkshake, butter and other treats laid out on the outside table. The Boys are having a "party". They have been no where near the FB.
4.07pm I decide to watch the boys vacuum...surely they won't be able to worm their way out of Cleaning the Fun Bus now. Baby J is playing with the vacuum. "But Mum, he is happy playing with the hoover, I don't want to upset him" (L).
C is busy playing limbo with a "scooby" tied around the wooden pillars at the front of the house.
4.10pm I finish explaining that the vacuuming would have been finished by now if they had just done it when I had asked.
4.13pm The boys resign themselves to cleaning the FB. Finally. I walk around the house to retrieve Baby J from a flowerbed. He is most pissed off that I have chosen to do this. Soil tastes good.
4.14pm There are shouts and shrieks from the driveway. They are not happy shouts and shrieks. Oddly (or not), there is no whirr of Vacuum Cleaner motor. There are however, bangs and crashes and crying.
4.15pm Fuck this. Mummy needs to swear.

I am going to blog one great big swear, because I AM FUCKING SICK AND TIRED OF PLAYING REFEREE AND HAVING TO SUPERVISE YOUR EVERY MOVE, BOYS, AND IN LIEU OF BEING ABLE TO SHOUT THIS AT YOU AS THAT WOULD BE WRONG AND SOMEWHAT ABUSIVE, I SHALL VALIDATE MY SWEARING by writing it here.

So FUCK OFF WITH YOUR PETTY LITTLE SQUABBLES. CLEAN THE FUCKING CAR BEFORE I FUCKING LOSE IT. STOP ACTING LIKE LITTLE SHITS. BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT LITTLE SHITS AND I AM REALLY NOT UP FOR THIS RIGHT NOW. GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK. Please.

I shall now go to supervise the cleaning of The Fun Bus by my darling, rambunctious little boys. Thanks for the therapy.

*He also says some lovely things...such as "My Mummy is 7 years old and she plays Soccer with me" (I think it was about me anyway).

** Because we like calling it that...don't take the piss.

BadEx

Yup, NiceEx is well, really nice...but to blog recently about him, I had to mention The Husband That I Didn't Really Know.

Just for my own therapy, and your bemusement here is what I wrote a long while ago when asked for an explanation of the situation and an answer as to why I have no contact with him. (The court had previously found this ridiculous).

In advance I would like to apologise for the grammar that follows as this is just what was drafted to send to the Solicitor...I think it pretty much says it all:


When I married BadEx, I had known him for nearly four months; it was the day after my nineteenth birthday.

BadEx is 10 years my senior and was/is a heavy drug user. Back then he used Cannabis, Amphetamine Sulphate, Cocaine, Ecstasy and on occasion, Heroin.

Once married, I found out that I was pregnant with my son C and this angered BadEx . He initially told people about the pregnancy as though he were pleased, but was very different behind closed doors, he was cold, angry and verbally abusive.

BadEx wanted to travel Europe in a camper van and had bought a VW in which to do so. We moved into the van, but after a few months of sleeping in the cold on family’s driveways and in public car parks, with no plans to see Europe,I wanted a proper home. I didn’t want my child brought into a world where his parents had no stability.

I arranged viewings of flats and houses which BadEx begrudgingly attended. When I found one that was suitable, my parents paid the deposit and we moved into a maisonette in Kent, near to BadEx’s sister and husband. We had no furniture as I had sold all of mine to "travel"so my parents gave us/bought us essentials.

BadEx claimed benefit. He worked for cash for a local Nightclub Owner and would terrify me with stories of Guns and the like. I could not work due to a pregnancy related condition called Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction (it meant that toward the end of the pregnancy I could not actually walk).

BadEx did not allow me control of any of the money that came into the house. He spent what little money we had on drugs which he used in the house, ignoring me when I begged him not to. My only emotional support at that time was from my Sister in Law (who gave me food every day so that I would have at least eaten something) and my own family who lived over an hour away and had no way of knowing how bad the situation had become.

BadEx was verbally abusive. He hated my bump and often told me to “cover it up, it’s disgusting”. Several times a day he would call me fat and unattractive. He stayed up all night and slept all day and was irritated if he had to drive me to a hospital appointment or similar (I could not drive due to my medical condition). There was one incident where I was in the bath with the door locked. BadEx burst through the door anyway and then berated me for looking so disgusting, sat in the bath "so Huge and Naked like a beached fucking whale." - "well, it's not very fucking nice for me to have to look at it is it?" he said. I refused to cry infront of him as he used to laugh when I did, so I held it together long enough to hear his footsteps down the stairs, through the door and into the street below. Then I cried.

After six months, when BadEx was out of the house, I packed a bag and called my father in tears to ask him to pick me up. I was shaking. I was terrified. He took me back to our family home in Essex. My Brother in Law called me whilst I was there and told me that I had to come back – I was married and I was weak to give up so easily. I was emotionally drained and agreed to return if BadEx changed.

He didn’t.

Labour Day
My labour started late one evening, and I spent the night dealing with the pain whilst BadEx slept. The next morning I called my sister in law who stayed with me whilst I called my midwife. When they had both left, the pain got so bad that I couldn’t move. Only then did I dare to wake BadEx to drive me to the hospital (I had tried to wake him before but had made him angry). BadEx was less than pleased that he’d been woken and insisted on smoking a Joint before driving me to the nearby hospital.

Once at the hospital, BadEx was outwardly agreeable. It was a difficult labour and I hemorrhaged badly and nearly died. BadEx was shocked and tearful, but still nothing changed.

When I left hospital with the baby, I made a rule that no one was to smoke in the house. BadEx ignored me.

I got a post partem infection a few days after the birth and was bed ridden. My mother came to stay as BadEx wouldn’t look after me and ignored the baby’s cries. She supported me through the symptoms of my illness, such as rigors and helped me to continue breast feeding my son as well as cooking and cleaning for me, and eventually taking me to Mum and Dad's home to look after me properly. I told her that I wanted to move closer to "home" in Essex. She drove the baby and I to viewings (I was still ill) and I found a small one bedroom flat in Southend. A friend drove our belongings from Kent to Southend, and I arranged a deposit. BadEx followed and I spent New Year’s eve in his company. I knew I had to get away from him as he was still using LSD and Amphetamines.

I asked BadEx to leave. He did. A few days later I went to find him to finalise the financial situation. He was smoking cannabis at a friend’s house and was in bed with another woman.

I felt nothing.

He refused to believe that I really wanted to end our relationship and came to my flat screaming and shouting at me. He said that I “wasn’t the girl he’d married”, that I had “turned into my mother” and that “if he couldn’t have me then no one would” and he would “kill me and our baby son”. He then swung to punch me. I was holding Baby C (6-7 weeks old) at the time. I ducked out of the way and he punched the door, breaking the bones in his hand.

BadEx wrote a note apologising for the way that he had behaved whilst I was pregnant and for trying to punch me.

When C was four months old he contracted Meningitis. I called BadEx immediately. C was admitted to the local hospital. BadEx went back to my flat to wait for my call should there be any change in C’s condition. A few hours later, C was transferred to Great Ormand Street Hospital in London. I called and called the flat but no answer. In the end I called a friend who went round and banged on the door until BadEx answered. He had been passed out drunk on the bed when the friend found him.

Over the time that C was in intensive care, BadEx harangued, shouted, bullied and emotionally blackmailed me. He asked me to go back to him over and over. He blamed C’s condition on my “kicking him (BadEx) out”. When he realised that I was not going to change my mind, he became angry and violent. There was this horrible scene where he half-threw/pushed a table at me and accused me of having an affair. He was not stable enough to realise how ridiculous the accusation was. I was more interested in returning to the bedside of my Baby who lay fighting for his life.

As C and I returned to the local Hospital, BadEx was elsewhere within the hospital shouting at staff and causing a scene. He admitted to having drug and alcohol addictions to the Doctors there, but refused the help offered. A representative of the hospital came to me to ask if I would be willing to participate in counselling with my husband. I said no.

After
I lived alone and built my self confidence with the help of friends and family. One of my best friends, (NiceEx) and I started a relationship. He had been there for me during my pregnancy, after the birth and whilst C was very little.

BadEx would arrange times to see C and then not turn up. Some days he would turn up and spend his time in my garden smoking cannabis instead of spending time with the baby. He repeatedly tried to get me to change my mind and get back together with him. I refused.

I tried very hard to get him to take an interest in his son. He had none. When NiceEx, C and I moved away, I called BadEx regularly to ask him to come to see C. We offered him the spare room to stay in and to pay for his Train Fare, but he did not come. After a year I gave up asking.

BadEx has had each of our addresses and usually a mobile telephone number to contact C ever since and has shown little interest. The only time that I have spoken to BadEx about anything was a couple of years ago when I managed to trace a phone number for him and asked him for an address so that we could proceed with the divorce (the papers for which he had been ignoring when sent to his previous addresses). He said “only if I can see C”. I said no, but said that he could speak to C on the phone and that they could start a relationship from there.

BadEx spoke to him once.

BadEx hates authority and has many conspiracy theories about the government and the police.

He chooses to live “outside of society”.

He refuses to be named on his own Tenancy agreements (they are in his Girlfriends’ names), Council Tax bills, Register of Electors and collects his Girocheques in person when he “signs on” so that he does not have to provide an address.

I have written to the last address that I had for BadEx and the letter came back unknown addressee.

I have written to BadEx’s Sister at the last address I had for her.

I have contacted the Childs Support Agency for a current address for BadEx (he’s never paid them or I a penny anyway).

I have contacted Social Security Department for an address for BadEx

I checked the electoral role for Southend and Westcliff on Sea for his name

I have posted an advertisement in a local paper to locate BadEx.

UPDATE: I finally traced BadEx by purely private means. It cost me greatly both financially and emotionally, but was necessary for us to Emigrate. C was allowed to leave the country, but only after I “asked nicely”.

Somebody's Muse

Lewis Morely photographed this amazing shot of Christine Keeler. She was not a model and she did not want to be naked. This photograph was a "compromise" between the Contract Wielders and The Subject.

In testament to this photograph, I can still stare at it for ages without losing interest. I have seen it a thousand times and still it holds me. The lighting and the subtle emotion on Keeler's face just facinate me. I do not see compromise when I see this...I see that it was composed meticulously by a man who really knew what he was doing with a camera and knew how to work his Subject. He commanded both her and the room whilst he went about creating Art, banishing everyone from the Studio and bringing her to life through a lens.

I have always wanted to Parody this shot with myself as the focus.

I know, I know, it's so incredibly self-indulgent; but, duh, this is my Blog...of course it's self indulgent. And David blinking Frost and Dame Edna bloody Everage got to do it!

Anyway, I have said it now, so there.

I was captivated for a long time by a picture I had on my wall of Sandra Bernhard painted in Gold and laid bare. It was erotic, yes...but more than that, it was unusual and incredibly beautiful (although most people may hesitate to use those words about Ms Bernhard). Someone had put a huge amount of thought into how precisely they would photograph her. She was at a strange angle and it was the contours of her stomach that drew the viewers' eye.*

And guess what? I want[ed] to recreate that one with myself as the focus also.

These photographs make me want so much to be somebody's muse.

My "obsession" with this started with Salvador Dali. I have been a Salvador Dali Bore for much of my life. I click my tongue LOUDLY at anyone who dares to voice that Surrealism has been "over-done". Dali's less acclaimed art work is of his Wife Gala, and is equally as enchanting as his more famous work (which also features her in various guise).

If only Himself could paint. Hmmmn.

Gia. One of Angelina Jolie's lesser revered films, granted. But a friend lent me the Video (yep, it's pretty old too) a long while ago and just said: "Oh my God, watch this, it's just SO you". This could have been taken in two ways. I chose to overlook the drug taking pain in the arse that Gia turns into and concentrated on the fact that she looks a bit like me and had a mighty fine kick arse attitude to start off with). I was drawn to The Photoshoot. Anyone who has seen this film knows what I mean by The Photoshoot. It's the one where, at the end of the shoot, Jolie's character strips naked (with another model whom she ends up having a lesbian relationship with - but again, overlook this for the moment folks...) and is photographed against a (handily well lit) wire fence. Classic.

How come I never get to do the fun stuff like that?!

Don't get me wrong, I've been approached to do Porn...."no thank you, but thanks so much for asking, now please fuck off". This is not what I am after.

...and I have been photographed in a portrait kind of a way many, many times...but it's just not quite ticking the boxes.

I am after one of those photoshoots where I am directed precisely by a Master Craftsman who thinks I am incredibly interesting/striking/annoying (any which way) to get an amazing (naked or otherwise) photograph that is so beautiful, even I will look at it and love it. The type of picture that my family could look at without cringing, but that Himself would look at and say [in soft Welsh accent]"Fuck me, my other half is bloody gorgeous".

Ah well, yet another thing to add to the list of "do before I die" I suppose.

MENTAL NOTE TO SELF: Must try to hang out near more wire fences and sit back to front on chairs more often in order to inspire prospective passing artists.



* I am now doubting that this photo ever existed but for in my very strange mind, as I can find no trace of it nor reference to it anywhere in the internet, so if I made it up, then I must tell you: it was very cool.

Film Industry Widow part II

I talk so much about my Dad these days that I am paranoid that most people are quietly paging Dr Freud on the side. So it's time to fill in anyone who happens to be reading this on the driving force behind Daddy: My Mum.

First off, a few pointers:

• This is the lady who took me to a Nursery and stayed for the duration [to validate said Nursery's insurance] aged two (far too early in those days) because I was bored and under-stimulated at home
• This is the lady who withdrew me from an elitist Private School aged 7 after the headmistress saw fit to slap me around the back of the legs (and maintains to this day that it wasn't my fault that I left)
• This is the lady who demanded that I apologise to my primary school teacher for calling him by a name that disrespected his position (The name I called:Mr Crispy - his name was Mr Crisp)
• This is the lady that collected me from a police station (me aged 12) and grounded me for a month instead of beating the living shit out of me for letting her down, when I was hanging out with "The Wrong Crowd".
  
• This is the woman who was intelligent enough to drop me at the door of the pub that I chose to illegally drink in aged 14//15 and insist that she picked me up at the same door at 11pm, so that she knew that I was safe as I could be - she at least knew where I was - how many parents of Teenage girls can say that?
  
• This is the woman who allowed me to have a boyfriend, accepted him into our home and our family, but refused to waive rules about hallway creeping. A great lesson in respect and boundaries for a 15 year old.
  
• This is the lady who saved my life (aged17/18) by collecting me at 3am in the middle of a city, having moved out of home, several years before, finding me to be barefoot and barely dressed, and asking no questions that would make me flee her presence, and appearing calm took me home to comfort of the bed I have always known in my parents' house
• A year later, this lady attended my [hideous and obviously ill advised] Wedding to a man I didn't know; knowing that unless she allowed me to make this horrible mistake with her support, I would have made it with no support in the world.
• This is the lady that told me that if I did not get on the plane to my future life in Australia, then she would drag me airside herself, even though it killed her to wave myself, Himself and her only Grandchildren off.
• This is the woman who doesn't expect thanks, does not claim or think that she did everything well, does not claim to be close to perfect, but in actual fact was more of a Mother than anyone could ever hope or dream of being or having.
• This is the woman who shaped me
• This is the woman who made me feel like Daddy wasn't gone too long...even when he was.
• This is the woman who put her personal needs second whilst Babysis and I flourished

There is so much more to say...so much more to marvel at. But she is modest and would hate me to publish it all in a public forum.
As a mother, I really do marvel at her presence of mind when dealing with the Devil Child that was me.

The love I recieve from Mama is the love that I have learned. This love I pass on to my own children. The love that I am proud and honoured to know.

A strong and able woman raised me. She was selfless and proud. A modern woman with old fashioned values. A strong woman who did not back down to a teenager's angst, did not pander to a child's baby blues (browns actually), but loved unconditionally and completely. I always knew that I was never alone, even in my darkest hours.

Mama, You are a legend....and a lady.

PNC and PMT

I'm Cold. Treasurer Lady is loudly telling whoever will listen that she is acting as Secretary tonight too. In a bout of inflated self importance, she seems to think someone other than her gives a shit. We don't.

So begins a night sitting on ickle wickle chairs in a demountable somewhere in W.A. Except the Pre Primary Teacher didn't turn up to unlock the doors so we are forced to decamp to the pub for the monthly PNC meeting.

Warm. Very Warm. It turns out I am sitting under a heat lamp, carefully positioned to scorch my back and/or left arm depending on how I twist to avoid it's painful rays.

Beer tastes good and is dulling the throbbing in my left ear as Treasurer Lady - Secretary for the night is droning on, contorting her face as though every word hurts her to speak; enunciating every syllable as if the rest of us were slightly slow. I notice that everyone here is decidedly, well, beige; except myself (naturally) and CF (Convener/Friend - articulate and interesting new friend I have recently had lunch and much laughs with).

Man on my right is formally requested to introduce himself. Poor man. He is uncomfortable. We all stare at him regardless of his uncomfortableness as he states his name and position as the PNC convener for the "Big School" for which our Kindy PNC is attached to. He is here because we haven't been reporting our spending accurately enough to him. Shame on us.

Treasurer Lady is speaking again. It hurts my head. Maybe I could leave. No one would notice. Oops, back to the conversation ...our Convener (CF) is speaking; she has managed to get a word in edgeways. She is asking if any of us have any ideas. She is smiling conspiratorially at me as she knows I am sick of having ideas and no one listening to them. I nearly snort out loud with laughter. I suggest the same thing that I have suggested before. I want to have a fair or a fete. It will be fun. YES IT WILL. People don't want to make cakes. Coconut Shys are dangerous and Cakes must have their ingredients clearly labelled on each one in order to pass Health and Safety. This is bollox. I want to go home. Maybe I could leave. no one would notice.

Dedicated Dad is talking. He turned up to a meeting in lieu of his wife one month and proved to be most useful in moving a log. Now he comes to make sure we don't need any more logs moving. This is kind of him, I think. He is talking to Junior School PNC man. "There might be a fight" I think to myself, best stay, just in case. Two men at a PNC meeting...all that testosterone, there might be something to watch here.

They decline to fight.

I could slip away home now. No one would notice.

People are moving. Hurrah, it seems they are leaving.

Now I feel like a beer and CF is hanging back too...maybe we could have a beer and NOT talk about Shade Cloths and Pump Disposal Soap....

Yep. Yep, it is looking promising...the last of the PNC are out of the door. I suggest another beer to CF. We agree, one beer won't hurt.

Hurrah!! Guinness and CF.

No "beige" People.

This is what PNC meetings are all about. I'll come next month now methinks...

two posts in one night and this one is introducing : Nice Ex

So my Ex's picture is on the front page of Emirates Today (UAE publication) with the massive headline:
RAISING THE BIG QUESTIONS BUT OFFERING FEW ANSWERS

Clearly under different circumstances, this would be positively begging to be used as a cheap dig at my ex partner, but, unfortunately, no can do...you see, this is NiceEx. He is my friend. No really - he is.

Some background: NiceEx and I have been friends for an absolute yonk. When he fell out with his Dad in a teenage tantrum type episode when he was aged 15, it was me that he turned to, and me and my flatmates that he stayed with whilst he and his Dad cooled off. He became a permanent fixture at our place and dated (and subsequently lived with) some young girl that used to "hang out" out with us years and years ago.

We saw less of each other when I married a man I barely knew and moved half an hour away from my "old friends", but we were still close and he (NiceEx) was always very supportive, even when he thought my decisions (like marrying a man I didn't know) were crap.

When I realised the sham that was my marriage, and mustered the strength to say "enough is enough", I was alone in the world but for a tiny six week old baby and the last shreds of self respect which I had clung to.

Nice Ex was my friend, became father to my little baby C and biological father to L. (Though he always has and always will treat them equally).

Bringing things up to the present day and after many years of Legal Separation we are friends again. This is smashing. Himself and NiceEx also rub along well together which is really smashing and nothing less than exceptionally convenient.

NiceEx lives in Dubai as has been mentioned before.

He has just collapsed at work.

I would have been worried, but for NiceEx having a really very nice Girlfriend (Nice Ex's Girl) who called me and explained what had happened to him.

NiceEx's Girl was in the UK at the time of the collapse and felt all of the anguish and panic, whilst I cruised along in my very own timezone, without a care in the world. By the time Nice Ex's Girl got hold of me, she had spent a night awake with worry and anticipation for her flight over to the UAE to mop NiceEx's brow; had sent out emails to me in order that I might know the situations as they changed; had spent numerous hours on the phone to NiceEx so that he may feel comfort from her voice; had endured the knowledge that NiceEx had decided to go into work and battle through the pain in typical NiceEx fashion; had cancelled her ticket to Dubai and only been refunded the Tax; had spent further numerous hours on the phone trying to get through to Dubai to ascertain what was going on; had learned that Nice Ex had been sped off to theatre and would NOT be attending work; had informed me of "the latest" and then had FINALLY spoken to a very groggy NiceEx who had come round from the operation. All is well.

Get well soon NiceEx, the boys are thinking of you. I am thinking of NiceEx's Girl (and you a bit I suppose!!). Sleep well tonight NiceEx's Girl, you deserve it!

Dear Diary....

Today has been the first day in a while that I have had chance to type anything at all.

On Monday, Baby J burned his hand on the grill whilst I was merrily toasting Raisin Bread as a mid-morning snack for us. It was horrible. It happened in an instant. I was standing right next to him when it happened, just about to scoop him up and shoo him out of the (Open Plan With No Place For Safety Gates) Kitchen. Suddenly he screamed. There was a smell of burning and second later I am calling a cab (quickest mode of transport in the city) to Subiaco for treatment at the local children's Emergency Room.

I had the forethought to pick up Panadol and a box of crackers before the trek down our Riduculously Long Driveway. I also picked up an Ice Pole for him to hold (it's far more appealing to a one year old than a bag of frozen peas) as he fought me for the duration of the "calling the cab phonecall", tooth and nail to yank his arm away from the cold water I insisted on holding his littel fingers under.
Needless to say, there was a wait at the ER, but really, it was totally bearable and frankly, the calmest couple of hours of the day and it gave L Junior chance to munch his way through some of the crackers I had brought. The Panadol kicked in and then all I had to worry about was Other People's Children crying and screaming. Oh, and:

• the fact that whilst we have private medical insurance, we haven't gotten around to aranging Medicare so the cleric was looking at me like an idiot*;

• the fact that I had been neglectful enough to stand next to my one year old son IN THE KITCHEN** and allow for him to be injured;

• the fact that I had no idea how long this hospital trip was likely to take and the Older Boys required collecting from school so as not to add to the case for Social Services***

• and also the fact that the whole incident meant that I was starting to breath shallowly and felt dizzy, with the shock of it all.

Baby J, however is oblivious to all of this and is merrily playing with his big brother in the play area of the waiting room. Nerves of Steel that one.

The day was zipped up nicely by the treatment being some white cream and a bandage until tomorrow when the blisters would be de-roofed (which sounds positively horrible). Queue mad rush for a taxi to deposit me somewhere near OBs' school to collect them a half an hour late (dont' worry, mum, if you are reading this, I called to appologise in advance and they kept them "in the office" with some colouring pencils).

Himself arrives at the School ten minutes after I do to a frosty reception from me; I mean, how dare he take the car****on a day when I was likely to do something so ridiculously stupid. Baby J waves his new white boxing glove around in delight as he sees The Parent Who Would NEVER Let Him Burn Himself On The Grill. Himself is all smiles and placating hugs for me. I am spiky, cold Ms Guilty Knickers as I have finally absorbed the horrors of the day.

Fast Forward to the next morning and I have deposited the three OBs at School and Kindy. It's 8.50am and Baby J and I are driving around and around the one way system that circumnavigates the Hospital of yesterday to attend his 9am Deroofing appointment. The are no buggering parking Spots within miles. I call the Burns department and speak to a Doctor who is lovely and thanks me for bothering to call to say I will be late. Half an Hour later and I am forced to call her again. Still no Parking. She is untroubled, I am mortified. Two and a half hours later, we find an unlikley spot on the most Major of all of the roads that we had been driving along. I call the department. She would be happy to still see Baby J. I am astounded, this is nothing like England where my appointment would have been auctioned to willing bidders at the slightest sniff of me being late.

We are in and out within ten minutes. Job Done.

We find a Coffee Shop on said Major Road and as we duck under the sheltered outdoor seating area, we are just in time to witness the most torrential rain I have ever seen in Australia to date. It was wonderful. After the crap couple of days we had experienced, it was so lovely to sit and watch the big fat droplets of rain drench the pavements, people and cars. Baby J whooped and giggled and I joined in, ignoring the snoots in the (quite posh as it turned out) Coffee Shop. We spent the next hour or so, letting the day run away from us, spilling couscous and coffee down my lap and watching everyone running for cover from the downpour, it was quite magical. Time well spent. The previous traumas were washed away. There was suddenly a familiar odour and at first I thought it was the newly wet pavements, the way that London smells when it is wet. No. It was Baby J. Time to leave for the dry comforts of home. So we did.



* which of course I am, but that's not her look-out
** seriously what was I thinking?
*** I am being trite, incase that need to be pointed out
**** we are waiting for his brand spanky new one to arrive