Cracks

Cracks have appeared. Both literal and metaphorical. 

The literal ones are running in alarming lines down the back of the house, especially around the windows. 

The metaphorical ones are in our relationship with our builder, whom we thought was lovely, but have discovered was keeping things from us.

Meanwhile, Husband has had a significant birthday and we have since escaped to North Yorkshire to our favourite little hotel for some much needed R & R. 

Here is one of the cracks...

Here is the birthday...

Here is the hotel...

More next week...

Love E x

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

Don't Let The Bastards Get You Down.

8.20 am. Wednesday. I've just given the boys a lift to school and now I'm back at the house. As I open the front door I nearly step on my face. My smashed wedding photograph is lying on the hall floor, little fragments of glass scattered far and wide. Quite how it landed that far from its position halfway up the stairs where it was innocently resting on the wall is a mystery. 

I pick it up and start to carry it into the living room. The door bell rings. Again. I let a builder in. Again. Another one. There are already a multitude of them milling around at the back of the house. 

"What's that?" says the builder.
"My smashed wedding picture," I say. 
"Who did that?" he says.
"I don't know," I say.

Then I go back into the living room, still holding the picture, and switch on the kettle. Out in the hall the doorbell goes again and again and again...

The phone rings. I answer it, still holding the picture. It is my neighbour. He is calling to tell me about the roofer he just used to solve the damp problem in his top back bedroom. 

We also have a damp problem in the top back bedroom. It is on going. We've had three roofers up there in that past few years and spent a lot of money on it - all to no avail.

"I'll send him over to you in a bit," he says. 
"Thanks, I say, "but I have a governors committee meeting at the primary school this morning, so I won't be in." 
"Okay," he says, "I'll get him to ring you instead." 
"That would be better," I say. 

So now I'm in a hurry. There is something I want to do before the meeting. I want to make a message. The school just had a nasty OFSTED inspection and I want to cheer them up, especially the head teacher because he is a lovely man and a great head. I'm very fond of him.

I put the smashed picture down on the sofa and go upstairs with a piece of A4 card, lots of old newspapers, a pair of scissors, and a Pritt stick. I must remember to print out the agenda and the minutes from the last meeting as well, I think, and it's already ten past nine...

The doorbell rings. It is my neighbour, and he has the roofer with him. "I thought I'd send him over to you now," he says.

"Right," I say, and I feel my back teeth clamp together.

As quick as I can, I show the roofer the wet patch in the top back bedroom. It's Middle One's room. Since the building work started the problem has got worse. There are cracks, and where once there was a constellation of tiny luminous stuck-on stars for him to look at able his head, now limp lining paper hangs down to reveal a festering black hole.

We discuss the cost and feasibility of having the chimney removed. It's a shame you didn't think of this before the extension, says the roofer, because now it will be very hard to access the roof. I keep looking at my watch. 

We go back downstairs. He wants my number, or my email, but I can't find a piece of paper or a pen and now it's getting late so he leaves without either, saying he'll pop a quote through the door over the weekend (he doesn't).

I go back to my office and finish making the message. I print the last minutes and the agenda. I dash down to the school. We have the meeting and afterwards we chat about the OFSTED. I give the head teacher my unsigned message in a blank manila envelope. 

I walk home. I open the door. I go into the living room. I glance over at my smashed wedding picture. Except it's not. It's not smashed any more. 

I do a double take. I know I'm tired, I know I'm stressed and anxious and exhausted because there are 9 builders in the house and it's week 12 of constant banging and drilling and no kitchen, but am I actually hallucinating now? 

Slowly it dawns on me that someone must have taken the smashed photograph and had it mended and then put it back in exactly the same position, while I was out. The builder. 

So that message I made, out of lots of cut-out letters from old newspapers and stuck on a piece of card, to give to the head teacher and staff at the school where I am a governor, and where they just had a horrible OFSTED inspection, it said: Don't Let The Bastards Get You Down. 

Seems appropriate somehow.

Love E x

(That's the photo at the top, now back on the wall.)


P.S. Thanks for reading! Stats are very high. Several thousand over a month and now more than a thousand just on blog day. Do comment if you want...

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

Double Edged Sword.

Smart phones are a double edged sword. That's my thought for the week. On the one hand they provide you with invaluable up-to-the-minute info, on the other they catapult breaking news straight into your hand, and nanoseconds later into your brain, that you sometimes really don't want to know, at least not that fast. Two cases in point...

Monday morning, before 9 am, I check my email before setting out to the edit...

I'm off to edit the two rap videos shot at my kids' primary school on Saturday and incidentally, a word to the wise, maybe don't try shooting two videos in one day with seven kids and a rapper in an old Victorian school when you only have the key for the main door and have to haul all the equipment up four flights of stairs and one of the children is an hour late so you have to re-jiggle your entire schedule and the client is coming to watch. 

It all went well in the end but we were really up against it. I only had one drink in seven hours and by the time I got home was so frazzled that I went straight to bed. But I digress...

So, the email is from the teacher whose classroom we used and she is not happy. She says she just had to spend ages putting it back as it was, which is mortifying because we really tried to leave it as we found it, we even took a photo at the beginning so we could match it. 

It was certainly clean and tidy but maybe not in precisely in the configuration it was meant to be. So, one grovelling email in return, and one also from the production company because I forward her email to them, and a mental note to take in flowers and chocolates later in the week, and I'm hopeful the situation will be ameliorated. But still, it preys on my mind the whole hour I'm driving to the edit: Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Not a good start to the day/week.

The second is about the kitchen build and arrives on Friday afternoon. Two emails that top and tail the week, you might say...

I'm walking home with a jaunt in my step thinking how lovely the Common looks, even if it is raining, after a nice lunch with a friend...

and I check my phone as I do because, well, I don't know why, because you do, don't you? If you have a smart phone you check it all the time, constantly, it becomes a nervous tick: texts - check, email - check, Facebook - check, Twitter - check, and if I'm at home often the blog too - check. It's mad. I'm sure I find it harder to concentrate when reading a book or the paper now because I'm always reverting to my phone.

So, the email is from the structural engineer who did the drawings for the extension and he has been sent a letter from building control to say that, after a recent site inspection, it has been noted that the beams (steels) are wrong. In fact, to quote exactly, they are "at serious variations with the deposited and conditionally approved details." As one of the kids in my rap video says, as per my genius script, "OMG."

So why didn't the guy from building control raise this with me or the builder at the time? We both met him. Weird.

Much hyper-ventilating and many phone calls later and it turns out it's not half as bad as it sounds. I learn that the beams have been welded rather than bolted as the plans specify and that this in itself is not necessarily a problem so long as our builder can provide a welder's certificate and proof that the work is good - and safe. Worst case is that bolts might have to be added (by the builder, at his cost) but that's fine, it can be done from below without disturbing the new roof. 

Phew. I had visions of the whole structure being ripped down and rebuilt there. It was only an hour of phoning and panicking, all told, but I could have done without it. 

So why did I check my phone right then in the park on the way home when I was all happy-go-lucky-it's-Friday? 

I guess we all need to know this stuff eventually but there's just no let-up is there? We're bombarded. This has happened! And then this has happened! Oy! This has happened! It's exhausting. 

I resolve NOT to constantly check my emails and texts all the time from now on. It can all WAIT. In fact, I'm going to hide my phone right now and go and read the paper from cover to cover, just like in the old days...

just after I've checked what's happening on Facebook.

Love E x

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

Bear with me...

Please bear with me...

I shot my rap video on Saturday - seven kids, one rapper and the client came to watch. 

I was editing it yesterday and again today. 

I will be back soon!

Love E x

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

Losing it.

I'll come clean. It's official. I'm having a nervous breakdown. Or something. I'm cracking up. Falling apart at the seams. Turning into a lunatic. 

Okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating a little. I don't want to make light of proper mental illness, but really, I'm not feeling altogether my normal altogether.

It's the build. I am consumed with uncertainty. Is it really a good idea to put a bloody huge chimneybreast in the middle of your kitchen?

I've bored friends and family rigid banging on about it. Everyone is kind and patient and reassuring: it's a great idea, they say, it will look wonderful, they say, don't worry, they say, but still I fret and angst and hand-wring. Is this just one wacky plot too far?

Here are my reasons: we feel overlooked by the house behind, we wanted a wood-burning stove and there's really no where else to put it, we're having a pitch roof with glass in it, as well as velux windows all down the side, so, in theory,  there should still be plenty of light, with two views instead of one. It should look something like this...

Should. With two, metre wide, doors either side.

Nevertheless, sudden consciousness in the middle of the night is becoming very familiar. Why am I awake? I think, go back to sleep, I am exhausted, this is silly. And then it starts -

The brain whirring. 
The thoughts. 
The plans. 
The ideas. 
The things I remember I've forgotten. 
But most of all, the worry about the bloody damn stupid chimney. 

Aggggghhhhh!

I never used to be like this. I used to sleep like a baby. (Why do we say that? In my experience babies don't sleep at all.) Even when I had loads of stressful things going on. Even with a nerve-wracking work day ahead. Even before an important interview or when I was about to direct a three-camera studio at the BBC with absolutely no idea what I was doing (and that was in my early twenties, how did I do that?).

So, what can I do about it? I'm working on a 6 point plan... 

Lists. I'm a big list writer. Can't live without lists. Then I tick things off. So now I've taken it a step further and I'm keeping a pad and pen by my bed so I can try and empty my mind before sleeping. Not really working though...

Exercise. That's a good one. I try to row on the rowing machine at least every other day, and I try to get out every day and walk, even if it's for only 15 minutes. I love a good walk, and it definitely helps. Maybe I'll try and take up swimming as well. Although I'm not quite sure when...

Talking. And writing. Both ways to offload. I do a lot of that and I find it helps. I talk to my friends, (my poor friends) and my mother and Husband, and well, just about anyone who will listen. And I write this, of course, and other things.

Alcohol. I know, I know, it's not a good stress-buster, certainly not in the long-term, but on a Friday night, a cold glass of white wine? With a bowl full of crisps? Come on.

Other physical activity. Without putting too finer point on it, I think it's fantastic for stress. Only problem is you have to be not too stressed in the first place to be up for it... I'll move quickly on.

Family. I know I have a tendency towards schmalz, but really, I can't think of a better stress-buster than curling up on the sofa with Youngest, my arm around his little shoulders, his head nuzzled under my chin so I can smell his not-properly-rinsed-out-shampoo, the fire on, (the gas fire!) my other two beautiful boys nearby, Husband asleep and dribbling on the sofa next to me, The Great British Bake Off on TV...

And especially if I have a glass of wine on the go, I've just written one of my lists, I had a nice walk that day, I've talked to my mates, and I'm on to a promise.

Let me know if I've missed anything. I think I need help. 

Maybe a shrink?

Love E x

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

One of those days.

It's Friday and it's one of those days. I have work to do. Middle One is still off school with a tummy bug. It's Day Five with an ill child off school. Already.

The phone rings. It's my colleague from a beach in Scotland where he is on a recce. He wants to know what my ideas are for the new pitch we're putting together to make a series of films for a regular client. It would be a great job. 

I don't know what my ideas are yet. I've just spent two hours talking to the builder about the wood-burning stove. Is putting a chimney breast in the middle of the back wall of windows really a good idea? My vision is something like this...

The reality might be something more like this...

The door bell rings. It's the building inspector. He calls up the stairs. He wants to talk to me about a possible damp issue with closing over the back cellar steps. I run down from the office to talk to him but find that the builders have screwed the temporary door shut at the bottom. They thought I was out.  I am trapped. 

I call out to be let free and in the meantime talk to the building inspector over the banisters. As I do so my mobile goes off in my pocket. It is Eldest. His text says: "I have no money on my finger for lunch! Please put some on NOW." 

I ask Middle One to do this for me, while I continue to talk to the building inspector outside in the garden/building site. (The builders have set me free by now.) I forget to tell Middle One that I've changed the password. 

I am still talking to the building inspector when Middle One shouts down: "I think I've locked you out of your online bank account! I got your password wrong too many times." 

We all have days like this one, don't we? I think I need some of this.

Or possibly more like this...

Love E x

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

Living on the cusp.

We're a family on the cusp of things, that's how it feels at the moment. I'm very aware of growing up... 

It feels ridiculous that Eldest is now in, what we oldies used to call, the Upper Sixth; that Middle One has started studying for his GCSEs, even sillier that Youngest is at secondary school. And while he is still adorable and loving and sweet and childlike, with his cuddly toys and his Bin Weevil figures and the little songs he sings to himself when he's absorbed with playing, starting secondary school signals the beginning of the end of all that.  And then there's the UCAS form...

The UCAS form denotes the beginning of another even more final end: the end of Eldest living with us. It's the form he must fill in to apply to university and it means that, if he is offered a place somewhere, this time next year, he'll be gone. 

Gone. Over. Finished. That's it. If anything represents an ending, the loss of the little boy we once had, that will be it. I know it's cliched and hackneyed all rolled into one to say it, but it really does go amazingly fast. 

And what of me? What am I on the cusp of? Well, there's life without primary school, of course, which is proving extremely busy, so much so that not the slightest backward glance has been required, but there are other things I feel I might be on the cusp of. Things that are harder to shrug off...

When I pick up a book or a newspaper my eyes no longer do what they used to. I can't see the print. I reach for the plus 1.5 glasses, I look up at my children to answer them, and realise I am peering over the top, just like my mother does to me.

Losing my sight, this is the very first irrefutable sign that things are dying off, for good. They will never come back, those eye cells, and no doubt the odd brain cell as well...

So that's me on the cusp something un-nameable, Youngest on the cusp of adolescence, Middle One on the cusp of manhood, Eldest on the cusp of leaving...

Oh, and on the plus side we're on the cusp of having a new kitchen...

I hope.

Love E x

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001