Travel methodology

It is dark outside and I am currently repeating a journey I have done many times before, hurting along the track towards big city lights.

There is a realisation that now I escape and returns under the cover of darkness, a spy for the children of the night, a few more time linear events and soon the daylight shall grace us if not me with its presence over my journeys once again.

In the meantime I sit in my tunnel of nocturnal travel, intermittent breaks of intermediate stations where my train has no desire to call, Underworld and Orbital for company, dreaming until the fabled announcement of my arrival.

This is Stratford

The Socio-Endorphin Correlation

For me – Saturday is a day of rest… if it isn’t shopping, visiting family or cleaning the house.

This particular Saturday was slightly unusual – MBW was going to a fitness workout thing, I am more tired than usual and Monkey has done a full week in School.  The Contwingent?  Full of beans.

I knew what was needed in this instance. Only thing for it to give those so tired they need a pick me up.

Depositing said beans and the bodies they inhabit with the Mother-in-Law, Monkey and I were left at the Great Cathedral of Sainsbury’s.  For future reference, there is:

  • The Greek Orthadox Church of Tescos
  • The Field Chapel of Somerfield
  • The Quaker Co-Op
  • The Seventh Day Advent of Asda

Back to my endorphin lift – and Monkey’s.  Having arrived at the Great Cathedral, Monkey and I made a bee-line for the one thing we knew we each needed: Beans on Toast and a pot of tea for Monkey; and Sausage, Mushroom and Toast with a mug of black coffee for me.

Payment was swift.

Cultlery and condiments acquired.

Table chosen, set and ready.

We cleared our plates, emptied the drinking vessels and took stock.

“We mustn’t forget socks, Daddy” mumoured a content Number One of the Three.

Endorphin pick-me-up – completed.

The heated area in relation to motion

I have never been a fan of heating things up without necessity.  Coffee requires heating.  So do jacket potatoes.  Pasta.  Coke doesn’t. Neither does salt and vinegar crisps.  Car seats (or wheelchair seats). 

Or so I thought.

I confess that this morning I put a heated towel on my wheelchair to sit on after my shower (its a second one, because I put one around me on so that I don’t sit my bare bum on the cushion – its just not done).  Anyway – both heated.

I had my shower and had that freezing jet of air hit me as I stagger out of the wet area.  I then put a warm towel around me and sat with on the second…

Oh my gosh. Oh wow. Oh – yes.

This should be an option on all wheelchairs – heated seat first thing on a cooler morning.

Oh yes.

Definitely.

The space-time-wedding band continuum

I hate waking up once I’m in either a good sleep or a semi good sleep but very warm.  However, waking up and seeing :44 on my clock made me think “Oh crikes!” (Not strictly true but you know, universal rating of a blog post), you can imagine the nice surprise when my brain clocks (clocks, get it?!) the great big red 5 next to it – a whole 30 minutes left to doze!

From there, my morning descended.  My towel for my shower was cold and unwelcoming, the wheelchair covered in cat hair thanks to the resident mog.  I had to replace the head on my toothbrush because it was covered in blonds strands of Monkey hair.

I usually go on the motto of “if I’m having to suffer I’d prefer not to go through it alone” but frankly, MBW would be pretty hacked off at getting up after a night with Nuzzle and Scratch playing “how much sleep can we deprive Mummy of”.  So I got on with it.  Heating on (sorry MBW), towel warmed – shower, drip dry, teeth brushed, spray odorant (wet crip) on to my towel, beard fresher on to the wheelchair – I’m good to go provided I’m visiting a naturist reserve.

WP_000090I find my clothing with little problems, making a mental note to get more trousers in for dry cleaning and remembering to grab my work pass.  Lunch out the fridge, glance down and where the Fallugian protestor is my wedding ring?”

I wheel into the bedroom and hunt through yesterdays trousers, turning up only a little red round lego light brick (which I have put back in my ring pocket on my cargo trousers – do not let me forget) and a Trading Standards Buy With Confidence trolley coinage thing.  Crumbs. 

I dash into the bathroom, not spying it amongst the wealth of toothbrushes, toothbrush heads, toiletries and whatever the heck that sticky stuff is on the base of the mirror – I don’t want to know, its blue, its gooey and frankly looks a little like it could be a new life form but I do not want to know right now it is 07:15 and I am running out of time and my taxi will be here in a minute and I want to go out the door looking like I might actually be married god help the woman who is married to this one.

009_pooh_thoughtful_spot-1-In instances where you have lost something, you should consider what Winnie the Pooh might do in this instance.  Find a nice place to call your thinking spot.  A pot of honey to help lubricate the cranial juices.  Relax to allow your self to cast your mind back and…

The bloody cat has got it.  She’s located it on the kitchen windowsill, where I put it last night to wash up and is playing with it. I dash in hissing at her to bugger off.  On the one morning when hissing should work, she ignores me and nudges it on to the kitchen side (remind me to disinfect beside the sink) and along as I now have to stand for a moment and wobble towards her.  She looks up – I swear she winks at me – giving it one last kick towards the gap between the cooker and the side, it turning up on to the outer edge and rolling, rolling, rolling…

it rolls to the edge and stops.   No body breathe.  The cat, guessing her nine lives could be cut down rapidly, makes a brisk exit towards a hiding place I have yet to discover.  I grab at the ring, shoving it on to the correct finger and therefore confirm my place in this wedlock as the husband.

I shove my lunch in my bag, grab keys, pass, phones and laptop and leave, returning only for my coat and shoes.

The Cryogenic Theobromine Formula

This morning, I woke up very early.  Then I woke again, which means I had fallen asleep without realising it.  Then I woke to find Monkey scowling at me.

“Good morning Monkey” I said, because I am nothing if not courteous to the person who I discover kicking me in the arse from the other end of the bed most nights of the week.

“Daddy,” she said, “you have eaten the chocolate from the freezer.”

“Pardon?” I ask, a little bewildered.

Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough tubMonkey points at the empty tub of Ben and Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice cream, the result of a nights passion between MBW and two men who seem to have joined our marriage.  “That was my chocolate from the freezer and you have eaten it and I am not happy that you have eaten my chocolate.”

“Your chocolate?  What do you mean?” I ask – it feels like the kid from the Haribo advert has manifested herself in my bedroom and is about to tell me to sign the ‘fession. 

“I stayed in my bed all night and all day and I went to bed good and that was my chocolate.” She told me.

“I didn’t eat it though,” I protested.

“Well, Mummy didn’t because Mummy doesn’t like chocolate from the freezer.”

I gave up at this point. “I’m sorry?” I murmured, ready to go back to sleep.

“Good.” She said, laying down on me for a cuddle. “Scratch my back…”

Friends

This morning I made breakfast – veggie sausages and hash browns.  Monkey, Nuzzle and Scratch all decided to join in and shovelled my breakfast down their traps quicker than I could find a knife and fork and say “do you mind?”

But thats not the issue.

I had a little bit of sausage left on my plate that Monkey was eyeing up – I nodded to her and said “go on – since you’re my best friend.”

“Thank you,” she replied, “but you’re not my friend.”

Shattered world by Evelyn Patrick

Shattered world - this is my world.

This was news to me – my world is pretty much shattered already.  I didn’t know what to say.  I had to pull myself together.  “Why?” I asked – not overly sure I was going to like what was coming.

“Because you’re old.” She replied, in a tone that was matter of fact and not up for messing about.

“Wait… so that means… no. What about Mummy?”

“Mummy isn’t old.  Mummy is my friend.” The reply came from a mouthful of sausage – clearly this conversation is guilt free.

“So, if I have a party, do I invite my friends then?” I asked – this is now curiosity – its not going to get much worse.

“No.  You don’t have any friends,” comes the response.  It could get worse.

“Who do I invite then?  Do I just sit there on my own?”

“No.  You can invite DadDad.  He’s old too.”

Nice.  Memo to self – Monkey is not to organise my future parties.  And I do have friends.  And I’m not old.

I’m not.

Early translations

This morning was one if those mornings where I had company in the form of Monkey. I like these kinds of mornings provided that it doesn’t end in a tantrum when I step out the door to go to work.

So, I’m just finishing having a wash this morning when I hear some foot steps come into the bathroom. “Daddy, I want to be comfortable, hold Charlie Bear.” pipes a little but firmly set in its mission Monkey. She wanders off for a moment and returns with a towel, which she drapes over the little pink chair that is left over from last nights toilet training marathon. She recovers Charlie Bear from me.

I’m brushing my teeth when I hear… “… now you didn’t stayed in your bed no and I’m very interpointed in you Charlie Bear.”

Interpointed?

“You went to sleep nicely and you get one sticker on your chart.”

Safe ground here – sticker charts for bed time.

“And today you must be good and help me and not throw pammies and you will not go in the naughty corner.”

Pammies? Ok, this is two words now. I’m confused.

“Monkey? What’s interpointed?” I ask.

“When I not happy with Charlie Bear.” she says, looking me bang on in the eye.

“And what’s a pammy?”

“What?”

“You told Charlie Bear not to have one, a pammy?”

“Huh Daddy? I told him not to cry and scweem.”

Paddy. Got it.

“Can I lie on the floor in the front room and you make me a sausage roll Daddy?” she asks. This is not breakfast. She wants wrapping up in a fleecy blanket tightly so that she’s like a sausage roll. I can handle that without any further explanation.

I finish getting ready, with a bit more chatter. As I’m leaving she signs to me that she loves me and to have a good day. That needed no translation.