ninety nine pounds sterling

 “Don’t forget to check eBay.” he said for oh, the tenth time that morning. The rewards for good behaviour were due. And, to save me a trip to Smyths and a few Euros to boot, the boys had all chosen Lego sets from eBay. Mostly second hand but will all the pieces intact and at a reduced price.

A very bad idea. Do you know how long it takes between bidding, paying, the five day wait for payment clearance and waiting for the toy to arrive? No? Well neither do I, because we are still waiting! It takes forever.

Anyway this morning, my eldest boys Lego Bionicle figure (used, no box) was coming to the end of its bidding time. I checked my emails. No, I had not been outbid. It looked like I was going to get a good deal. 99p for a much wanted toy. Later in the afternoon I had another look, just so I wouldn’t be pipped at the post. Still no email alerts. Then I checked the item. There had been four bids, the highest was now £8.04 and I was the winning bidder. How could that be? But there it was on the screen, only a bid more than £99.00 sterling would beat me. Panic stations.

Two long, fruitless and life shortening phone calls to eBay later, I realised what I had done. Like a complete eegit I had said that the highest I would pay was £99.00 instead of 99p. I actually remembered putting the dot in the wrong place. So now, every time someone else put in a bid, my eBay account automatically outbid them and would keep doing so until the magic number £99.00 was reached.

Yes I tried to cancel it and no that wasn’t possible. Bids cannot be retracted if there are less than twelve hours to go until the end of the auction. Even my rant at customer services was unsatisfying as there was a time-lag on the phone call and every time I said “I made a mistake! Why are you called the help desk if you can’t help?” at exactly the same time a very quiet, distant voice would say “And what is your issue today?”

When I checked again, the top bid was £8.90 and there was twenty two minutes to go. There was nothing to do but wait. Life seemed very unfair. I did the right thing yesterday, and now I was going to pay one hundred pounds (sterling!) for a used toy?

Well no, I didn’t. Bidding ended at £10.53 sterling, plus £4.95 shipping. Not exactly a bargain but a lot better than it could have been. The gods were on my side. Halleluiah.

what would you do?

It started with the armchairs. They needed new covers and finding fabric and someone who would make them for less than the price of a new car was a long, drawn out project.

Anyway, after weeks of gathering snippets of material and dragging home borrowed heavy, sample books and asking in cleaners and curtain shops, I found an affordable fabric in a colour that would look ok in the sitting room and someone willing to make up the covers.

So, yesterday morning I cycled into town to pick up the fabric and pay the balance of €209.00.  I was heading for a quaint little shop with hundreds of bolts of different materials precariously balanced against the walls. One of those places that makes me want to buy a sewing machine. I waited my turn and the man behind the counter declared my choice “Very fresh. Shabby chic!”  He put it in a bag, got out a calculator and then the phone rang. Answering with one hand, he totted up with the other, chatting all the while.

“That’ll be €109.00” he mouthed to me in a whisper, said goodbye and hung up. I gave him my laser card, trying to be as slow and cool as possible. As I keyed in my number he thoughtfully wrapped up the material in a more compact bundle after noticing my bike helmet. He talked about taking it easy and making sure that the package was well balanced on the back carrier. Then, with my receipt and the docket with all my details on it in hand, I walked out of the shop. Undercharged by €100.00.  

With a feeling that a heavy hand was going to clamp down on my shoulder any second, I walked to my bike, practising a gormless, innocent expression and a surprised “Oh! Did I forget something?” exclamation.

I should be skipping, I thought, I should be tap dancing. But I wasn’t, I felt terrible.  

Cycling home, each push of the pedals said “bad, karma, bad, karma”.

When I collecting the kids from school that afternoon, I was distracted and absent mindedly said yes to requests for Guzzle Puzzles and then got very cross when I realised they had opened the bags and I had to pay for them. By the time we got back to the house I had bitten the nose off everyone. 

The phone number of the shop was on the bag inside the hall door. As I started dialling I already felt better. Although it did gall a bit when the man said “So I undercharged by €50.00? Wow, you are so honest. Thanks for ringing!” and I had to say “No. It was €100.00.”  In a patient, pained voice. The words literally stuck in my throat.

I woke the next morning thinking, good things will happen today.  I am such a nice person! And then .. But that’s another story.

To be continued.

Xenia! I can't breathe!

I do my best. I really do. However, that doesn’t change the fact that three of my children watched Goldeneye yesterday. But what harm in that? Its only 007. There’s nothing wrong with some high jinks and frenetic adventures. Right? Not everything they watch has to be animated, after all. Well, that was my feeling as I drove up to Xtravision and had the inspired idea to get a James Bond movie instead of Rango or Dr Dolittle or something else made for kids. I thought some good, clean action based fun would make a change for my little darlings and, leaving the car on double yellows outside, I ran in and grabbed Goldeneye. I had seen the movie at some stage in the distant past and was pretty sure it was fine. Plenty of breath taking stunts and Indiana Jones style fun. Not long later they were all ensconced on the couch with popcorn and blankets. Pierce Brosnan was bungee jumping and I was emptying the dishwasher.

About half an hour in I heard some panting and “Oh no! Mum! There’s kissing!” I was indisposed at the time (a new plan to take two 1000mg capsules of fish oil a day to give a general feeling of well being plus boosting my heart and vascular health had some urgent side effects.)  Apologies. Too much information. My point is, I absolutely couldn’t move. But surely there was no need to panic? The kids were ok, kissing wasn’t so bad. To be sure, I resentfully put down Now magazine and listened. The panting got louder and then I heard a choking voice stuttering “Xenia! I can’t breathe!” and I flushed the toilet and ran into the sitting room.

 I got there just in time to see Xenia’s shadow as she choked the gullible Admiral with her strong but hard to resist thighs. When I rewound later I could see that my dear little boys had spent not a few minutes watching the Russian temptress and her balding, aged lover thrashing around on a bed, groaning, nibbling and moaning, the Admiral’s eyes rolling in ecstasy and eventually bulging in his shiny, red face as he died in flagrante.

And it was all my idea! They wanted to get Scooby Doo.

back to school

Back to school. Audible groan. It’s everywhere. Back to school food, clothes, pencils, bags, and lunchboxes. I’ve got the books, the project copies, the manuscript copies, the twistables and the maths set. (Still sold in a metal tin that brings back memories of that loud crash as it falls onto the classroom floor followed by the fervent hope that it’s not my box that has fallen). I’ve got the little bottles of water and the sliced pans in the freezer. The extra socks are in the drawer and the chequebook is ready and waiting to be used for drama and chess and street dancing. The hurling helmet that defies all hooks is as usual, on the floor beside the coats and the hurl is I think, under a bed. I’ve labelled the copies, sharpened a few pencils and ticked off the booklists. Although I did draw a line at buying a Pritt stick for everyone. Surely that’s not a pencil case staple? (I remember when Pritt was a treat and finding one that hadn’t dried up was a rare and wonderful discovery). And finally, the long and urgent search for the must-have skin coloured marker is over. Found it.

Most people are looking forward to the first of September. I am not. Why? Maybe because I don’t enjoy crawling about on my hands and knees at ten to nine in the morning looking for a missing shoe, knowing that any second some poor eegit is going to think it is fun to sit on my back, making me feel angry in a very un-child-friendly way. Maybe “gently” repeating “try writing a little bit slower and using the pink lines” every afternoon from September to June does not make my heart race.

And what I do not look forward to most of all, is the lunches. The lunches. Every night throughout the school year I flop on the couch at nine o’clock and say to no one in particular in a zombie monotone “I should do the lunches”.  And every morning I come down the stairs, dole out the weetabix (or cheerios) the ready brek (or malt wheats) and think (zombie monotone again) “I have to do the lunches.”

“Often” forgetting to wash the boxes the night before, I start by looking for them in the schoolbags.  That doesn’t take long as these are the first thing I fall over as I come into the kitchen rubbing my eyes. The open zips alert me to the copy and workbooks underfoot and the pencil case on the table.

“How many times do I have to tell to put the homework into your schoolbag when it is finished?” (Razor sharp tone. I have not yet had my cup of tea.)

“I was waiting for you to sign my homework notebook! You always forget!”

And there it is, lying reproachfully on the kitchen table, open at yesterdays date.

Once I have the cuppa though, I achieve a lot. Lunches, ties, socks, facecloths, baby strapped in, coats on. All is good; we’re sucking diesel and running, hurrah, on schedule. We’ll be in school on time! Until it is made known that one shoe is missing. And there I am, on my hands and knees, shoe in one hand, child straddled on my back, stuck there because he is frozen in fear after hearing me howl in a primitive way. Tears follow and as ever, guilty apologies. And we are late again.

a full head of meche

Am I really breaking out in a cold sweat while on the phone to the hairdressers? Yes I am. And this is why.

In the salon I go to there is a special offer for a full head of meche highlights plus blow dry for €79. But Nuala, the only colourist who does my hair without wasting vast swathes of time discussing sandwiches and the merits of paracetemol vs. Vicks cold and flu with her colleagues, is on holidays. This is not an appointment I want to postpone for a few weeks as the reason I am getting the highlights done in the first place is to look my Olympic best on Sunday, when my youngest is being christened. But hang on a second says the receptionist, Elaine is free! Elaine, who always starts the appointment by bringing me to her chair, putting on the black capey thing that I always stand the wrong way for and promptly disappearing for about ten minutes. She returns smelling of coffee, fingers my hair (this is when I remember why I should have washed it that morning) and says “I’ll just look up your colour. What was the name?” and off she goes again.

Five minutes of practising deep breathing later, she materializes announcing

“No. It’s not here?” (In a tone that implies this is not completely my fault but definitely nothing to do with her.)

“Anyway, I’ll just do more of the same you got the last time. Cover these roots and lighten it up a bit near the front.” I nod enthusiastically(in a desperate, pathetic way) and say “Great! Thanks a million!” and she sighs the sigh of someone who has all day to do the highlights and does not have a husband at home minding children for “two hours right? You won’t be any longer will you? I have to leave at eleven. I can’t be late. Ok?” and then to the kids “Say bye-bye to Mum. She’s off for some relaxing pampering!”

I hold the phone in my slippy hand in an agony of indecision. What if the special offer is over by the time Nuala comes back from her holiday? What if Elaine remembers the not great tip I left for her the last time I was there?

“So that’s Elaine at half two on Saturday” says the receptionist “We’ll see you then.” She puts down the phone. My moan of indecision must have been mistaken for a yes.

Hanging up I take a breath. As I exhale my husband comes into the kitchen.  “Your hair looks nice” he says “did you get it done recently?”

IKEA fit quiz

The first time I went to IKEA was a big deal. Years of waiting certainly helped build up the anticipation. Years of nearly getting to a Belfast or London branch but ending up in Westfield or the Banbridge Outlet Village instead. Years of IKEA being the cheap and nice but unattainable, the Old Navy of the housekeeping world. From afar, I loved it. The  minimalist style, the slightly off-primary colours, the prices, the practicality. There was no downside!  The layout seemed to make sense, flat pack didn’t put me off and I liked the sound of the food.

On arrival, I was ready to be impressed. The bag and trolley combination was genius! The display floor inspired! Pregnant at the time, I actually, genuinely needed stuff.  Having a valid excuse to wander around the baby area and fill a trolley was truly wonderful.  My heart thumping, I drank it all in. Finally! I was there! But the IKEA virgin experience didn’t last. About three months later the meatballs, the marathon walk to the checkouts and the tolls on the motorway cured me. Now I hear the word IKEA and slump in a chair, exhausted by the mere thought.

Last week, when we needed a duvet and picture frames and stair gates, I put it off and put it off until a solution came to mind. I would send my husband. He checked availability online, wrote a list, walked around the house sighing and harrumping and gulping down tea as if it were the last cup on earth. Sitting at the laptop he expostulated “What! I don’t believe this.” and I looked over his shoulder. Instead of researching stair gate extensions he had been doing the IKEA Fit Quiz. To see if he is a suitable candidate for a job there. Why? Is he looking for a job? No, but for some reason, he wants to be wanted there anyway. Fuming, he starts anew, giving different answers this time. Again, he is rejected, being told that he is better suited to shopping at IKEA than working there. “So my money is good enough!” he growls. “You try it. We have to pass this.”

I go though the motions. What do I think when I enter a friends living room? How do I cope with a new schedule? Do I manage easily when my boss is away?  I make myself at home. I adjust to a new schedule. I assemble a group of talented colleagues to work with me. My responses reveal a hard-working, ambitious, environmentally friendly and considerate candidate. Each time I click on one of the multi-choice boxes a piece of furniture is added to a picture of a room on the right of the screen. At the end I click for results with a flourish and smile triumphantly. Before my eyes the room empties, couches, coffee tables and bookshelves fading away like ghosts. The results come up “Oh Dear, your room seems a bit sparse! Looks like you may not be comfortable in the IKEA culture.” I am gobsmacked. If I don’t fit in in IKEA, where do I fit?

Off he went, list in hand and chip on shoulder, leaving me in the kitchen with a dilemma. Do I waste valuable time thinking about this nonsense or do I get on with my life, feeding the kids and counting my blessings. The sun is out, there’s no school, it’s a good day!

Resistance is futile. I snap open the computer and plonk myself down. Maybe if I  advise my friend on three things that would make her living room cosier and write a suggestion for improved routines in the workplace?

what a dump

Did any of us ever imagine, when we were the kids sitting on the back seat, on the way to Coole Park or Malahide Castle for a picnic, that we would one day be half of the couple in the front of the car?  Being stingy with the biscuits and pulling rank over window controls and the volume on the radio. Sitting there with a face that could stop a clock “creating memories” for the kids.

And yet here I am. Arms folded in the front passenger seat I am barking. “If you ask me that again you are getting NO sandwiches when we get there.” An idle threat if ever there was one. My husband and life partner prefers to drive whilst reading the street atlas on his knee rather than ask me to navigate. The child sitting in the way- back is shouting for Spin 103.8 on the radio. The baby is crying and crying and crying. The other two are old enough to realise we are lost, their parents are not on speaking terms and the day is turning out crap. For the record Bramblestown House is not currently open to the public and if you read about it in a nice colour supplement a few years ago and thought a visit would be nice, you’ve missed the boat. The beautiful gardens and stunning house are behind closed gates. So we did a (dangerous) u-turn and the driver thought it would be a good idea to find a beach. A long, long forty minutes later we pulled into a car park facing the sea. The tide was in making the beach about eight feet wide. As well as shells, sand and a good sixty percent seaweed there was dog poo and rubbish. On the bright side, we didn’t see a disposable nappy. Or a syringe. But we didn’t look too hard.

So. We found the beach. The sun disappeared and the wind came up. It was too dirty for the baby to play on. After nearly an hour fighting the tyranny of the car seat, that didn’t go down well.

“Well, this is shite”, I noted. My husband nodded grimly and a voice from behind us said bravely “Is it really shite?” The other two waited for our reaction and when none came, joined in. “Its shite and shit and crap!” they voiced joyously.

Then we got out the sambos, the 7up and the absolute highlight for me, a flask of tea. Watching the kite surfers, we beeped every time one of them did a jump and after a quick walk on the poxy beach, came home.

Another day done.